Why I wish I wasn't my parents' favourite child - being the golden girl comes with a lot of pressure

Journalist Clare O’Reilly stole the title of 'favourite child' from her brother - but 30 years later she's starting to regret it.

Ask any younger sibling and they’ll ‘fess up to being competitive with their kin. I’m certainly guilty as charged when it comes to my older brother Michael – I can recall with startling clarity the exact moment he went from being my lovely big brother to competition that needed to be crushed and annihilated.

It was a Sunday afternoon circa 1991. I was complaining to my mum Irene about my maths homework, which Michael always found easy. She lovingly told me it didn’t matter that I wasn’t as good at maths as my brother, because I was good at sports.

I know she was trying to make me feel better, to show that each and every one of us has different areas in which we excel. But while she intended to build my confidence, when I caught her proud look at my brother and his ‘top set’ smile back, it made my ‘bottom set’ blood boil.

While I tried to feign ambivalence, it ignited a spark of competition – a ‘win at all costs’ attitude where I wouldn’t rest until I was my parents’ favourite. It took a year or two to topple him from the top spot and take his ‘favourite child’ mantle, and I’ve retained the title since then. I’m successful and happy now but, growing up, Michael was the one that thrived while I sat awkwardly in his shadow. He was funny, smart, charismatic and popular. I was painfully shy, lanky and awkward. Yes, I was good at sport but outside of that I struggled.

Operation Favourite Child kicked in that Sunday in 1991 and while I’m sure I’m still my parent’s favourite – something my long-suffering brother likes to remind me of frequently – it’s become a title that I wish he’d try and wrestle back from me.

In all honesty, I’m not sure I want to be their favourite anymore, but I can’t face the failure that’ll come with letting my brother usurp me.

Both mum and dad would vehemently want me to point out here that they never, ever compared us. They accepted that we were different kids and have become different adults. I’ve conferred with my brother for the purposes of transparency and both of us are subjected to around five minutes per phone call on what our opposition has been achieving and what important things have been going on at their job.

My brother has a high-flying executive job, and I’m a national newspaper journalist and bestselling ghostwriter. We’re both successful in our own spheres but while he might land six-figure deals for his company, mum’s bragging rights about the fact that I’ve interviewed Sir Keir Starmer or that another project has made it to be a bestseller, edge his achievements in her mind. When it comes to jobs, mum’s simply more impressed with mine – quite possibly because it’s easier to understand than my brother’s.

I’ve got three kids to my brother’s one. Not that it’s a competition but if it was, the fact that I literally have triple the kids that he does means I’d win. Mine are older too, which means I started the whole parenting journey earlier than he did, despite being younger, and made mum and dad grandparents first – a role that they both utterly adore – another tick in my column. Then there's our houses.

His stunning two-bedroom, 17th-century cottage is charming and gorgeous, but mum prefers our spacious, four-bedroom detached house because it’s less than a minute away from the beach in Devon.

My brother has started Couch to 5k around seven times now; I run marathons and ultra marathons which mum is incredibly proud of, and dad likes to tell everyone all about it, from the bloke who comes to read their meter to the postie.

The issue is, being the favourite has come with a fair amount of pressure over the decades since the 1990s, and occasionally I wish I could relieve the encumbrance that I’m under to stay high-achieving and to maintain the image of perfection that mum and dad have of me.

When my brother has a bad day at work, he thinks nothing of offloading on the phone to mum on his commute home – a call he makes daily, another blindingly obvious attempt to become the favourite, if you ask me. When I have a bad day at work, however, I gloss over it and never mention anything downbeat. I plaster on a smile before FaceTiming, lest I burst their bubble that my life and career are all sweetness and roses.

When Michael struggles with a parenting issue, he asks mum’s advice and bemoans his son’s behaviour. Meanwhile, I only show and tell mum and dad about the good things the kids have done. Not for a second would I tell them how much hand-wringing I’ve done about my middle one’s penchant for detentions.

I could be honest and tell mum my life isn’t actually as perfect as she sees it, but I know that it would only cause her to worry as much about me as she does about my brother. I didn’t know when I stole Michael’s crown as a child that it would come with sacrificing honesty, not to mention the pressure to keep my game face on for more than 30 years. Frankly, I’m exhausted!

If I had known in 1991 what living as the favourite would be like, I’d possibly have let Michael keep the title, and have had a more relaxing existence, with less pressure.

Yet here I am – favourite child numero uno – still high–achieving, still basking in the glow of utter adoration from my parents, yet sometimes wondering what it would be like to slum it with my brother in the cheap seats of being the second favourite.