Shared Book Reading in a Sinhala-English Bilingual Family: Parent-Child Engagement Across Languages and Text Formats

Every child learns to read in two worlds: the formal classroom where letters are taught as rules, and the quiet, intimate space of the home where stories are shared. While schools focus on decoding words, the home environment offers something different: a social practice where an adult and a child sit together, turning pages, pointing at pictures, and talking about what they see. This shared book reading is widely recognized as a powerful engine for early language development, helping children build vocabulary, understand story structures, and feel a sense of connection to the written word. But for families who speak more than one language, this simple act becomes a complex, fluid dance of meaning-making. In these households, the story might be read in one language, while the explanation happens in another. The question researchers have long asked is how these bilingual families navigate this dual-language landscape. Does switching between languages confuse the child, or does it serve as a bridge? Does the format of the book—whether it is a traditional paper volume or a glowing digital screen—change how the family interacts?

To answer these questions, a researcher named Sumali Kuruppu Achchige turned her attention to a single family in Australia: a mother named Kelly and her two children, a son named Alex who was seven or eight years old, and a daughter named Olli who was five or six. This family represented a specific type of bilingual experience. English was the dominant language spoken in their home, the language of daily life and comfort, while Sinhala, the language of their heritage, was used occasionally by the parents. The family had a rich collection of over one hundred storybooks, and they regularly read together in the evenings. The researcher wanted to see exactly what happened when Kelly read with her children in different combinations: reading a paper book in English, a paper book in Sinhala, a digital story in English, and a digital story in Sinhala. By video-recording these sessions, she could observe the tiny, real-time choices the mother and children made as they moved through the stories.

What emerged from these recordings was a clear picture of how language and format shaped the conversation. When the family read in English, the dominant language, the conversations flowed easily into deep, extended discussions. Alex, the older boy, would look at a picture and predict what might happen next, offering complex reasons for his guesses. He and his mother would speculate about magical forces or the motives of characters, moving far beyond simply naming objects. Because English was the language they used most comfortably, it allowed them to stretch their thinking, making predictions, evaluating ideas, and exploring the "what if" scenarios of the story. The paper suggests that in this family, the dominant language provided the freedom to engage in this higher-level thinking, turning the reading session into a rich exercise in reasoning and imagination.

When the family switched to reading in Sinhala, the nature of the interaction changed, but it did not become less valuable. Instead, the mother, Kelly, began to use a different set of tools to keep the story alive. When Alex or Olli encountered a Sinhala word they did not know, Kelly would immediately shift into English to explain the meaning. She might read a phrase in Sinhala, then pause to say, "That means umbrella," or "That word is thief." This practice, known as code-switching, was not a sign of confusion or a lack of skill. Rather, it functioned as a scaffold, a temporary support that allowed the children to understand the story without losing their place. By using English as a bridge, Kelly ensured that the children remained engaged with the Sinhala text, accessing the cultural references and the plot without getting stuck on unfamiliar vocabulary. The study argues that this movement between languages is a resource, not a barrier, allowing the children to draw on their full linguistic knowledge to make sense of the story.

The format of the book also played a distinct role in how the children engaged with the text. When they read from traditional paper books, the children were more likely to focus on the physical features of the writing itself. Olli, the younger daughter, would point to the Sinhala letters and ask questions about how they were made. She wondered if keyboards had symbols for Sinhala, showing a curiosity about how the writing system worked and how it differed from the English she knew. The paper suggests that the tangible nature of print encouraged this kind of attention to the mechanics of writing, prompting the children to think about the symbols on the page as objects of inquiry.

Digital books, often feared for potentially reducing interaction, proved to be just as capable of sparking meaningful conversation when used with care. During one digital reading session in English, Olli noticed a sound pattern in the author's name that reminded her of the word "Sinhala." Her mother seized on this observation, connecting it to their family name and their heritage. This moment showed that the technology itself did not dictate the quality of the interaction; rather, it was the mother's responsiveness that turned a simple reading session into a deep dive into family identity. The digital text became a starting point for talk, just as the paper book had been, proving that the medium mattered less than the relationship between the reader and the listener.

Throughout all these sessions, the emotional connection between mother and children was the thread that held everything together. The children laughed, made expressive faces, and even corrected their mother when she misread a title. Olli once noticed that her mother had added an extra word to a book title and pointed it out with a laugh, showing that she was actively monitoring the story and participating in the event rather than just passively listening. These moments of humor and closeness were not separate from the learning; they were the very conditions that made the learning possible. The study suggests that when children feel safe, curious, and emotionally connected, they are more willing to ask questions, take risks with language, and engage deeply with the text.

The findings from this single family offer a quiet but powerful insight into how bilingual children learn. The research indicates that shared book reading in a bilingual home is not a rigid process of sticking to one language or the other. Instead, it is a flexible, responsive practice where parents and children move between languages to support understanding, connect stories to family memories, and build a love for reading. The mother's use of translation and code-switching helped her children access stories in a language they were still learning, while the dominant language allowed them to explore complex ideas. The study does not claim that this specific family represents every bilingual household, but it suggests that the fluid movement between languages is a valuable strategy for literacy development. It challenges the idea that reading must happen in a single language to be effective, showing instead that the ability to switch languages can be a strength that helps children make meaning, stay engaged, and feel a deep connection to their cultural heritage.