There was one question my mother, for her entire life, refused to answer. For this single query, despite her loquacious ways, she was a vault. She never gave in when pressed to offer even a hint. 

So, what was this question? 

A simple, but dangerous one that could break the strongest family ties: Who’s your favorite child? 

When asked, she would smile and laugh, and most often, her response was “I don’t have one.” 

Out of seven, she had a lot of kids to consider. Certainly, there was one that brought her the most joy, who made her laugh, who actually appreciated all she did for us. If there was, she didn’t show it. She had a good poker face. They say it’s impossible to not have a favorite, but if there was, we didn’t know it. 

Still, sometimes, with a glint in her eyes and her delighted grin, her answer to that question would be, “I’m not saying!” 

An admission! There was one! 

That was as close as we could get. She took the answer with her to heaven. 

Probably best. If a parent openly declared they preferred one child above all, there would be anarchy in the family ranks. The favored one would be disowned by siblings, and who knows what other discontent would simmer beneath the surface. The favorite, they say, can grow up feeling privileged and the others apparently prone to low esteem. Hmm. Perhaps there is something to it.

Rumor has it that my mom, the youngest of 10 raised in the Highwood Mountains in Montana, was the favored one of her parents. For sure, a relative told me, the most spoiled one.

If someone insisted I guess who was my mom’s favorite, I was convinced it was my younger sister, Nancy. She was the normal one out of all my brothers and sisters. She was smart, generous, kind and a good athlete. Everything I was not.

Many families have one of those shining stars. For ours, she was it. Just a year behind me all through school, she was quite annoying. I’m sure people must have wondered how we could really be related. I was a poor student who had a penchant for doing dumb things. Nancy won awards, became a teacher, wife and mother of three. She brought a lot of happiness to my parents and told them if they wanted, when they were older, they could move in with her family. She even had her husband renovate the downstairs to prepare it for them.

But my mom, who liked her independence, wasn’t keen on it. She would declare, “I’m not living in their basement." My father, however, was all for it and I believe it would have happened, but Nancy died at age 49 due to a brain tumor. 

My parents took her death hard. She brought them a lot of happiness. I suppose if any of us had the stuff to be the favorite child, Nancy had my vote. 

Secretly, I thought I had a shot at being my mom’s favorite child. We shared a lot of laughs and beers, played darts and liked country music. When we lived far apart, we talked often by phone. But, being cynical and sarcastic like my father, my mother often found me annoying.

“Oh, Billy,” she would declare. 

She liked to tease me later in life. She would ask me what pants size I wore and I would say, 30 x 30. She was skeptical and shook her head in disbelief.

"You're not a 30. You're more like a 34," and she would laugh, quite pleased with herself.

Like my mother, I don’t have a favorite child. Enjoy being with them all equally. Love them all equally. Proud of all five equally. I'm sure each of them would agree with my assessment.

Anyway, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

• • •

Bill Buley is assistant managing editor of The Coeur d’Alene Press. He can be reached at [email protected].