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

We’d shout back from under our cotton nightgowns that yes, of course we were decent—so hurry up and come in already! Besides, we knew exactly what was coming: presents!

Dad would step into our room with two bouquets of flowers and two identical boxes, each holding the same doll inside. He’d tried giving us different gifts a couple of times, but quickly learned his lesson—my older sister (that’s me) would sulk, convinced she’d been short-changed, certain that Maisie’s doll was bigger, prettier, and altogether superior. Meanwhile, little Maisie would wail that she was clearly the less-favourite child, doomed forever to tiny dolls that underscored her status as the baby.

After one particularly spectacular double meltdown, Dad went slightly greyer and resolved, from then on, to stick with identical presents.

So Maisie and I grew up absolutely certain of one thing: March 8th was the day the Most Important Man in the World would arrive at our door with flowers and boxes, ready to congratulate us on… well, whatever the occasion was. Frankly, the holiday itself didn’t matter. All that mattered was the man with the flowers and gifts.

Back then, Dad was the only man in our lives (Granddad didn’t count—he wasn’t a *man*, obviously, just a sweet old granddad, don’t be ridiculous). The one and only. The main one.

Then the years passed.

Maisie and I both found other “Most Important Men”—blokes who’d bring us flowers and gifts on March 8th. But time and again, we’d realise we’d handed out the title too soon. They never quite lived up to it. Some didn’t even qualify as proper men at all, let alone *important* ones.

So the title always circled back to Dad. He wore it with quiet pride, never straying from the tradition of matching boxes. The gifts inside might vary now, but the boxes themselves—bloody hell—still had to be the same!

Eventually, Maisie and I each had sons of our own. Just one apiece. Tiny little Most Important Men in the making. And while they grew, Dad kept up his March 8th duties—because honestly, when else were these boys going to be old enough to take over? His girls still expected their flowers and boxes.

My son grew up far too fast. One day, without me even noticing, he’d gone and become someone else’s Most Important Man. Now, on March 8th, all I get is a phone call: “Happy Mother’s Day, Mum! Don’t worry, I’m at Maisie’s—I’ll be back Sunday.”

But.

That call only ever comes *after* Dad’s. After his usual knock and the question, “My lady, are you decent? Ready for visitors?”

Every woman ought to have Men in her life. Proper ones. With a capital M. Husbands, sons, brothers… But there’s only room for one *Most* Important. Doesn’t have to be Dad. Not everyone has a dad. Or brothers. Or sons. But every woman has someone who’s Hers.

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

For Maisie and me, that’s Dad. The man for whom we’ve always been—and always will be—His Ladies.

Because the most important thing for any woman is knowing she’s truly loved.

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

And thank you to our Most Important Men.