Editing

Dear Teachers, could you please edit my paragraphs?

I was born in a family of six: my mom and father, my older sister and brother, my younger sister and I. Unfortunately, my opportunity of ever meeting my brother was dashed by his early death. Doubtless, my parents’ hearts never stopped grieving the death of their only son.
In my childhood memories' chamber, vividly I still see my mom attending with love and care to us children, cooking on our wood-burning stove, washing by hand and ironing our clothes, labouring in the garden, swinging an axe high in the air to split some wood, and the list goes on. From a very early age my sisters and I were recruited as our mom’s helpers. On the other hand, my father worked away from home and his image rarely I saw.
A brick one-story house we called our home. The interior of the house was divided into one tiny kitchen, two equally small bedrooms, one long, narrow hallway, and a square-shaped pantry. I did not mention a bathroom for there was no one until I was about10 years old. Instead of running water there was a bottomless well located right behind the house. Our household was free of appliance like a dryer, washing machine, electric stove, telephone, radio, computer. Nevertheless, we had a black and white TV. More often than not, our TV was deadly sick. For example, its voice was gone or its screen was pitch-black. There was always something wrong with it and to have it repaired was very expensive. So our TV was just a black aged box with a big, glass belly.
Among all the rooms, the most frequently occupied one was the kitchen. No surprise there, for it served multiple purposes. Besides being the kitchen it was also our living room, our dining room, our guest room, and our study room. On cold winter days we had no choice but huddle around the red-hot wood-burning stove in the kitchen for it was the only room heated in the whole house. In the center of the kitchen stood an enormous table. On it everything but fancy food was served. However, we were happy whenever there was enough food to banish hunger from our tummies. Our everyday menu consisted of a lot of bread and small portions of cooked beans or cooked potatoes or cooked cabbage, and sometimes milk, cheese and eggs. A piece of bread spread with a thin layer of lard and sprinkled with paprika was a treat. High prices of meat made its appearance on our table very scarce. In late spring, summer and fall our meals were enriched with fresh vegetables supplied from our garden and fruit from trees surrounding our house.
Thanks to our neighbor’s son, who lived in Germany, I got to enjoy the scrumptious milk chocolate once a year. You can’t even imagine how much I looked forward to his coming home. The night before his arrival I could not even get a wink of sleep. In the morning, his car, parked just across our house, would make my heart swell with indescribable joy. I knew that my year-long patient waiting would be rewarded very soon. Upon getting a chocolate bar I would examine it, smell it, admire it, then open it ever cautiously without ripping the paper. Very carefully I would brake off one square, no more no less, and melt it on the stove. In my child’s mind I thought melting chocolate resulted into having more chocolate. Putting a small piece of melted, hot chocolate into my mouth and feeling it slide down my throat was a divine experience. For ever, one chocolate bar lasted me. And once it was gone there was the shiny paper to remind me of that blissful experience. I will never forget my neighbor’s son for if it had not been for him I would have never tasted chocolate as a child. Chocolate was a luxury of my childhood.

Thank you very, very much for your help,
Spring