Son, mother likes your prose and poetry.

Like a dissatisfied housewife

grieved

The newly dead baby lay quietly on the white bed.

Pale face

Father sat there, hanging his head.

Playing with soot in one hand

Squeeze in quietly

Smoke completely covered his body.

That woman is still complaining.

Whose fault is it that the child left?

Cold weather

No clothes or food.

Mother was speechless with tears.

Just crying in a low voice

Father just smokes.

Keep silent and don't talk.

The body twitched slightly.

Son, why did you leave?

Dad just bought you clothes.

You haven't worn it.

Mom just gave you hot milk.

You haven't drunk yet.

Just leave in such a hurry

It's all dad's fault.

I should stay with you.

Accompany you, chop wood and boil water for you, and give you warmth.

Mother gave her father a look.

Eyes become peaceful

Look at the child lying in bed.

Quiet and serene

Son, why don't you wait for mom?

Mom went to find milk for you.

I found it. It's still hot

You have been hungry for several days.

Get up and have a drink.

It's all mom's fault.

Mom should have come back earlier.

You should not be left alone for so long.

It's all mom's fault.

I'm sorry

children

Mom will never leave you again.

Open your eyes and look at your mother again.

Mom will never leave you again.

children

Mom loves you.

Dead baby is my ideal, the food my mother looks for and the clothes my father looks for are cruel in the real world. What kind of relationship to maintain between reality and ideal still needs to be distinguished by yourself.