The honest truth
It’s natural to prefer one child to another, but can you ever admit it? Even to yourself, asks Tess Stimson
Last week, as I sat writing the first draft of my new novel at my desk, a snatch of conversation drifted from the garden through the open window.
‘Henry’s definitely Mum’s favourite,’ my daughter, Lily, 19, was saying. ‘It’s so obvious.’ ‘No way!’ my son, Matt, 24, retorted. ‘It’s definitely you, Lily. You’re the girl.’
Henry, 27, laughed. ‘Are you kidding? It’s you, Matt. She loves it when you write her those long letters about what a great mum she is every Christmas.’
As my three children moved out of earshot, I sat frozen at my desk, taken aback by what I’d overheard.
Like most parents, I’d always bent over backwards to ensure I treated my offspring equally.
I spent the same on each of them at Christmas and birthdays, attended all their school recitals and sports events, even when it meant leaving one thing halfway through to get to another, and I scrupulously divided my attention equally between them.
In fact, many years ago, I wrote an article discussing my favourite child and told my children about it. ‘You mean me!’ each of them had said confidently.
So I felt that I had done something right – although clearly that isn’t the case any more! But the truth is, while I love them all, I do have a favourite.
Admitting you prefer one of your children over the others is one of the last parental taboos. Admitting it is more contentious than admitting you smoked while pregnant, more shocking than wishing aloud you’d never had children in the first place.
But while most parents will never admit it, even to themselves, many secretly have a child they like best.
A lesson learnt
My own parents made no secret of the fact they favoured me, the firstborn of three children.
I was an easy baby, and became a hard-working, self-motivated child. I got into the University of Oxford, then carved out a successful career as a journalist and bestselling novelist.
Meanwhile, my younger sister Philippa was a sickly child and my mother developed severe postnatal depression after she was born. Her triumphs – she excelled at athletics – paled into insignificance in my parents’ eyes when compared with my academic achievements. It seemed the only way she ever got my parents’ attention was for the things she did wrong. Philippa fell behind at school, leaving when she was just 16, and later married and divorced three times.
My brother Charles, the baby of the family, struggled with mental health issues and caused my parents sle
