My father always left me with a good back. When he comes home, he always removes the fatigue from his face. Because he knows that his career at home is far more important than that outside.
Whenever we want to go somewhere, we must tell our father first. After all, he has the steering wheel.
On the way, my father seemed to wash away the boredom and fatigue along the way. Looking at us who are sleepy next to us, we will always have fun.
He turned the original soothing light music into a blockbuster rock and roll, and turned the sound to the maximum. Fingers beat the steering wheel rhythmically, and his head echoed the start of the micro-point. If he doesn't drive, he can dance.
Seeing "Yaxing" who didn't disturb our sleep, he didn't get upset either. Instead, he opened all the windows and stepped on the accelerator at a speed of 120. I think: as long as we walk on this expressway together, we should all see a black car, flying like the phantom of the opera at night, and what non-mainstream music is still playing.
The cold wind blows my skin like a knife, which hurts so much that I can't help breathing. Psst, it's cold. But what about the driver? You drive casually, but don't think I won't find a gloating smile on your lips.
Alas, when my dad was a driver, he said he was qualified, but it was not very worry-free. Well, we finally wake up and have to talk to him. This is his "conspiracy" so that he can chat while driving.
The whole family are food lovers, and my father is no exception. So, my father fiddled with that cookbook all day. But in January, my father didn't learn anything, and his mouth watered a lot. The heart we expected disappeared like ice in an instant.
Desperate father, decided to worship the family's "chef"-mother as a teacher. In less than half a month, the bottom of the rice cooker was burnt. The reason is that my father didn't control the ratio of water to rice well and was nagged by my mother.
One day, my father dragged me into the kitchen with an expectant face and brought me a bowl of fried rice with eggs. I saw traces of knife cuts and sporadic blisters on my father's hands, which moved me into a warm current. Want to touch my father's hand, he hurriedly handed me the bowl, put his hand behind his back like an electric shock, and pretended to say casually, "Try it."
I looked down and swallowed the first and second bites under my father's expectant eyes. ...
That meal, in fact, was not delicious, it was very salty. I think: is it tears or rice with too much seasoning called father's love?
He didn't cry bitter and tired, but willingly accepted these hard and sweet jobs.
Father often said, "I am your strongest and hardest backing." Now, I also want to say: "Home is your strongest and hardest backing!" " "