英语翻译I was 10 the year my cousin Marley’s parents gave her a

英语翻译
I was 10 the year my cousin Marley’s parents gave her a painful Christmas surprise:They were getting a divorce.Off went my aunt to California,but my uncle decided to woo her back.There was one pesky matter:where to deposit his young daughter.Fortunately,my mother adored Marley,giving her more attention than her folks ever did.Life in my family was harsh with arguments,mostly about money.But Marley’s family was chaotic—her father so restless they moved every year.I was the one friend she could never lose.We were raised virtually as sisters,sharing secrets,sweaters,conflicts and crushes.On that Christmas Eve morning in 1967,my cousin arrived on our doorstep carrying an old blue American Tourister suitcase.Before she stepped inside,Marley said,“It doesn’t matter.When my parents come back,we’ll have a bigger Christmas than this.” Even as a little kid,I knew enough to say nothing.That year,my father had built a shop for his plumbing business on Chicago’s West Side,with our apartment above it.After 30 years,he’d finally nudged our family up into the lower middle class.My little brother and I were thrilled to put handprints on our very own driveway.But no one had to tell us that Christmas would be sparse.Late on the night Marley arrived,my mom came into my room,her arms filled with packages wrapped in red foil with gold trumpets.“What do you think these are?” she asked.I knew they were my Christmas presents.She sat down on the bed.“I know how you love surprises,but we have to decide which ones to give to Marley.I think you should be the one to choose.” I gulped.My mother carefully opened the gifts.And,oh,what I had received!New figure skates,red leather gloves and a dollhouse with miniature furniture that my mother,with her fairy fingers,had made from sculptor’s clay.I was too old for dollies,but I still loved them.The last present,however,made me gasp.It was the green-leather music box we’d asked the lady at the local store to take down and play for us over and over again,the one with the ballerina inside who whirled to what was already one of my favorite melodies:“Clair de Lune.” “Which ones?” my mother asked.

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