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.

    “Oh honey，” I said. “I don‘t think you’ll break another arm.”

    “But I could， couldn‘t I？”

    “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.

    “I don‘t think I want to ride，” she said and got off her bike.

    We walked away and sat down beside a tree.

    “Don‘t you want to ride with your friends？” I asked.

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

    “I was，” she said， her voice almost a quiver.

    “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？”

    “No，” she said. And with a determined spirit， she stood up and agreed to try again. I held on to the back of her bike until she found the courage to say， “Let‘s go！”

    I spent the rest of the afternoon at the park watching a very brave little girl overcome a fear， and congratulating myself for being a self-sufficient single parent.

    As we walked home， pushing the bike as we made our way along the sidewalk， she asked me about a conversation she‘d overheard me having with my mother the night before.

    “Why were you and grandma arguing last night？”

    My mother was one of the many people who constantly tried to fix me up. How many times had I told her “no” to meeting the Mr. Perfect she picked out for me. She just knew Steve was the man for me.

    “It‘s nothing，” I told her.

    She shrugged. “Grandma said she just wanted you to find someone to love.”

    “What grandma wants is for some guy to break my heart again，” I snapped， angry that my mother had said anything about this to my daughter.

    “But Mom.”

    “You‘re too young to understand，” I told her.

    She was quiet for the next few minutes. Then she looked up and in a small voice gave me something to think about.

    “So I guess love isn‘t like a broken arm.”

    Unable to answer， we walked the rest of the way in silence. When I got home， I called my mother and scolded her for talking about this to my daughter. Then I did what I‘d seen my brave little girl do that very afternoon. I let go and agreed to meet Steve.

    Steve was the man for me. We married less than a year later. It turned out mother and my daughter were right.

    “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(wěn)了她的自行車，直視著她的眼睛。我很明白她非常想學(xué)會騎車。多少次了，她的朋友們踩車經(jīng)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。

    “噢，親愛的。”我說，“我不認(rèn)為你會把另一只胳膊給摔斷的。”

    “但有可能，不是嗎？”

    “是的，”我承認(rèn)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(jīng)過一場可悲的婚姻和痛苦的離婚后，我傾向于當(dāng)個單身母親，并且我還態(tài)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。

    “我不想學(xué)了。”她說著，下了自行車。

    我們走到一旁，坐在一顆樹旁。

    “難道你不想和朋友們一起騎車嗎？”我問。

    “想。”她承認(rèn)。

    “而且我還以為你希望明年踩著車回去上學(xué)呢。”我補充道。

    “我是希望。”她說，聲音有點顫。

    “知道嗎，寶貝。”我說，“很多要做的事情都是帶有風(fēng)險的。汽車失事也會折斷胳膊，那么你就算再坐在車上也會害怕。跳繩也有可能折斷胳膊。做體操也有可能折斷胳膊。你連體操也想不練了嗎？”

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