It could have been any of us, but it happened to be me. A brief 18 months of undivided attention and love as the only child, before three more appeared. The second was a severe blow. No doubt, learning the need to share was important, but I had tasted the life of an only child.
Then came years of requests to look after a younger sibling, exhortations of, “You should be setting a better example,” seeing the others getting away with stuff I didn’t. We each played our roles: the naughty second one who later skipped school to meet boys; the ever so charming third, the boy who could do no wrong; and finally the surprise appearance of the fourth, destined to be spoiled even now. So that left me: the sensible, quiet one who got the grades, did the homework and became a chameleon – skilled at reading a situation and being what was needed.
Then eventually came the chance to be the first to leave and sample life on the outside, not defined by being the eldest. The moment I had waited for. But now, many years later, being the eldest matters again. It’s down to me, it seems, to take the lead in caring for our parents. Everything I was made to learn about sharing no longer seems to apply. The others are too busy, too far away, too unconcerned. So dutifully I crisscross the country for hours to provide care and support. Requests to my siblings to help out more fall on deaf ears. To me, the dutiful first born, it feels like the right and only thing to do: to be there for our parents as they were for us. Sadly, that feeling isn’t shared by the second, third or fourth.
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