It was a Saturday in the sixth grade last semester. It's time for dinner. I rushed out of the room excitedly, but I lost my appetite when I arrived at the table: celery and bitter gourd. Although the dishes on the table are rich, they are all things I don't like. It is strange that my parents should know this. I look unhappy, but my mother seems to pretend not to notice my attitude, and still smiles and keeps giving me food. This sentence makes me even more dissatisfied. My mother knows that I hate eating these dishes, so why did she tell me that I'm really dumb to eat Rhizoma Coptidis-I can't say anything. I can't help talking back to my mother. I can't enjoy this meal. If you just eat, you can't eat any more. I can't help it I am coping with this dinner with a lot of resentment. Halfway through the meal, I said that I had a bad appetite today and walked into the room with my head down, but I felt inexplicable grievances in my heart: What happened to my mother today? She bought so many dishes when she knew I didn't like them. She is not like this at ordinary times! I can't figure it out if I want to break my head, so I have to pray silently in my heart that this kind of thing won't happen again. Gloomily, I finished my homework and fell asleep.
A new day has begun. I got up early and wandered around the house. Suddenly, my eyes were fixed on a book on my father's desk with the reverse side up. Curiosity drove me to open it. It turned out to be a cookbook. How strange! When did our family have such a book! After reading the catalogue, I realized that Oenanthe javanica is an ideal vegetable for nourishing the brain. No wonder my mother bought it back! Later, I asked my father to know that my mother thought I was a graduating class student and was too tired to learn recipes. Only then did I know my mother's good intentions.
Oh, I see. My parents' love is not only expressed in words, but also in their silent concern, accompanying me ... Thank you very much, Sister.