The person I am most familiar with in this world is naturally my mother Cigarettes Cheaper. She is always so strict in my eyes. I am always ignorant of my childhood. I always think that my mother does not love me at all. I even wonder if I am a mother.I remember that when I was still in kindergarten, I just learned to write some simple words such as "big", "small", "more" and "less". I want to give my mom a little comfort, even if I show a little smile, I am willing to give everything I can. Because in my impression my mother's smile is so sweet; but it is so rare, just like the rain in the Sahara desert is sweet and rare Marlboro Cigarettes.So I practiced the words in the yard. The big sweat of the beans dripped from the head and flowed into my body along the neck Parliament Cigarettes. It seemed that there were hundreds of small bugs crawling again, but I didn��t dare to be slow, afraid of my mother. When I came back, I saw that the words I wrote were so ugly and frowned. In this way, I wiped and wrote on the ground, wrote aimple words were written in the afternoon, in the middle of this I want to eat ice cream lying on the sofa watching TV; I would like to play games with friends under the shade it! But I know that I can't Marlboro Menthol 100S, if I can't see my mother's sweet smile. I restrain myself.Finally my mother came back, her forehead was covered with fine beads of sweat, and her nose was sour and smelly. I looked at my mother��s tired look, my nose was sour and my tears were turning in my eyes. . Yes, my mother is too tired. She needs a shoulder to rely on when she is tired. But my dad often travels on business. All I can do is study hard not to worry my mother and help her share some housework... think about it. "Written by you?" My mother couldn't believe she interrupted my idea. "Yes... Yes... It's me... I... I wrote it." I stuttered and my face turned red. , like a ripe red apple Marlboro Red. My mother��s eyes were a little relieved, her mouth slowly rising again, and the ��stone�� in my heart was slowly falling again. However, ��stone�� had not yet reached the end, and my mother��s brow became wrinkled again. My heart mentioned the blind man's eye again, and sure enough my mother began to call me: "You look at your 'many' word, as if the insect crawled on the ground! I really don't know how long your hand is, when writing Like chicken feet, write. You keep writing for me. If you don't write well, you don't want to eat."