I am sitting in the examination hall among my classmates with a sheet of questions in front of me. The only difference between my classmates and me is that they are all busy filling out their sheets, while I am just sitting, staring at the wall in front of me. My mind silently fights to keep memories as I search for something to start this essay   with--an essay about a man who was taken away from me before I was old enough to say his name. With no words coming to my rescue, I helplessly glance down at the title of the essay: "My Father". Since I do not have a clear recollection of him, I can only describe him on the basis of what I have heard from my mother and other  s. They all told me that he was caring, hardworking, a man of his word and did everything to keep his family happy. They stop talking about him as suddenly as he disappeared from our lives. He went to work one day and never returned. My mother ran from hospitals to police stations and even to mortuaries   but found no trace of him. He was gone as if he never existed. While growing up I could never understand what actually happened to him but there were times when I heard people talking in whispers about how he was taken away by security forces because he was against the state. I do not know how far that is true but what I would like to know is how that is possible? He was an ordinary man working day in and day out to make ends meet and put food on our table. He was least concerned about the state of affairs in Pakistan. I understand that my teachers are probably expecting me to write flowery words about him but how can I be expected to write about a man who never existed? Perhaps, it would be unfair to say he never existed. He still does in my memories. He was a fruit merchant and owned a shop. Every evening he would return from work with dates   or sweets, his hands were never empty. I also remember that he took me to the Koh-e-Murad once; he told me that this was a very sacred   place, asking me to fold my hands and ask Allah for whatever I wanted. I remember folding my hands and praying hard for every day to be a happy day. Ever since I have lost him, I have been faced with a deep sense of loss--a feeling which is difficult for me to describe in words. I wish I hadn't known the truth or that my life was different and normal from that of the other girls sitting around me in this examination hall. This sense gives me heartache and makes me jump from envy   to severe hatred  . I dislike the girls who are taken by their fathers to school; I hate children who boast about bed time stories read by their fathers. These events constantly remind me of his absence and how different my life is from other girls of my age. Strangely, I am just as hopeful as I am angry. Every knock on the door fills me with expectation; I immediately picture him walking through the door, a box of dates in his hands. Families get together and talk about good times but in my house, when we get together, we all gather in front of the television praying to catch a glimpse of his face. I follow every bit of news that could be connected with his disappearance. I see politicians, social workers and other influential power brokers fighting over the issue of missing persons. But do they know how long and dull our days have become under the heavy burden of this constant hope to hear news about his return? Do they care that I have spent my childhood with my sense that my father actually existed? I don't think they do. I don't think that they even understand that when he was taken away, I did not only lose him but I lost my mother as well. My mother, who does nothing all day but sit by the door in wait of his return, may as well have disappeared with my father that fateful day. Most days I wish for his safe return. But when optimism makes me tired out, there are days when I think it would be better if we just found his lifeless body somewhere; so that we could finally stop searching, so that we could finally find peace. What does the author think of her father?
He devoted all his energy to his country. He didn't like family life. He showed much concern for his kids. He seldom talked with his family.
Question: I am sitting in the examination hall among my classmates with a sheet of questions in front of me. The only difference between my classmates and me is that they are all busy filling out their sheets, while I am just sitting, staring at the wall in front of me. My mind silently fights to keep memories as I search for something to start this essay   with--an essay about a man who was taken away from me before I was old enough to say his name. With no words coming to my rescue, I helplessly glance down at the title of the essay: "My Father". Since I do not have a clear recollection of him, I can only describe him on the basis of what I have heard from my mother and other  s. They all told me that he was caring, hardworking, a man of his word and did everything to keep his family happy. They stop talking about him as suddenly as he disappeared from our lives. He went to work one day and never returned. My mother ran from hospitals to police stations and even to mortuaries   but found no trace of him. He was gone as if he never existed. While growing up I could never understand what actually happened to him but there were times when I heard people talking in whispers about how he was taken away by security forces because he was against the state. I do not know how far that is true but what I would like to know is how that is possible? He was an ordinary man working day in and day out to make ends meet and put food on our table. He was least concerned about the state of affairs in Pakistan. I understand that my teachers are probably expecting me to write flowery words about him but how can I be expected to write about a man who never existed? Perhaps, it would be unfair to say he never existed. He still does in my memories. He was a fruit merchant and owned a shop. Every evening he would return from work with dates   or sweets, his hands were never empty. I also remember that he took me to the Koh-e-Murad once; he told me that this was a very sacred   place, asking me to fold my hands and ask Allah for whatever I wanted. I remember folding my hands and praying hard for every day to be a happy day. Ever since I have lost him, I have been faced with a deep sense of loss--a feeling which is difficult for me to describe in words. I wish I hadn't known the truth or that my life was different and normal from that of the other girls sitting around me in this examination hall. This sense gives me heartache and makes me jump from envy   to severe hatred  . I dislike the girls who are taken by their fathers to school; I hate children who boast about bed time stories read by their fathers. These events constantly remind me of his absence and how different my life is from other girls of my age. Strangely, I am just as hopeful as I am angry. Every knock on the door fills me with expectation; I immediately picture him walking through the door, a box of dates in his hands. Families get together and talk about good times but in my house, when we get together, we all gather in front of the television praying to catch a glimpse of his face. I follow every bit of news that could be connected with his disappearance. I see politicians, social workers and other influential power brokers fighting over the issue of missing persons. But do they know how long and dull our days have become under the heavy burden of this constant hope to hear news about his return? Do they care that I have spent my childhood with my sense that my father actually existed? I don't think they do. I don't think that they even understand that when he was taken away, I did not only lose him but I lost my mother as well. My mother, who does nothing all day but sit by the door in wait of his return, may as well have disappeared with my father that fateful day. Most days I wish for his safe return. But when optimism makes me tired out, there are days when I think it would be better if we just found his lifeless body somewhere; so that we could finally stop searching, so that we could finally find peace. What does the author think of her father?
A. He devoted all his energy to his country.
B. He didn't like family life.
C. He showed much concern for his kids.
D. He seldom talked with his family.
Answer: