My mother has always loved collecting wondrous things. Every item she brought home carried a story — something she rescued, something she cherished, something she believed deserved a second life. Some pieces were priceless, others were simple nostalgic treasures from a time when they were loved by many.
I grew up with that same instinct. For me, collecting isn’t clutter — it’s a reward for hard work, a way of holding onto the moments that shaped me. There was even one item I chased for years. It disappeared, returned to the market, then slipped away again just when I finally had the chance to claim it. That loss still lingers with me.
People sometimes look at families like mine and call it “hoarding,” or say we make a mess. Those words hurt, because they ignore the meaning behind what we keep. Every object has a memory attached. Every piece brought someone happiness.
Through this story, I hope to show the beauty in that — the quiet reasons why we collect, the joy behind each item, and the love that goes into preserving the things that matter to us.
