我们的乡下流传着这样一句话：不是一家人，不进一道门。可要称一个外人做娘

我们的乡下流传着这样一句话：不是一家人，不进一道门。可要称一个外人做娘，起先我是多么不乐意啊。我偷偷瞥了一眼父亲身边这个女人，她虽然满脸皱纹，可皱纹间透出一种母爱，一种慈祥，一种平易，一种宽容。我始终偏执地认为，脸上越有皱纹的人，感情越丰富，这样的人也就越容易相处。好多次，我都想叫她一声娘了，可话到嘴边，却只能默默往回吞咽，在心口里扑腾着、喊着、叫着、堵塞着，让我难受到了极点。她似乎看出我的窘像，站起来，从小背篓里掏出长得像心脏一样又红又沉的柿子，递给我，说：女孩子喜欢吃甜食，留给孙女……看着我始终没有出声，父亲也站了起来，将一包用纸盒包装精美的核桃递给我，说：你母亲在的时候，年年留你一些；你母亲走后，你就很少回来了。现在，你就要当面前站着的这个女人是娘了……

我们的乡下流传着这样一句话：不是一家人，不进一道门。 可要称一个外人做娘，起先我是多么不乐意啊。 我偷偷瞥了一眼父亲身边这个女人，她虽然满脸皱纹，可皱纹间透出一种母爱，一种慈祥，一种平易，一种宽容。 我始终偏执地认为，脸上越有皱纹的人，感情越丰富，这样的人也就越容易相处。 好多次，我都想叫她一声娘了，可话到嘴边，却只能默默往回吞咽，在心口里扑腾着、喊着、叫着、堵塞着，让我难受到了极点。 她似乎看出我的窘像，站起来，从小背篓里掏出长得像心脏一样又红又沉的柿子，递给我，说：女孩子喜欢吃甜食，留给孙女…… 看着我始终没有出声，父亲也站了起来，将一包用纸盒包装精美的核桃递给我，说：你母亲在的时候，年年留你一些；你母亲走后，你就很少回来了。 现在，你就要当面前站着的这个女人是娘了……

There is a saying in our country: not a family, not a door. But to call an outsider a mother, at first I was so reluctant. I secretly glanced at the woman beside my father. Although her face was full of wrinkles, there was a kind of maternal love, a kind of kindness, a kind of peace, a kind of tolerance between the wrinkles. I have always been paranoid that the more wrinkled people are, the more emotional they are, the easier they are to get along with. Many times, I want to call her a mother, but words to the mouth, but only silently back to swallow, in the heart fluttering, shouting, shouting, blocking, let me suffer to the extreme. She seemed to see my embarrassment. She stood up and took out the persimmon which looked like the heart and was red and heavy. She handed it to me and said: girls like to eat sweet food and leave it to their granddaughter Seeing that I was silent all the time, my father stood up and handed me a package of walnuts packed in cartons. He said, "when your mother is here, keep some of you every year; when your mother leaves, you seldom come back.". Now, the woman standing in front of you is a mother<br>