I have an aunt who would ask me all the time, “Am I your favourite?”
I have a lot of aunts. She wanted, it seems, to stand out distinguished among them.
(Though there are a lot of aunts, they are not interchangeable, but the issue seems to be hers exclusively.)
As time passed, the questioned changed:
“Who’s your favourite?”
And changed again:
“I’m your favourite, right?”
“Tell them who your favourite is.”
“No,” “Why,” “I don’t know” did not deter her from asking her question, and neither did “Yes.”
“Yes,” as you can see, was what led to further questions until the inevitable “tell them.”
(NOTE: “I don’t have a favourite,” was met with disbelief and scorn, and also the equally predictable demands for a “real” answer. Demands for “the truth.”)
The truth is this: I no longer speak to that aunt. Not anymore than I have to, anyway. Which is to say not a lot. Which is to say not much.
Funny now, looking back on things. Funny the lengths we go through, the trouble and expense, to define something for others on behalf of ourselves.
Among other things, “favourite” means “chosen”, “preferred”, and “cherished.”
No longer speaking to my aunt is my choice, it is my preference and something I have come to cherish.