The ‘bonus’ child
I was a seemingly humorous “accident,” but no one is ever an accident.
My siblings used to joke that I was an unexpected child. My birth shocked my parents, who were content with having two kids. For humor’s sake, I called myself the “bonus child.” I was an addition to the family, one they didn’t originally plan for. I have a huge age gap with my siblings, as I’m still in college while they’re already establishing their own cultures in their respective homes.
When my siblings got married, my parents didn’t live by the ideas of the older generations. Ideas in established cultures where parents treat their children as retirement plans or instant cash grabs. Some may have children just for the sake of having someone to take care of them when they get old. Fortunately, my parents didn’t want to burden my siblings with obligations. Instead, they made sure our home was steady enough to welcome them and their families for spontaneous dinners.
Whenever I asked my parents why we couldn’t visit Kuya and Ate as much as we wanted, they always said, “May sarili na silang pamilya (They already have their own family).” Thus, whenever my siblings messaged that they would drop by the house, a quiet excitement lingered in the rooms. My parents always waited eagerly in the living room. Mama would be by her chair near the TV, crocheting a hairpin for her granddaughter. Papa would peek through the screen door every now and then, waiting for their car to arrive.
With the new family dynamic settled, my responsibility changed as well. I was no longer the youngest child waiting to be coddled by Ate or Kuya. I was the one who had to carry my parents’ burdens as well. Conversations about finances, unlikable future plans, and the reality of declining health were all topics laid out in kitchen dinners that I was now becoming a part of. To my surprise, I was no longer the helpless “bunso” (youngest) in their eyes.
Whenever one of them got sick, the responsibility no longer fell on my siblings; it fell on me. I was the one who needed to go to Mercury Drug to buy Biogesic and Lola Remedios. I had to cook lunch and prepare dinner whenever Mama wasn’t feeling well enough to cook.
Before my siblings got married, I lived by the name “bonus child.” Always a bystander, one who always witnessed the burdens but never took an active role to share them. Whenever the family conversations were spiked with tension, I could always curl up by the sofa, hoping Ate would distract me. Or, I could wait for Kuya to take me out for a spontaneous midnight snack at Wendy’s. We would quietly eat a sundae near the gasoline station while the soft prick of gasoline entered our noses.
After my siblings got married, the house fell silent. It wasn’t silence that you could fill with music or small talk; it was an inevitable and unavoidable silence that seeped through every corner of the house. The empty rooms seemed to whisper to me, telling me the burdens now fell on me. For the first few months, it felt like the rooms mocked me. The peeling blue wallpaper in Kuya’s room seemed to taunt me, further fostering an attitude of self-pity. Then, after a year or so, it felt more like a call to responsibility than mockery.
That realization came with constant struggle. The burden had shifted to me. I’ve reached an age where my parents and I are both emotionally heightened. Accusations slip quickly, pride infests us all, and double standards are an unspoken principle often practiced. However, apologies come. We could always try again.
I’ve found my purpose in my home, and that is to share the burdens with my family. I could no longer hide behind someone else. I have to pull up my sleeves every now and then. It’s not all forced on my plate in the hopes I can chew and choke it all up. It came slowly with the shaking hands of my parents.
This burden is a privilege, a responsibility that is hard to harness and control. It is a deeply difficult burden to die to yourself and live for someone else. It is arduous to learn to be okay with inconvenience because someone else needs you. It is heavy to sit down and learn to answer difficult conversations because no one else is going to shield you from it. However, like the lasting impressions left by my siblings, I should consciously care and purposely love my parents. Loving someone is always difficult because of clashing differences and off days. It’s not supposed to be easy. It never will be.
It seems I’ve outgrown my name, “bonus child.” There is now purpose in movement, one I didn’t find in isolation. No one will ever be a “bonus child.” One’s presence extends beyond the names we give to our younger selves. We come up with more meaningful ones when we are challenged and dared to grow. I was sewn into their lives by a Heavenly Father. I am not an accident; I am where I am meant to be.
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Miciel Cabalatungan, 18, is the youngest in her family and a first-year college student.
