Dad and I were always passionate (热情的) about our feelings, and when I reached my teen years, our1 really heated up. Our biggest fight was about my chosen2.
"People like us aren't writers!" Dad would shout.
"Maybe people like you aren't writers," I would shout3, "but people like me are!"
I grew up in a nice house with a lawn(草坪) and lots of rooms. All I had to do was to get good grades and stay out of trouble. Dad spent his youth living in an old building and4 money to support his family. But he drew a curtain (门帘幕) over his5, never speaking of his growing-up days. No one knew what he had6. But not knowing Dad's past, I could never know what drove him to want so much safety for me.
As I insisted on writing, Mom told me Dad read and re-read everything I wrote, although he7 mentioned my work to me. Instead, he continually tried to drive me into a career(事业) he considered8 -nursing or teaching.
But in the last days of his life, Dad9. It was as if he suddenly realized that he should make the truth known. He talked about everything—how it felt to carry heavy baskets of coal upstairs and10 one bathroom with five other families, and how worried he was that his family wouldn't have enough warm clothes for winter. Dad told me11 he'd wanted to protect me from poor life, so I'd never have to go12 what he had. When he said sorry for trying to break off my wings(翅膀), I told him that he was the very one who'd given me the chance to13. Dad smiled and tried to nod.
On the last day of his life, as Mom and I sat holding his hands, he signaled(示意) to the nurse to come close. "You know my daughter," he said with great14, "I just want you to know—she's a15."
It was the proudest moment of my life.
