I can't remember my father's face clearly, but I remember it as if it had been cut by a knife, with many deep and shallow lines. There is always blood red on the cheeks. Is it caused by wind and high blood pressure? I don't know. Sparse eyebrows are always twisted together, and it seems that it is uneven to iron them. The eye socket is deep, and the eyes are always bloodshot, which looks like drinking too much. Lips are chapped all the year round, and there are always many pale dead skins hanging there, just like being sentenced to life imprisonment. But what impressed me most was his father's cough, as if announcing his arrival and telling his past.
Every time he comes home, he reminds me of his powerful cough, whether reading or playing. When I hear this sound, my heart will be like a knock and become restless. Sometimes he will ask me about school when he comes back, but sometimes he will say nothing. Not much communication with him. Even when I go home, I rarely meet each other. Most of them know each other's recent situation on the phone, and they are only limited to asking questions.
Sometimes when I go home, my father hasn't come home yet, my mother cooks, and we wait for my father together. My mother and I don't pay much attention to the sound of footsteps and pushing doors, but if a middle-aged man coughs, we will look at each other and look forward to whether my father is back. If not, we will continue to wait.