"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.

“可我要再把胳膊给摔断了怎么办?”我五岁的女儿问道，她的下唇颤抖着。我跪着抓稳了她的自行车，直视着她的眼睛。我很明白她非常想学会骑车。多少次了，她的朋友们踩车经过我们家时，她感到给抛下。可自从上次她从自行车上摔下来，把胳膊给摔断之后，她对车便敬而远之。

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

“噢，亲爱的。”我说，“我不认为你会把另一只胳膊给摔断的。”

"But I could, couldn't I?"

“但有可能，不是吗?”

"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，”我承认道，使劲想找出些道理来说。每逢此时，我便希望自己有人可依靠。一个可以说出正确道理、帮我的小女儿解决难题的人。可经过一场可悲的婚姻和痛苦的离婚后，我倾向于当个单身母亲，并且我还态度坚决地告诉每个要给我介绍对象的人说我要抱定终身不嫁。

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

“我不想学了。”她说着，下了自行车。

We walked away and sat down beside a tree.

我们走到一旁，坐在一颗树旁。

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

“难道你不想和朋友们一起骑车吗?”我问。

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

“而且我还以为你希望明年踩着车回去上学呢。”我补充道。

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

“我是希望。”她说，声音有点颤。

"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?"