One autumn night in 1996, when I was 3 years old, I knocked on the door of the bungalow behind the railway line.
The person who opened the door was a scruffy middle-aged man.
He asked sternly: "What's the matter?"
I timidly asked for help: "Cold. Hungry."
He let me into the house and served me a bowl of rice.
In this way, I became his daughter and he became my adoptive father.
20 Years later, I was desperate and posted a video on social media asking for help.
The title of the video is: I hate my adoptive father.
Intention: warmth