When my sister and I were little, every March 8th began with a knock at the door and a question: “Ladies, are you decent? May I come in?”

The ladies in cotton nightdresses would shout back that they were absolutely decent, so of course he could come in—especially since we knew he had presents!

Into our room came Dad, two bouquets of flowers, and two identical boxes, each holding the same doll.

Dad had tried a couple of times to give us different gifts, but quickly learned that wasn’t the best idea. The elder daughter (that’s me) would feel cruelly shortchanged, convinced that Emily’s doll was bigger, better, and altogether superior. Meanwhile, the younger one (that’s my sister Emily) always believed she was secretly unloved, and that the tiny dolls were deliberately chosen to remind her she was still just a nursery-school child.

After weathering one particularly spectacular double meltdown—Dad emerged with a few premature grey hairs—he resolved to stick strictly to identical gifts from then on.

And so, Emily and I grew up believing that March 8th was simply the day when the Most Important Man in the World arrived with flowers and boxes and words of congratulations.

What the holiday actually meant didn’t matter. For us, it was the day the Most Important Man with Flowers and Gifts came calling.

Back then, Dad was the only man in our lives (Grandad didn’t count—he wasn’t a *man*, he was just an old grandad, don’t you understand?). The one and only. The Most Important.

Then the years passed.

Emily and I found other Most Important Men—ones who brought flowers and gifts on March 8th. But somehow, every time, we’d realise too late that we’d handed out the title too soon. They never quite lived up to it. Certainly never stayed Important.

So the title always returned to Dad. He wore it proudly, unshaken in his tradition of identical boxes—even if the gifts inside began to differ. The boxes themselves, damn it all, *had* to match!

Eventually, Emily and I each had sons. Only one apiece. Tiny Most Important Men. And as they grew, Dad kept up his March 8th duties—because honestly, how long until the replacements were ready? His daughters still expected their flowers and boxes.

My son grew up far too quickly. I barely had time to notice when he suddenly became someone else’s Most Important Man. Now, on March 8th, I get only a phone call: “Mum, happy Women’s Day! Don’t worry, I’m at Emily’s. Be back Sunday.”

But—

But that call only comes *after* the one from Dad, asking: “My lady, are you decent? Ready for visitors?”

…Every woman should have a Man in her life. A proper one. Capital M. Husbands, sons, brothers. But there can only ever be one *Most* Important. It doesn’t have to be Dad. Not everyone has a dad. Or brothers. Or sons. But everyone has *someone*.

The one who, for years and decades, starts the morning of March 8th.

For Emily and me, it’s our father. For whom we have always been—and always will be—His Ladies.

Because the most important thing for any woman is to know she is truly loved.

Happy Women’s Day to all of us, the loved and the loving.

And thank you—to our Most Important Men.