In this task, you're given an article and an answer. Your task is to generate the fill-in-the-blank question for this answer based on the given article. The blanks are always at the end of the question, and can be filled with more than one word or phrase.

Q: Article: When my grandfather died, my 83-year-old grandmother, once so full of life, slowly began to fade. No longer able to manage a home of her own, she moved in with my mother, where she was visited often by other members of her large, loving family. Although she still had her good days, it was often hard to arouse her interest. But one chilly December afternoon three years ago, my daughter Meagan, then eight, and I were visiting her, when she noticed that Meagan was carrying her favorite doll."I, too, had a special doll when I was a little girl," she told a wide-eyed Meagan. "I got it one Christmas when I was about your age. I lived in an old farmhouse in Maine, with Mom, Dad and my four sisters, and the very first gift I opened that Christmas was the most beautiful doll you'd ever want to see." "She had an exquisite(,), hand-painted face, and her long brown hair was pulled back with a big pink bow. Her eyes were blue, and they opened and closed. I remember she had a body of kidskin, and her arms and legs bent at the joints." GG's voice dropped low, taking on an almost respectful tone. "My doll was dressed in a pretty pink gown, decorated with fine lace. ... _ -- my parents must have had to sacrifice so much to afford it But how happy I was that morning!" GG's eyes filled and her voice shook with emotion as she recalled that Christmas of long ago. "I played with my doll all morning long. And then it happened. My mother called us to the dining room for Christmas dinner and I laid my new doll down gently on the hall table. But as I went to join the family at the table, I heard a loud crash." "I hardly had to turn around -- I knew it was my precious doll. And it was. Her lace skirt had hung down from the table just enough for my baby sister to reach up and pull on it. When I ran in, there lay my beautiful doll on the floor, her face smashed into a dozen pieces. She was gone forever." A few years later, GG's baby sister was also gone, she told Meagan, a victim of pneumonia . Now the tears in her eyes spilled over -- tears, I knew, not only for a lost doll and a lost sister, but for a lost time. Subdued for the rest of the visit, Meagan was no sooner in the car going home than she exclaimed, "Mom, I have a great idea! Let's get GG a new doll for Christmas. Then she won't cry when she thinks about it." My heart filled with pride as I listened to my sympathetic little daughter. But where would we find a doll to match GG's fond memories? Where there's a will, as they say, there's a way. When I told my best friends, Liz and Chris, about my problem, Liz put me in touch with a local doll-make. From a doll supply house I ordered a long brown hair and a kidskin body to copy the outfit GG had so lovingly described. Liz volunteered to put the doll together, and Chris helped me make the doll's outfit. Meagan wrote the story of the lost doll by giving examples. Finally our creation was finished. To our eyes it was perfect. But there was no way it could be exactly like the doll GG had loved so much and lost. Would she think it looked anything like it? On Christmas Eve, Meagan and I carried our happily packed gift to GG, where she sat surrounded by children, parents, aunts, uncles and cousins. "It's for you," Meagan said, "but first you have to read the story that goes with it." GG no sooner got through the first page than her voice cracked and she was unable to go on, but Meagan took over where she left off. Then it was time to open her present. I'll never forget the look on GG's face as she lifted the doll and held it to her chest. Once again her tears fell, but this time they were tears of joy. Holding the doll in her frail arms, she repeated over and over again, "She's exactly like my old doll, exactly like her." And perhaps she wasn't saying that just to be kind. Perhaps however impossible it seemed, we had managed to produce a close copy of the doll she remembered. But as I watched my eight-year-old daughter and her great-grandmother examining the doll together, I thought of a likelier explanation. What GG really recognized, perhaps, was the love that inspired the gift. And love, wherever it comes from, always looks the same.
Answer: she was not able to live on her own due to her weakness

A: GG moved in with her daughter because _ .
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Q: Article: Occasionally, my father came back drunk. Late at night, he beat on the door, pleading to my mother to open it .He was on his way home from drinking, gambling, or some combination thereof, misspending money that we could have used and wasting time that we desperately needed. It was the late-1970s. My parents were separated. My mother was now raising a group of boys on her own. My father spouted off about what he planned to do for us, buy for us.In fact, he had no intention of doing anything. As a father who was supposed to love us, in fact, he lacked the understanding of what it truly meant to love a child--or to hurt one. To him, this was a harmless game that kept us excited and begging. In fact, it was a cruel, corrosive lie. I lost faith in his words and in him. I wanted to stop caring, but I couldn't. Maybe it was his own complicated relationship to his father and his father's family that caused him cold. Maybe it was the pain and guilt associated with a life of misfortune. Who knows. Whatever it was, it stole him from us, and particularly from me. While my brothers talked about breaking and fixing things, I spent many of my evenings reading and wondering. My favorite books were a set of encyclopedias given by my uncle. They allowed me to explore the world beyond my world, to travel without leaving, to dream dreams greater than my life would otherwise have supported. But losing myself in my own mind also meant that I was completely lost to my father. Not understanding me, he simply ignored me--not just emotionally, but physically as well. Never once did he hug me, never once a pat on the back or a hand on the shoulder or a tousling of the hair. My best memories of him were from his episodic attempts at engagement with us. During the longest of these episodes , once every month or two, he would come pick us up and drive us down the interstate to Trucker's Paradise, a seedy, smoke-filled, truck stop with gas pumps, a convenience store, a small dining area and a game room through a door in the back. My dad gave each of us a handful of quarters, and we played until they were gone. He sat up front in the dining area, drinking coffee and being particular about the restaurant's measly offerings. I loved these days. To me, Trucker's Paradise was paradise. The quarters and the games were fun but easily forgotten. It was the presence of my father that was most treasured. But, of course, these trips were short-lived. It wasn't until I was much older that I would find something that I would be able to _ as evidence of my father's love. When the Commodore 64 personal computer debuted, I convinced myself that I had to have it even though its price was out of my mother's range. So I decided to earn the money myself. I mowed every yard I could find that summer for a few dollars each, yet it still wasn't enough. So my dad agreed to help me raise the rest of the money by driving me to one of the watermelon farms south of town, loading up his truck with wholesale melons and driving me around to sell them. He came for me before daybreak. We made small talk, but it didn't matter. The fact that he was talking to me was all that mattered. I was a teenager by then, but this was the first time that I had ever spent time alone with him. He laughed and repeatedly introduced me as "my boy," a phrase he relayed with a sense of pride. It was one of the best days of my life. Although he had never told me that he loved me, I would _ that day as the greatest evidence of that fact. He had never intended me any wrong. He just didn't know how to love me right. He wasn't a mean man. So I took these random episodes and _ them like a thing most precious, storing them in my mind for the long stretches of coldness when a warm memory would prove most useful. It just goes to show that no matter how friendless the father, no matter how deep the damage, no matter how shattered the bond, there is still time, still space, still a need for even the smallest bit of evidence of a father's love. "My boy."
Answer: shy but thoughtful

A: From the passage, the father was _ in the writer's memory.
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Q: Article: Over the past two weeks, public feedback was sought on new safety standards for school buses.In the wake of the accidents coming one after another, experts from MIIT drew up a new safety technique document of school buses in December, based on US and EU standards. School bus makers and industry watchers doubt the possibility of these new standards, saying that hiking costs would make school buses unaffordable in rural China.The US-modeled standards also mean that most smaller bus makers will be kept out from the market. These views, however, have aroused anger among netizens who are questioning "why can't we enjoy US standards when it comes to human lives?" Similar debates keep taking place.China falls behind the US on various standards--air quality measurement, mine safety, milk safety and so on.The idea is highly attractive that China presses on with adapting advanced US standards and improves all unsatisfying aspects of social life.However, this is far more complex than drawing up documents on paper. Some standards today were unimaginable just a few years ago.But public demand for using better standards from developed countries is on the rise.The government has to learn from them and keep pushing for higher standards.Adopting PM 2.5 in air quality monitoring follows _ . On the other hand, it is not always good to copy Western standards.Take the US-style big school buses.Their size makes it tough for them to go on the narrow roads of rural China.Similarly in cities, if school buses carry a "stop" sign like their US counterparts and enjoy right of way, how many would then complain about the disturbing traffic? China should try its best to develop its own standards.It should have its own schedule to steadily reach higher standards.Over the past decades, the nation has developed many a standard We need to have more confidence, rather than simply copying foreign standards.
Answer: a string of accidents related to school buses

A:
The new document of school buses was drawn up as a result of _ .
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