"But what if I break my arm again?" my five year-old daughter asked, her lower lip trembling. I knelt holding onto her bike and looked her right in the eyes. I knew how much she wanted to learn to ride. How often she felt left out when her friends pedaled by our house. Yet ever since she'd fallen off her bike and broken her arm, she'd been afraid.

“可我要再把胳膊給摔斷了怎么辦?”我五歲的女兒問道，她的下唇顫抖著。我跪著抓穩了她的自行車，直視著她的眼睛。我很明白她非常想學會騎車。多少次了，她的朋友們踩車經過我們家時，她感到給拋下。可自從上次她從自行車上摔下來，把胳膊給摔斷之后，她對車便敬而遠之。

"Oh honey," I said. "I don't think you'll break another arm."

“噢，親愛的。”我說，“我不認為你會把另一只胳膊給摔斷的。”

"But I could, couldn't I?"

“但有可能，不是嗎?”

"Yes," I admitted, and found myself struggling for the right thing to say. At times like this, I wished I had a partner to turn to. Someone who might help find the right words to make my little girl's problems disappear. But after a disastrous marriage and a painful divorce, I'd welcomed the hardships of being a single parent and had been adamant in telling anyone who tried to fix me up that I was terminally single.

“是的，”我承認道，使勁想找出些道理來說。每逢此時，我便希望自己有人可依靠。一個可以說出正確道理、幫我的小女兒解決難題的人。可經過一場可悲的婚姻和痛苦的離婚后，我傾向于當個單身母親，并且我還態度堅決地告訴每個要給我介紹對象的人說我要抱定終身不嫁。

"I don't think I want to ride," she said and got off her bike.

“我不想學了。”她說著，下了自行車。

We walked away and sat down beside a tree.

我們走到一旁，坐在一顆樹旁。

"Don't you want to ride with your friends?" I asked.

“難道你不想和朋友們一起騎車嗎?”我問。

"And I thought you were hoping to start riding your bike to school next year," I added.

“而且我還以為你希望明年踩著車回去上學呢。”我補充道。

"I was," she said, her voice almost a quiver.

“我是希望。”她說，聲音有點顫。

"You know, hon," I said. "Most everything you do comes with risks. You could get a broken arm in a car wreck and then be afraid to ever ride in a car again. You could break your arm jumping rope. You could break your arm at gymnastics. Do you want to stop going to gymnastics?"