The Scar on the Collar Bone

I'd barely got home when a friend dragged me down to the pedestrian street in the old district to soak up the buzz. A crowd had gathered in the middle of the pedestrian street, with colorful neon signs flashing in a dizzying blur. As I got closer, I saw an online celebrity setting up a pop-up livestream booth, hosting some kind of 'street quiz.' I was just trying to slip away when the assistant from the live stream suddenly rushed over and shoved the microphone into my hand. The camera clicked right up close just as I was still chewing on the sugar-roasted chestnuts I'd just bought. The host, holding a cue card, laughed, "Miss pretty lady, what kind of man would marry you?" I spat out the chestnut shell and smiled at the camera, "Just someone who can feed me well." I didn't take it seriously, finished the recording, and followed my friends to keep wandering around, having already tossed the whole thing out of my mind. Until three days later, when the doorbell at my family's villa rang. When I opened the door, a middle-aged couple was standing outside. The man's suit was crumpled and stained with grease, and the woman carried a worn-out bag, her eyes fixed intently on my collarbone. "You... you must be Blair, right?"Her voice trembled as she reached out to touch me. I took a step back, frowning. "Who are you?" "I'm your mom, Mary Lewis! And this is your dad, Mike Scott!" She pointed to the man beside her, her hand still shaking. "That crescent-shaped scar on your collarbone—you got it from scalding yourself as a kid, no mistake!" I touched the scar on my collarbone—a light brown patch, curved like a bent fingernail. My foster parents said I had it when they found me. A sudden rush of strange feelings bubbled up inside me—I couldn't tell if it was anger or just pure absurdity. Mike Scott rubbed his hands together, his face full of wrinkles as he smiled, "Blair, back then your parents accidentally lost you. We've been searching for you day and night all these years!" Mary Lewis wiped her tears and said, "Now that we've finally found you, come home with your parents. We'll make it up to you properly." I watched their over-the-top performance and suddenly wondered how far this little play was going to go. Nodded: "Alright, I'll go back with you guys." The Scott family's villa sat in the old neighborhood, its walls freshly painted in bright white. But inside? A cheap kind of flashy — the crystal chandelier was covered in dust, and the leather sofa had a small tear, showing off some yellowed foam underneath. Just as I walked in, a guy with dyed blond hair jumped up from the sofa, still clutching his game controller. "Dad, Mom, is this the sister you found?" He gave me a once-over, eyes full of disgust. "She doesn't look all that great." Mary shoved him and said, "Ben! Mind your manners when talking to your sister!" Just then, a girl in a white dress walked over, holding a thick stack of papers, smiling gently. "Hey, sis, I'm Vivian Lincoln. Mom and Dad adopted me ten years ago." She handed me the papers, her fingertips still painted pink. "These are marriage prospects Mom and Dad picked out for you. Choose one and get married. The family company's strapped for cash right now, counting on the bride price to bail us out." I flipped through the profiles, eyeing the listed assets—none topping a few million, not even enough to buy the purse I usually carry. I couldn't help but laugh out loud: "When I say 'eating well,' I mean being taken to a restaurant where the average person drops 18,000 per meal—not gnawing on instant noodles every day." Ben Scott paused his game and scoffed without looking up: "Are you crazy? An average of 18,000? Have you ever even been to a hot pot restaurant, or are you just bluffing?" I put down the papers and shrugged: "Honestly, I haven't." That wasn't even a tiny bit of an exaggeration. At my foster parents' place, whenever we had hot pot, all the ingredients were flown in from overseas, and the kitchen lady would simmer the broth for eight hours straight. I've never even set foot in a hot pot restaurant. As soon as Ben heard that, he got even more smug: “See, I told you, just a country bumpkin pretending to be some rich lady!” Vivian Lincoln quickly tugged his arm, then turned to me, her voice soft as cotton: “Sis, don't take it to heart, Ben's just clumsy with words.” “By the way, tonight is Harry's birthday. We're celebrating at the hot pot restaurant. You should come along! If you marry him, Mom and Dad will be over the moon.”