My little brother sat in the corner of the living room, a pen in one hand and my father's book in the other. As my father walked into the room, my brother knew that he had done something wrong. I could see that he had scribbled   in the book with a pen. Now, he and I both waited for our father's punishment. My father picked up his book and looked at it carefully. My father was a teacher. For him, books were very important, and yet he loved his children. Instead of punishing my brother, he took the pen from my brother's hand, and then wrote in the book himself: John's work, 1959, age 2. I'm very thankful to you for scribbling in my book. "Wow," I thought. "Is this punishment?" The years and the books came and went. We always knew our parents loved us. From time to time we would open the book, look at the scribbles and read my father's expression of love. _ . He also taught us about what is really important in life: people, not things. Now I am a father too. Unlike my father, I don't wait for my daughters to take books from my bookshelf and scribble in them. I take one down and give it to my children to scribble. As I look at their artwork  , I think about my father and the lessons he taught me. What did the writer think when his father came into the room?
His father would buy a book for John. John's artwork was beautiful. His father didn't love his children. John would be punished by his father.