Growing up, I thought being “the favorite” was supposed to feel good. My parents, my grandparents, even my aunts and uncles said it so often it became a running joke. “Of course you get the biggest slice—you’re the favorite.” “No wonder you always win—you’re Grandma’s favorite.” At first, I laughed along. Then, I started to feel guilty. Why me? Why not my siblings? Still, I told myself it was just affection, just teasing. Until one night, when I overheard the real reason—and the word “favorite” became something I wished I’d never heard again.
It was Thanksgiving. The house was crowded, the air thick with the smell of turkey and cinnamon. I slipped away to the hallway, scrolling through my phone, when I heard my mom and aunt whispering in the kitchen.
“She doesn’t know, does she?” my aunt asked.
“No,” Mom said quickly. “She can’t. Not yet.”
I froze, my heart thudding.
“She’s always been treated differently,” my aunt continued. “The others notice. It’s not fair.”
Mom’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What else was I supposed to do? It’s not her fault. It’s his.”
I leaned closer, my palms sweating. Who was he?
My aunt sighed. “One day she’ll find out. And when she does, she’ll hate us.”
The floor creaked under me, and they fell silent. I ducked into the bathroom, my mind racing.
That night, after everyone left, I confronted Mom. “Why do you call me the favorite?” I asked, my voice trembling. She stiffened, her smile fading. “Oh, honey, it’s just a joke.”
“No, it’s not,” I snapped. “I heard you talking. You said it’s not my fault. You said it’s his. Whose fault? What are you hiding?”
Her hands shook as she gripped the counter. For a long moment, I thought she wouldn’t answer. Then she whispered, “Your father isn’t your father.”
The world tilted. “What?”
She looked at me, tears brimming in her eyes. “I was young. I made a mistake. I got pregnant before I met him. He knew, but we never told anyone. We raised you as his, but… you’re not.”
My breath caught. “So that’s why I’m the favorite? Because I’m different?”
Her silence was worse than any answer.
I ran upstairs, slamming my door, my chest aching. The word that had followed me my whole life—favorite—suddenly felt like a brand. Not because I was loved more, but because I was a secret.
The next time I saw my siblings, I couldn’t look at them the same. Did they know? Did they suspect? My brother had once joked, “You must be adopted or something.” At the time, I laughed. Now, it cut deep.
Mom swore she’d wanted to tell me sooner, but every year the lie grew bigger, heavier. And all the while, the family’s teasing about me being the favorite wasn’t affection—it was resentment. They saw me as different, too. They just didn’t know why.
Now, every time I hear the word, it stings. Favorite doesn’t mean cherished. It means other.
Final Thought
We think being someone’s favorite is a blessing, a sign of love. But sometimes it’s just a cover for the truth—a truth too heavy to say out loud. I wasn’t the favorite because I was special. I was the favorite because I was a secret. And secrets don’t make families stronger. They make them break.
