When I was 7 years old, I came to this city with my father. It was cold in winter in this city! My father and I are tightly wrapped in old coats. There are few pedestrians in the street. We are like walking through a cold grave. It's very quiet.
Finally arrived, migrant workers children's school. My father is one of more than 200 million migrant workers in China, and my classmates and I have a common name - migrant workers' children. In fact, I don't know the meaning of the three words "migrant workers". I only know that after the rice harvest at the end of autumn, I will follow my father to the big city. The little friends in my hometown are so envious to learn this! I am also very proud, as if to see a big city a prosperous, vibrant scene of spring.
Because I couldn't afford a bicycle for a while, my father would walk for several kilometers to pick me up, and then take a bus home with me. It's the rush hour of work. Dad and I managed to get on the bus. I'm very excited. This is my first time to take the bus in the city. A moment later, I found a strange phenomenon: people looked back at our father and son from time to time, and a fashionable lady next to me still tightly covered her purse with her hand. When we passed the crowd, they all avoided it as if they were afraid of the plague. Even though I'm only seven years old, I get it all. I looked out of the car. The branches outside were all dry. There were only bare tree trunks left. The pedestrians all stepped up to go home early. However, at this time, I feel that the inside of the car is colder than the outside, which makes me shiver. I really want to find a crack to drill down. I dare not see my father, afraid to read the sad answer from his eyes.
I don't understand. My father lives in a poor little house and eats the worst food. However, he has built a prosperous city. He uses his tears to build tall buildings. But why do I have to endure the scornful eyes of the city people? Their thundering eyes make me feel as if I am in the ice and snow. They accept the cold wind mercilessly in my face and draw a wound, leaving it bleeding.
I want to go home. Although the winter at home is colder than this, I can have a snowball fight with my friends and make a snowman. My heart is warm and I don't feel cold at all. But here, I can't forget that fashionable lady's fear of being stolen eyes, I can't stand people calling my father "Stinky worker" contemptuously.
But when I was going to tell my father about going home, things suddenly changed. The leaders in the city brought a lot of living utensils and stationery to visit us. There is such an uncle kindly holding my hand and saying: "children, we should study hard. There are many people in the society who care about you." In an instant, my heart flows through a warm current, which is the first time since this season.
Looking at these gifts from caring people in the society, I suddenly feel that there are many good people caring for the poor.
Remember a famous poet once said: when winter goes, can spring be far behind? With the help of so many kind-hearted people, I believe that the spring of this city will be warmer and more beautiful. I am more proud that my father is a migrant worker.