Nepo babies come in many shapes, but fashion nepo babies are the worst of all

As a teenage boy, he wasn’t a direct beneficiary of her treasure trove of post-modern garments. Rather, he displayed subtler signs of advantage. She didn’t lend him those Tabis, but she did donate her understanding of personal style and attention to detail. Despite being imprisoned in a school uniform for most of the week, he somehow figured out exactly how his pants should hit his sneakers and the ideal length of a T-shirt.

It didn’t take me long to realise that having a mum who shopped at stores that handwrote receipts signified more than wealth. Sure, their family had money, but not a shocking amount. What they did have in abundance was respect for lovely things.

His mum’s wardrobe was more the product of a lifetime of good choices than an overflowing bank account. She shopped thoughtfully, took care of her clothes, stored them well and was patient enough to let them hibernate until they came back in style. It’s been years since I saw her son, but I’d bet that over the passing decades, he has accumulated his own archaeological fashion record.

Sadly, I’m not a fashion nepo baby. (Apologies to my mum if you’re reading this. You look great, but Suzanne Grae is not my style.) I do, however, hope to raise one. My daughter is two years old and so far, her fashion tastes skew more monster trucks than Margiela. And while I buy most of her clothes from op shops (knowing they’ll be caked in playdough and muesli bars by midday) her presence has shifted how I think about my own possessions.

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I’ve always loved clothes but never really looked after them. Many beautiful, carefully saved-for “investment” pieces fell prey to overfilled wine glasses or cheap deodorant. But since having my daughter I’ve noticed myself carefully folding jumpers, returning shoes to their dust bags and buying wooden hangers. All these items have become artefacts.

When she was born, I bought a vintage Gucci watch and imagined her wearing it. She loves my colourful Shrimps bag (a gift from her dad). I let her play with it but put it away carefully in case she eventually keeps it. No one gave me that Burberry trench coat. But hopefully, she appreciates the vintage one I spent years searching for.

I can’t give her a famous name or a trust fund, but I can give her a lot of beautiful clothes. And for now, she’s given me the best gift of all: an excuse to splurge on investment pieces. At this stage they’re practically our family history.

Wendy Syfret is a freelance writer and author of The Sunny Nihilist: How a meaningless life can make you truly happy.