A spark of clarity hit me, like I’d figured something out.
I opened the second tube of bubble liquid.
The little boy, sweaty and tired, sat on the grass panting, his mom watching us play nearby.

The maid kept snapping photos of me, muttering: “Such camera presence. No wonder she was scouted for an ad.”

“What ad?” Dr. Tingting asked, standing beside her.

“The director of Disney Media spotted Zhixia, offering 300,000 yuan for a jewelry commercial. But I didn’t let her go—the client had ulterior motives.”

Dr. Tingting pondered: “You should’ve asked her opinion. At most, you could’ve stayed with her on set. What chance would they have then?”

The maid, still crouched taking photos, said: “Still risky. What if Zhixia gets hooked on that kind of money and sinks deeper?”

Dr. Tingting nodded: “True. A kid this pretty, wandering alone so long… you get what I mean, right? That’s probably the secret she won’t share.”

The maid swallowed hard: “I don’t dare ask.”

After finishing the second tube, my mood lifted slightly.
I tossed the empty tubes in the trash, spotting five or six cans inside.

Without thinking, I bent down, reaching in to grab them.

“Zhixia?” The maid and Dr. Tingting approached.

I froze, dropping the can.
Old habits die hard.

Their expressions were complex as they took me to a public restroom to wash my hands.
It wasn’t even that dirty—I’d raised myself with these hands.

After washing, the maid asked if I wanted to play with the last tube.
I thought about it—might as well.
Back at the spot, the two chubby grandpas were strolling.

“We meet again,” one said.

I bowed slightly: “Hello.”

One smiled: “So polite. Go play, we’re just walking.”

“Take care.”

“Hey, kid, you’ve got a special charm. Mind taking a photo with this old man for a keepsake?”

I nodded, agreeing to his odd request.
He handed his phone to the other grandpa, stood beside me, flashing a peace sign.
Click.

He looked at the photo, satisfied, and said goodbye again.

After three tubes, I was bored, the initial thrill gone.

As I played, the little boy ran up, holding an ice cream cone in each hand, offering me one: “Sister, this is for you.”

“Huh?” Surprised and delighted, I crouched, waving my hands: “Oh, I couldn’t.”

He blinked, all innocence: “Then be my wife. You’re prettier than my mom.”

The maid choked behind me.

His words seemed sincere.
My gloomy face managed a smile as I patted his head: “Your mom’s the prettiest person in your life.”

I wasn’t born from a rock.
“Mom” felt foreign to me, as did “Dad” or any family—I only ever had Grandma.

The boy’s mom approached, smiling: “Thanks for playing with him. No trouble, right?”

I shook my head: “None.”
The ice cream was her small gesture, so I took it: “Thank you.”

The boy, blushing, stared at me, lovestruck: “Sister, I wanna marry you when I grow up.”

I didn’t want to crush him, so I smiled: “Sure.”

His mom led him away.
He looked back every few steps, tripping once, but she caught him: “Watch where you’re going.”

He didn’t care, licking his ice cream.

She seemed gentle.
What would my mom have been like?

I didn’t dare dream—I only had Grandma.

I unwrapped the cone.
It was pricey.
Long ago, driven by curiosity, I’d spent 50 cents on a cheap milk ice cream—sickly sweet with a chemical taste, needing lots of water after.

Sitting on a bench, I licked the cone, unsure what to do next.
The maid sat beside me, stroking my hair: “Zhixia, how about we get cake? Lady M’s—one slice costs a hundred or two, super delicious. They say the line’s at least half an hour.”

I froze, biting my lip: “I don’t like cake.”

Dr. Tingting frowned, sensing something deeper, and asked carefully: “Why’s that?”

I stayed silent, shaking my head.

Cream cake… I’d never had one and didn’t want to.

Memories flooded back, and I choked, tears falling.

The maid pulled out a tissue, unwrapping it to wipe my eyes: “No cake, no cake. Let’s do something else.”

“There’s a food street nearby. Let’s go there.”

I nodded, reining in my emotions.

At the food street, brimming with options, I headed to a milk tea shop, picking a “Taro Barley Matcha”—odd name, but it had taro paste.

The maid offered to buy Dr. Tingting’s share, but she declined, so they watched me sip.

It was a weekday, yet the street was packed.
Many men stared at me and the maid, who wore casual clothes.
She was beautiful too, petite and charming, about five or six centimeters taller than my 1.6 meters.

I eyed a fried food stall, craving chicken legs.
The maid caught on: “Zhixia, want some?”

I nodded: “Yeah.”

“Okay, but I have a condition. Agree, and you can eat anything on this street.”

I swallowed my taro paste: “What condition?”

“A physical check-up. Simple, right?”

It was.
I smiled, agreeing.
We sat in the fried chicken shop.
She ordered a chicken cutlet, I got a leg, and Dr. Tingting ate nothing.

The maid scanned to order extra fries.

While waiting, Dr. Tingting chatted with me, keeping topics light, avoiding my memories.
Soon, the food arrived.

“Sorry for the wait.”

“Thanks,” I said politely.
The male server glanced at me, froze for half a second, then turned, crashing into a female coworker, spilling a nearby table’s order.

The female coworker panicked, both stunned.
She shot him a resentful look as he apologized and she cleaned up.

I put on disposable gloves, grabbed the chicken leg, and bit down.
It crunched, my tongue savoring: “Delicious.”