When I was in high school, my father retired and set up a food booth on the street near my school. He was particularly good at making . Every day after I finished school, my classmates and I would his food booth. But I really talking to him before his food booth, because I didn’t want my classmates to know my father was selling noodles on the street! One night, I couldn’t it any more and shouted, “Dad, could you selling your annoying noodles? I don’t need a father who sells noodles on the street!” At that moment, my father was . He tried to say something but didn’t. When he turned , something happened that I would never . His eyes were filled with tears. I saw him for the first time. My mother later told me my father was selling noodles to money for my college education. Even today I still feel for what I did that night. Time really flies. I finished and then left my home to work. During the past years, whenever I home, he was always there meeting me at the railway station. Whenever he saw me off, he never tried to hug me, although I always his hug. When I was away from home, he never wrote or telephoned me, he always pushed my mother to telephone me. Whenever my mother was telephoning me, he’d sit beside her with a list of questions. He’d my mother to talk to me for him. That’s the way he is, and that’s how he shows his to me. My father is quiet, but I feel a , which is deep and powerful. It lives in a place far beyond , and it is something special－“a silent father’s love”.
