I remember last winter, it was snowing lightly and it was very cold. My father and I are walking home. I didn't wear gloves and felt cold, so I kept rubbing my hands. My father saw me rubbing my hands and asked me what was wrong. I said, "I'm a little cold." When my father heard this, he gave me a pair of gloves he was wearing. I asked my father, "Aren't you cold?" Dad said, "Nothing, dad is not cold." After listening to this sentence, I couldn't help crying, like a broken bead. When I got home, I took out my homework and wrote for a while. I finished all my homework and put it away. When I went out to have a look, I saw my father rubbing his hands and drying his hands by the fire from time to time. I walked over and saw my father's hand was beaten black and blue, which hurt badly. I threw myself into my father's arms, and tears flowed down again and again. I asked my father, "Are you in pain?" Dad said, "It's okay, son. Dad doesn't hurt. " I know my father is in pain, but he just doesn't want me to know that I am sad.
Maybe next time. I had a high fever at night, and my father asked me what was wrong. I said, "I feel a little sick." Dad took out the thermometer and clipped it for me. After about five minutes, my father asked me to take it out. I showed it to my father. My father said it was 39. 8 degrees. He quickly dressed me and carried me to the mine hospital. Because there is no pediatrics in the mine hospital, my father took me out to take a taxi to the central hospital. I had a bottle of intravenous drip last night. Father stayed up all night and had to go to work the next day. He fell asleep in bed when he came back from work the next day.
In the storm, my father's hands were like a big umbrella, sheltering me from the wind and rain. I love my father's rough hands, and I love my father even more!