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

We, the ladies in our cotton nightdresses, would shout back that we were absolutely decent, so hurry up and come in already! Besides, we knew full well there were presents waiting for us.

Into our room would walk Dad, carrying two bouquets of flowers and two identical boxes, each holding the same doll inside.

Dad did try a few times to give us different gifts, but he quickly learned that wasn’t the best idea. The older daughter (that’s me) would insist she’d been cruelly shortchanged, that Jenny’s doll was nicer, bigger, and more impressive. Meanwhile, the younger one (Jenny, bless her) was convinced she wasn’t loved as much, and that the tiny dolls were deliberately picked to remind her she was still in nursery school.

After enduring one particularly explosive, double-dose of female hysteria—Dad’s hair may have turned grey early—he stuck strictly to identical gifts from then on.

Jenny and I grew up certain that the eighth of March was simply the day when the Most Important Man in the World showed up with flowers and boxes and congratulated us on something. What exactly the holiday was for? Didn’t matter. To us, it was the day the Most Important Man with Flowers and Presents arrived.

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

Then the years passed.

Both Jenny and I ended up with other Most Important Men who brought us flowers and gifts on the morning of the eighth. And somehow, without fail, we always jumped the gun handing out that title. Turned out, they weren’t all that important after all. Certainly not *the* Most Important.

So the title always circled back to Dad. He wore it proudly, dutifully, never breaking tradition with his matching gift boxes. Though what was inside might vary these days, those damn boxes were still—always—identical!

Then Jenny and I had sons. Only one each. Little Most Important Men. While they were growing up, Dad still carried out his March duties—because honestly, when would those replacements of his ever be ready? His daughters were still waiting for their flowers and boxes.

My son grew up in what felt like a blink. I didn’t even notice when exactly he became someone else’s Most Important Man. Now, on the morning of the eighth, I only get a phone call: “Mum, happy Mother’s Day! Don’t worry, I’m at Jenny’s—be back Sunday.”

But.

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

Every woman should have Men in her life. Real ones. With a capital M. Husbands, sons, brothers… But there can only ever be *one* Most Important. Maybe it’s not Dad—not everyone has a dad. Or brothers. Or sons. But everyone has *someone* who’s the Most Important.

The one who, for years and decades, makes the morning of the eighth of March begin with a knock.

For Jenny and me—it’s our dad. The man for whom we’ve been, and always will be, *His Ladies*.

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

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

And thank you to our *Most Important Men* for this day.