I am not a son who worries my father. I am naughty and playful, and I have never understood my father's good intentions. My academic performance is a worry to him. It was not until that incident that I completely changed.
That year, I played truant. My truancy is because of fun and boredom. I hid at home without saying a word, waiting for my father's stormy punishment. I am fully prepared to respond to all this with silence. At this moment, the door creaked and my father sat beside me with the breath of a day's work. To my surprise, he said nothing but smoked one cigarette after another, as if his words were in the misty smoke. I stole a look at him and suddenly found that my father was old. I have never seen my father so carefully: the traces of years climbed up his cheeks prematurely, the frosted white hair on his temples was so out of proportion to his age, and his fingers with cigarettes were shaking slightly. Looking at dad's hands, I can't help wondering: are these dad's hands? Are these the hands that touched my little face when I was a child?
I remember those hands holding me high, tickling me and laughing; I used to remember that every time those hands carried me to the back seat, they had to press hard, as if afraid that I would fall; I remember that every morning at school, when I was still sleeping, those big hands pulled me out of bed and held a bowl of hot egg noodles. Now these hands have changed and become so rough, like old dead trees in the yard. It's all for me, for me, my father is old! Thought of here, I shed tears unwillingly. "Dad, I'm going to school and I'm leaving tomorrow." My father's mouth moved as if to say something, but he didn't say anything. He just threw the cigarette on the ground, stepped on it with his foot and said, "Go to bed early and I'll see you off tomorrow." Said, and went out, leaving only my back.
The next day, when I woke up, my father was standing in front of my bed with a bowl of hot egg noodles on the table. Father said, "Eat, and I'll take you there later." I sat in the back seat of my father's bike again. When I was a child, I often made my father bow his back like this. But this is the first time since I grew up. I did grow up, because my father worked too hard, and my back was a little hunched, but I think it was enough to block the cold wind blowing in front. At that moment, my father's back became eternal.
As time went on, my father's back was not as straight as before, but slightly hunched. I see: I have grown up, but my father is old. After that, I stopped being tired of learning and my grades improved day by day. Because I know I go to school with my father's responsibility.
I love my father just as my father loves me.