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My daughter

  I always worry that something will happen to my daughter. As soon as she wasn’t by my side, I panicked, fantasizing about her having a car accident and lying in the arms of a stranger, bleeding. So I wrote a lot of small notes and stuffed them where no one else could find them. One of the small notes read: The Bodhisattva bless his daughter to come back safely. I’m an atheist, but I don’t care that I’m an atheist. As soon as my daughter is not around, I become the missing person of myself. My prayers came true, and my prayers were interrupted countless times by my daughter who came home from kindergarten, and she jumped up to hug me, kiss me, and giggling. She was safe and sound, and I was so relieved that I rushed to hug her, kiss her, and giggling.
  At the age of six, she went to primary school. She learned to be lonely and play alone; she also learned to look for her peers and share candy for her classmates. Her jealousy began to become strong, and she didn’t want other people’s floral clothes to be like her; she put her hands behind her back and learned from me; she Bring the picture book to the classroom, play tricks, she learns the characters in the TV series: what should I do if I am broken in love; her teeth are not very good; she told me, Dad, I love you forever.
  At sixteen, she had carefully put away the word love. She is extravagant to talk about love. She will blush. She understands a lot more than I could ever imagine she could understand. She listened to popular songs fiercely, which was much more energetic than Tang poetry and Song poetry. Her English is showing signs of fluency. She’s secretly rebellious, and her braces make her look like a little beast armed to the teeth. She secretly flipped through my stuff, but I never dared to flip through her stuff. I was innocent and pure in front of her, and she was like a veteran who has gone through the world.
  At twenty-six she was as good as sixteen, but I was losing her. The feeling that I’m losing her is so solid that I’m relieved. It’s a really weird feeling. Desperately happy. She is more thoughtful than I am, behaves loosely, and dresses unruly. She swears, smokes, and has her nth boyfriend. I try to find her vulnerable side, but she never reveals it to me. She would still jump up to hug me, kiss me, and laugh. But I will never jump up to hug her, kiss her, giggling again.
  At thirty-six, she was much more dignified. She is extremely dignified. She is kind and full of truth and beauty in her heart. She seemed to be compensating me for something, spending more and more time with me. This really makes me feel bad. She called Dad more times this year than in any other year. She has a regular boyfriend. She is admired by the outside world. She spends more time on hairstyles. She cares about what other people say about her, including mine. But I always say: you should get married and have a child.
  Forty-six-year-old daughter has wrinkles and son. Her energy is low. She quit smoking many times without success, and finally smoked more fiercely. She sometimes shows her viciousness and then apologizes for her viciousness. No one can stand up to her scrutiny, including me. She thinks that I should have been more accomplished and not focused on her. I am still willing to go to disaster, go to hell, give up everything, and play with her for her. But she became rational, her sneer pursed at the corner of her mouth and disappeared.
  At fifty-six, my daughter had the same mood as me. We daze and bask in the sun together. Occasionally, there are old and young actions to pass the time with smug smarts. The world is coming to an end. Can an aging daughter spark your passion? The answer is yes. She has always been so decent, and on her straight body, the lipstick is more dazzling than the stars. She is my star. I was in a trance as she handed me a cigarette.
  I always fantasize about having a daughter, and I can be with her for fifty-six years. It’s really unfair to my son, but it really can’t be helped.

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