Raised in a motherless home, my father was extremely tightfisted towards us children. His attitude didn't soften as I grew into adulthood and went to college. I had to ride the bus whenever I came home. Though the bus stopped about two miles from home, Dad never met me, even in severe weather. If I _ he'd say in his loudest father-voice, "That's what your legs are for!" The walk didn't bother me as much as the fear of walking alone along the highway and country roads. I also felt less than valued that my father didn't seem concerned about my safety. But that feeling was cancelled one spring evening. It had been a particularly difficult week at college after long hours in labs. I longed for home. When the bus reached the stop, I stepped off and dragged my suitcase to begin the long journey home. A row of hedge edged the driveway that climbed the hill to our house. Once I had turned off the highway to start the last lap of my journey, I always had a sense of relief to see the hedge because it meant that I was almost home. On that particular evening, the hedge had just come into view when I saw something gray moving along the top of the hedge, moving toward the house. Upon closer observation, I realized it was the top of my father's head. Then I knew, each time I'd come home, he had stood behind the hedge, watching, until he knew I had arrived safely. I swallowed hard against the tears. He did care, after all. On later visits, that spot of gray became my watchtower. I could hardly wait until I was close enough to watch for its secret movement above the greenery. Upon reaching home, I would find my father sitting innocently in his chair. "So! My son, it's you!" he'd say, his face lengthening into pretended surprise. I replied, "Yes, Dad, it's me. I'm home." Which of the following can be the best title for the text?
Terrible Journey Home. My College Life. My Father's Secret. Riding Bus Alone.