I have three children
I have three children: two sons and a daughter
The eldest of my children, a 20-year-old, stands out for his vibrant and fearless attitude. He holds a special place in my heart, just as all my children do, and I regard him with great respect. His sociable nature keeps him surrounded by friends, rarely at home, and his thought processes are a mystery to me. His expansive imagination is evident, though he often chooses to spend time away, such as on his mother’s birthday when he left with a friend and returned late. As the firstborn, we’ve shared many moments. His artistic talent is innate; he draws with a natural flair despite no formal training in art, and I’m pleased he’s pursuing an apprenticeship. His unique fashion choices, from the bell bottoms to the tight-fitting tops, set him apart in the neighbourhood. It’s perhaps his self-assurance that empowers him to pull off such distinctive attire with ease. His proficiency in English surpasses mine, a testament to the private education I was fortunate to provide. His self-assurance is a source of joy for me; I faced life without a father and a struggling mother at his age. It was spent as an office assistant, grappling with English, wearing shorts, and taking night classes to improve my language skills. He hasn’t quite grasped the importance of saving yet. The savings I had set aside for him, a mere ten rupees each month, have been entirely withdrawn; it was all I could manage. Now, those savings are gone, for he is constantly battling debts. On one occasion, he arrived home, supported by friends, in a state of drunkenness. I was taken aback, yet I kept my composure and saw his needs. It’s his time to flourish, and I must give him the space to enjoy his youth, a youth I did not have, unfortunately. I’ve come to accept his wild side, his skipping of Sunday mass, his smoking, and his coming home late in the night. Both are worries for his mother, the source of his frequent arguments with her. Observing him asleep, I’m reminded of the boy he once was, the child I cared for, now with a radio for company, oblivious to his father’s gaze.
Now, let me tell you about my second child, my only daughter, a sweet sixteen and the light of my life. She’s the treasure I hold dearest. Having longed for a daughter as our second child, my wife and I were graced with this joy. I diligently set aside fifty rupees for her monthly in a savings account. The thought of her future marriage is daunting, but my fervent wish is for her to complete her education, excel in her Higher Secondary Certificate, and carve out her path. This aspiration, I believe, is shared by her mother. My wife is her primary caregiver, guiding her through sewing and homemaking lessons. Though she may not have her brother’s fluency in English, she is making strides in learning from him. She stands with the stature of her mother, her complexion a gentle hue, not as fair as her brother’s but still radiant. My pride in her is immense. Her beauty is becoming more apparent each day. To the surprise of many, she is often mistaken for the eldest, overshadowing her brother, who is four years and eight months her senior. My apprehensions for her are distinct from those for my sons; a daughter’s welfare is often seen as a father’s charge. In time, I’ll need to find an honourable match for her and lead her down the aisle. I pray for the strength to do so when that day dawns.
My youngest son, the final gem in our family crown, is a mere twelve years old. Any book you hand him becomes a treasure in his hands. His complexion may be darker than his elder brothers, yet he holds a special place in our hearts, as often with the youngest. He’s quiet, always heeding our guidance, starkly contrasting to his brother. It’s hard to predict what changes the next eight years might bring. He is going to be the tallest in the family. Excelling academically, he’s the scholar among his siblings, and his innate talent for mathematics is a delightful mystery. A chess prodigy, he outsmarts adults, and while he admires his seldom-seen brother, he carves his path. Though he could easily shine in the spotlight, I keep him sheltered. He’s likely to be the last to venture out, perhaps even the one to care for us in our twilight years — though it’s not something I expect. Like his brother, he deserves to embrace life in all its fullness. Now, I’m concerned about how his eye injury will impact him. I still feel awful that I wasn’t there when the accident happened. If I had been there, I would have rushed him to the eye hospital. This guilt is something I carry with me, but perhaps that’s why my love for him burns even brighter.
Created from excerpts from Don Thomas Jayasinghe (1926–2002)
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