I never saw her anger, never saw her cry. I knew she loved me; she showed it in action. But as a young girl, I wanted heart-to-heart talks between mother and daughter.
They never happened. And a gulf opened between us. I was too emotional(易动感情的). But she lived on the surface.
As years passed and I had my own family. I loved my mother and thanked her for our happy family. I wrote to her in careful words and asked her to let me know in any way she chose that she did forgive(原谅)me.
I posted the letter and waited for her answer. None came.
My hope turned to disappointment, then little interest and, finally, peace-it seemed that nothing happened. I couldnt be sure that the letter had even got to Mother. I only knew that I had written in, and I could stop trying to make her into someone she was not.
Now the present of her desk told me, as shed never been able to , that she was pleased that writing was my chosen work. I cleaned the desk carefully and found some papers inside-a photo of my father and a one-page letter, folded (折叠)and refolded many times.
Give me an answer, my letter asks, in any way you chose. Mother, you always chose the act that speaks louder than words.
( )51. The writer began to love her mothers desk _______.
A. after Mother died
B. before she became a writer
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