Home, the place where you grow up.
My family, my parents and me. My father is silent and responsible, and my mother is virtuous and loquacious. As for me, I am careless and don't like to move.
There is no end to the story. I cried, laughed, and more often couldn't laugh or cry.
Someone once asked me, what is love?
I adapt to circumstances: love is one thing that brings another. The common point is that one is willing to fight and the other is willing to suffer. The warm point is that one is fed happily and the other is happily eaten.
Go home and show off proudly.
Mom said: Family love is not the same, you little heartless thing.
Silence, it seemed.
Then he shamelessly begged for attention and forgiveness.
Now when I am away from home, I must eat twice-cooked pork every time I go home. That's what home is like.
PS: This is part of a short novel about home. The introduction has more text than the main text, shame on me! Please forgive me.
Conception: