“Hey,” I called across the room, watching my sister scan through a math test on her computer. Perfect timing – quiet morning, kids at school, her few days off while I visited. “What thing were you super attached to as a kid? I’m trying to write about childhood treasures but can’t think of anything.”
She looked up from the screen, morning sunlight catching her thoughtful frown. “Like a special toy or something?” Her fingers stopped moving over the trackpad as she actually considered it. The house sat quiet around us, just the hum of the laptop and cooling coffee on her desk.
“Yeah. A favorite teddy bear, a blanket, anything really.” I waited, hoping her memory might kick loose something I’d forgotten.
She shook her head slowly, almost apologetically. “Nothing comes to mind. Weird, right?”
The silence stretched between us, comfortable but puzzled. Here she was, taking a break from mom-life, her own kids’ precious toys scattered through their rooms. But ask about our childhood treasures? Empty hands. Blank pages.
“Maybe we just didn’t…” I started.
“Yeah, maybe,” she agreed, turning back to the test on her screen.
Morning light filled the quiet corners. No rush, no noise, just us stumbling into an unexpected question mark in our shared past.
Some kids grow up counting treasures. Some don’t.
I left her to her work. My prompt could wait.
Sometimes the story isn’t about what we had, but what we noticed was missing – and how little that absence weighs now.
S.J. Asher 
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