8th March, Diary Entry

When my sister and I were little, every International Women’s Day started the same way—a knock at the door and Dad’s voice asking, “Ladies, are you decent? May I come in?”

We’d shout back in our cotton nighties, insisting we were perfectly presentable, though we all knew the real reason for his visit. There were gifts waiting! He’d step inside, carrying two bouquets and identical boxes, each with the same doll inside.

Dad had tried giving us different presents once or twice, but that never ended well. I, the eldest, would sulk, convinced mine was smaller or uglier than Rebecca’s, while she—still in her nursery years—would wail that hers was deliberately lesser because she was “just a baby.” After one particularly dramatic double meltdown, Dad’s hair gained a few premature greys, and from then on, the gifts stayed perfectly matched.

To us, the 8th of March wasn’t about feminism or history—it was about the Most Important Man in the World arriving with flowers and boxes, congratulating us on… well, something. Back then, Dad was the only man in our lives (Grandad didn’t count—he was just sweet old Grandad). The one and only.

Years passed. Rebecca and I met other “Most Important Men,” ones who brought us bouquets and gifts on March mornings—though, in hindsight, they rarely lived up to the title. Eventually, the honour always found its way back to Dad. He wore it proudly, never breaking tradition, even if the gifts inside those identical boxes changed over time. The boxes themselves, though? Still the same.

Then Rebecca and I had sons—one each. Little future Important Men. And while they were growing, Dad kept up his March duties. Someone had to, didn’t they? His daughters still expected their flowers.

Somehow, my boy grew up too fast. When did he become someone else’s Most Important Man? Now, all I get on the 8th is a call: “Mum, happy Women’s Day! Don’t worry, I’m at Becca’s—I’ll see you Sunday.”

But—and this matters—that call only comes *after* Dad’s. After his familiar, “My dear lady, are you decent? Ready for visitors?”

Every woman deserves men in her life—real ones, with capital letters. Husbands, sons, brothers… But the *Most* Important? There’s only room for one. Doesn’t have to be a father. Not everyone has those. But there’s always someone.

For Rebecca and me? It’s Dad. To him, we’ll always be *His* Ladies.

Because the most important thing a woman can know is that she is loved.

Happy Women’s Day to all of us, loved and loving. And thank you—to our Most Important Men.