The box is filled with train tickets. In four years, my dad came to my school 16 times, with 32 tickets.

That dad who was reluctant to eat or wear, came to see me 16 times!

He had to stand for 26 hours each way just to reach my school.

Suddenly, I realized my dad is a farmer.

I couldn't figure out how he, who can barely read or speak Mandarin, found our school.

I couldn't figure out how he managed to endure standing for 26 hours each time he came.

Every time my dad came to my school.

I had to ask the gatekeeper to call my instructor, and the instructor would contact me to go to the gate and meet him.

I feel ashamed of such a way of meeting, but there's no other option. I can't bear to buy a phone for my dad, and he doesn't know how to use one either.

Once, my dad said he wanted to come inside the school and take a look.

He had never seen what it's like inside a university. I stood there and couldn't say a word.

Truthfully, I didn't want him to enter the school.

But looking at his worn-out camouflage uniform, his skin darkened by years of farm work under the scorching sun, my heart softened.

I said alright, I'll take you in for a stroll.

When we arrived at the school gate, we were stopped by the gatekeeper.

He said my dad couldn't enter, claiming there's stricter control now, and even parents of students are not allowed.

I stared at the gatekeeper and pointed at the BMW and Audi cars coming in and out.

I questioned why they could enter, but the gatekeeper didn't explain or answer. He just told me to go back to the school and get a certificate if I had further questions.

I rushed forward to argue with him, but my dad stopped me and spoke to me in our hometown dialect.

"Let it go, let it go. Don't cause trouble for the leaders. When you're away from home, you have to keep your head down."

I shot a fierce glance at the gatekeeper and went with my dad to a small restaurant near the school.

Every time my dad came to see me, we would go to that small diner and have wonton soup. He said their wonton soup was delicious, but I felt it was just an ordinary bowl of wonton soup, nothing special.

The last time he came to see me, that small diner at the school gate was closed.

My dad looked around at the upscale storefronts and brand-new signs of other restaurants, hesitating.

He didn't know which one to go to, and he didn't know if he could afford the prices.

At that moment, I saw his anxious expression and felt sorry for him. I took him to have a bowl of beef noodles.

A bowl of beef noodles cost 18 yuan, which I usually wouldn't spend. But that meal, the two of us enjoyed it, and we finished every drop of the broth.

I wiped away my tears and moved on from the memories.

Under my dad's pillow, there was another neatly folded piece of paper.

I opened it and read the crookedly written line.

【Yingzi, Eldest Son is doing well now and has achieved something. I can go see you now.】