In this task, you're given an article and an answer. Your task is to generate the question for the answer based on the given article.

[EX Q]: Article: Born on April 4, 1928, Maya Angelou had a hard childhood. Her parents got divorced  when she was very young. She was a single mother and being a single mother was very hard on her. It was finally in 1949 that she started to find her place in the world when she changed her name to show her Calypso dance performances at the night club where she worked. It was there that she won a scholarship and trained in African dance and modern dance. She formed a group and they traveled all over Europe with an opera production. As she traveled, she studied different languages and became excellent in several of them. During this time, she made her first album, Miss Calypso, and it was a success. In the 1950s, she moved to New York and started to work more on her writing. She heard Dr Martin Luther King speak in 1960 and began organizing different benefits for Civil Rights . In 1961, she began to play a large role in the Civil Rights Movement and is remembered for her work around the country. She later moved to Ghana with her son and worked in the University of Ghana's School of Music and Drama. It was there that she became close friends with Malcolm X. She returned to the US in 1964 to help Malcolm X with a new Civil Rights movement. Shortly after she returned to the US, Malcolm X and Dr King were both assassinated . To deal with the deaths of her friends, she wrote her first book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, which finally made her famous around the world. The 1970s were some of her most productive years as a writer, poet, as well as a singer. 
 Answer: Maya Angelou: a life of hard work and success
[EX A]: What's the main idea of this passage?

[EX Q]: Article: Albert Szent-Gyorgyi was born in Budapest on September 16, 1893. In 1911 he entered his uncle's laboratory where he studied until the outbreak of World War One, when he joined the army. He served on the Italian and Russian fronts, and he was permitted to leave the army in 1917 after being wounded in action. He completed his studies in Budapest before he went to Hamburg for a two-year course in physical chemistry. In 1920 he became an assistant at a university in Leiden, the Netherlands and from 1922 to 1926 he worked with H. J. Hamburger at the Physiology Institute, Groningen, the Netherlands. In 1926, Szent-Gyorgyi was ready to end his own life after an embarrassing problem in his career. The scientist, thirty-two, had written a paper and handed it to his boss for approval to publish. His boss threw it in the dustbin. Concluding his life was a failure, the young researcher quit. Unable to support his wife and child, he sent them home to her parents. His final wish was to attend one last scientific meeting, to be among scientists, to have one last good time. So he went to the 1926 International Physiological Society Congress in Sweden. Sitting in the audience, lost in self-pity, Szent-Gyorgyi listened to the president of the society, Sir Frederick Gowland Hopkins, refer to the fine work of a researcher: Szent-Gyorgyi! After the speech, collecting his courage, he introduced himself to Hopkins. The great man invited the young scientist to Cambridge to do further work. Szent-Gyorgyi's life changed. He discovered the oxidation-preventing   action of vitamin C. He won the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1937. He accounted for his success by saying that discovery is seeing what everyone else has seen but thinking what nobody else has thought. 
 Answer: His pride was hurt by his boss.
[EX A]: Why did Szent-Gyorgyi want to end his own life in 1926?

[EX Q]: Article: My daughter Allie is leaving for college in a week. Her room is cluttered   with shopping bags filled with blankets, towels, jeans, sweaters. She won't talk about going. I say, "I'm going to miss you," and she gives me one of her looks and leaves the room. Another time I say, in a voice so friendly it surprises even me: "Do you think you'll take your posters and pictures with you, or will you get new ones at college?" She answers, her voice filled with annoyance, "How should I know?" My daughter is off with friends most of the time. Yesterday was the last day she'd have until Christmas with her friend Katharine, whom she's known since kindergarten. Soon, it will be her last day with Sarah, Claire, Heather... and then it will be her last day with me. My friend Karen told me, "The August before I left for college, I screamed at my mother the whole month. Be prepared." I stand in the kitchen, watching Allie make a glass of iced tea. Her face, once so open and trusting, is closed to me. I struggle to think of something to say to her, something meaningful and warm. I want her to know I'm excited about the college she has chosen, that I know the adventure of her life is just starting and that I am proud of her. But the look on her face is so mad that I think she might slug me if I open my mouth. One night -- after a long period of silence between us -- I asked what I might have done or said to make her angry with me. She sighed and said, "Mom, you haven't done anything. It's fine." It is fine -- just distant. Somehow in the past we had always found some way to connect. When Allie was a toddler , I would go to the day- care center after work. I'd find a quiet spot and she would nurse -- our eyes locked together, reconnecting with each other. In middle school, when other mothers were already lamenting the estrangement they felt with their adolescent daughters, I hit upon a solution: rescue raids. I would show up occasionally at school, sign her out of class and take her somewhere -- out to lunch, to the movies, once for a long walk on the beach. It may sound irresponsible, but it kept us close when other mothers and daughters were floundering. We talked about everything on those outings -- outings we kept secret from family and friends. When she started high school, I'd get up with her in the morning to make her a sandwich for lunch, and we'd silently drink a cup of tea together before the 6:40 bus came. A couple of times during her senior year I went into her room at night, the light off, but before she went to sleep. I'd sit on the edge of her bed, and she'd tell me about problems: a teacher who lowered her grade because she was too shy to talk in class, a boy who teased her, a friend who had started smoking. Her voice, coming out of the darkness, was young and questioning. A few days later I'd hear her on the phone, repeating some of the things I had said, things she had adopted for her own. But now we are having two kinds of partings. I want the romanticized version, where we go to lunch and lean across the table and say how much we will miss each other. I want smiles through tears, bittersweet moments of reminiscence and the chance to offer some last bits of wisdom. But as she prepares to depart, Allie's feelings have gone underground. When I reach to touch her arm, she pulls away. She turns down every invitation I extend. She lies on her bed, reading Emily Dickinson until I say I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and then she closes the book. Some say the tighter your bond with your child, the greater her need to break away, to establish her own identity in the world. The more it will hurt, they say. A friend of mine who went through a difficult time with her daughter but now has become close to her again, tells me," Your daughter will be back to you." "I don't know," I say. I sometimes feel so angry that I want to go over and shake Allie. I want to say, "Talk to me -- or you're grounded!" I feel myself wanting to say that most horrible of all mother phrases: "Think of everything I've done for you." Late one night, as I'm getting ready for bed she comes to the bathroom door and watches me brush my teeth. For a moment, I think I must be brushing my teeth in a way she doesn't approve of. But then she says, "I want to read you something." It's a pamphlet from her college. "These are tips for parents." I watch her face as she reads the advice aloud: "'Don't ask your child if she is homesick,' it says. 'She might feel bad the first few weeks, but don't let it worry you. This is a natural time of transition. Write her letters and call her a lot. Send a package of goodies...' " Her voice breaks, and she comes over to me and buries her head in my shoulder. I stroke her hair, lightly, afraid she'll bolt if I say a word. We stand there together for long moments, swaying. Reconnecting. I know it will be hard again. It's likely there will be a fight about something. But I am grateful to be standing in here at midnight, both of us tried and sad, toothpaste smeared on my chin,  _ . 
 Answer: because Allie is anxious about talking about leaving
[EX A]:
Why was there a period of silence between the author and Allie one night?

