Even at an unworldly age, I knew that my mother and father would not get along. They rarely spoke, and often locked me outside the door to quarrel. Wars were often started by my mother, and inside the door, her voice was loud and persistent, and my father just agreed to continue a few words, like a guilty elementary school student. At that time, my mother was the winner in the category I could understand. But when they came out, she was not satisfied with the victory at all, and even had tears on her face. Later, when I heard a word called "the wicked tell first," I suddenly remembered my mother's tears. After defeating my father, she cried. She was really the wicked who told first.

I lived on campus when I was in junior high school and went home once a week. That day, my parents came to see me at school together. During lunch break, the family went to the street, they led me left and right, and let me choose what to eat, wear, and use. I was overjoyed, and I was immersed in Xingfuli at noon, dreaming that it would be a beautiful beginning of a harmonious family life in the future.

However, when I returned home, my father was gone. My mother's eyes flickered in my sharp, confused eyes, and her words were stiff, but she tried her best to say good things about my father. I yelled: "I don't want to hear this. You drove him away and spoke for him, which only proves that you are guilty, is it because you have someone else in your heart?" A teenager shouted at his mother what he thought was the most vicious slang, and even I was surprised.

Mother looked at me, bit her lower lip and said nothing.

Children from single-parent families are really rebellious. I don't talk much to my mother, skip school, fall in love, run away from home again and again, and be found by my mother again and again. She asked me what I wanted, and I confidently choked her with words like "I'm going to find my dad." Every time she didn't speak, she just looked at me, and the anxiety and loss written in her eyes aroused pleasure in my heart.

Once, I stole money and skipped class to go "out" with a group of classmates in the suburbs. When I returned home, three days later, my mother's anger broke out like a torrent, she scolded me, picked up the ruler on the sewing machine, and slapped my palm one after another. I stood, did not withdraw my hand, not frowning, not crying, not crying. I held my head high, like a strong revolutionary fighter, and she kept smoking. In the end, she lost the confrontation, and cried. She cried and yelled at me, "I beg you to scream pain, as long as you scream pain, I will not beat you!"

I held my head high and didn't bark.

She fell to her knees in front of me, crying at a loss for what to do. She said, "I only thought that I had comforted you with all my heart, and the disability of the family should not drag you down. However, to free myself, I hurt you, child."

I didn't understand her words, and I didn't want to delve into them. Instead, I ran into the room, holding my father's photo and shouting "Daddy," crying sadly and desolate. After a long time, she came in, held me in her arms, and cleaned my swollen palms for me. I didn't look at her, but felt something slapping in my palms, which were warm and comfortable. It was her tears.

I suddenly remembered a sentence: hit on the body, pain in the mother's heart. Who said that?

I thought about it, wondering if it was for this sentence or for myself, my nose sore and I shed tears.

That night, my mother smiled and sat with me at the dinner table, tossing and turning to add food to my bowl, insisting on sending me back to my room to rest, and then sat by the bed for a long time unwilling to leave. When I woke up, she was lying on the head of the bed and asleep. I looked at her, and she slept peacefully and peacefully, with the looming white hair on her head that made people trance.

Suddenly, I felt I shouldn't have upset her.

However, as a teenager, the last thing you can do is be well-behaved, and the last thing you know is the depth of a mother's love and the return of a mother. Those good thoughts that occasionally flash are just rainbows after the rain, fleeting and unpredictable. The next morning, I was still carrying my schoolbag and staring across the table full of breakfast. Out the door.

My grades have always been unsatisfactory. I even accepted my fate, but she didn't believe it and kept changing tutors for me. Our financial situation was not good. After working for an electronics factory, she processed parts for an electronics factory. She wore silver wire into those small angular glass beads, and it took 1,000 to wear them to earn 1 yuan. She stayed under the lamp every night, working tirelessly. The finger first cocooned, and then the cocoon was worn out, and the finger was gone. The flesh and blood were a mess. Dab on alcohol, wrap it in gauze, and then wear it. She hired a tutor for me, and she picked out students from famous schools, and they never paid a cent.

A few years later, I graduated from a third-rate local university, and our conflict intensified again. I was going to the south with my boyfriend, and she didn't agree. We talked, broke, and broke. She asked why, and I hardened my heart and said, "I don't have a father in my life, and finding a boy who looks like my father is my greatest ideal." She lowered her head and said no more.

In fact, I really can't bear to say the real reason. As early as two years ago, my father contacted me. This time I went south, not so much to follow love, but to find a dream that has been lost for too long.

On the day I left, my mother exhorted and begged, and finally broke into a rage. Finally, hopelessly crying behind me: "If you go out, don't come back, I don't want you, you don't know what's good or bad!" I was stunned for a moment and walked away without looking back.

After leaving my mother for a long time, my heart was soaked by her tears, and I couldn't calm down, only to find that I actually loved her deeply, but the image of "villain" imprinted in my mind when I was a child was deeply ingrained. Perhaps it was also because of the indifferent way we got along over the years that the warmest family relationship was deeply sealed. I love her, but I don't know it.

The night in a foreign land without my mother is endless. I wrapped myself in the quilt and cried, and kept calling my mother. She was no longer as impulsive as the day of parting, and she was very calm. I seemed to understand that I was already a kite that broke free of the rope to her. Even if she was nostalgic again, now that I have flown, she can only wait hopelessly.

I met my father at his house. A woman of my mother's age, I call her Auntie; an 8-year-old boy as tall as my shoulder, he calls me sister. Looking at the fatherly charm in my brother's eyebrows, jealousy swept through my heart. I carefully calculated in my heart: my brother is 8 years old. That is to say, when my father left me, my brother had already taken root and sprouted.

Of course, it's been so long, and I'm not the silly kid who yelled at my mother, "You have someone else in your heart," and I shouldn't have any thoughts about my father's life now. But somehow, feeling their joy, while happy for my father, at the same time lost, unhappy for my mother. She and her father have lived under the same roof for more than ten years, and they have walked through so many twilight and twilight hand in hand. Now he has another family happiness. She was less than 40 years old when he left her, but all these years she kept a low-key and obscure watch over her daughter who begged for her father all day long.

My father realized it, reached out and held me and said, "Are you blaming me?" I thought about it, smiled and said, "No, the word Dad has been worn out by my mother's good intentions over the years. Everyone has the right and reason to choose, I understand. Even my mother, she has never blamed you, we bless you." At that moment, tears fell like rain, and my heart was like an arrow.

Stepping into the house, my mother sat on the sofa and mended a vest that I had worn when I was a child. Calling her mom, she stopped for a moment, her fingers were probably pricked by a needle, and she quickly got into the kitchen with her mouth in her mouth. I chased into the kitchen and shouted, "Mom," but my mother still ignored me, but her back was trembling.

I remember an article I read when I was a child that said that an owl is an animal that eats its mother's flesh. My mother gave birth to it, raised it, dedicated her life, and with the last flesh and blood, I have been an owl for so many years! I devoured my mother's blood and tears to grow, and broke her heart. I knelt at my mother's feet.

My mother wiped her tears and helped me up. In just a few seconds, her expression returned to a very natural state, as if we were not a mother and daughter who had been angry for many years.

That afternoon, I sat on the balcony next to my mother with a small stool, and a long-lost warmth rose in my heart. I finally mustered up the courage to talk to her about my father carefully. My mother was calm, not at all the indignation that ordinary people have for a long time for men who have lost their hearts. I finally couldn't help but ask, "But Mom, why didn't you explain it to me then?"

The mother smiled slightly: "We can no longer give you a complete home, why should we press the dark truth in your young heart?"

It turned out that she didn't want her daughter to digest the heavy choices too early, and she didn't want me to face the restraint and helplessness too early. For this reason, she was willing to live in my ignorant grievances and watch patiently, but I have a quiet, loving, grateful heart because of this.