Guys, sure — we all had a great laugh here.
We joked around.
Everyone figured out who the alpha is.
And everyone figured out who cries over broccoli.
Yeah.
It’s funny.
But here’s the thing, guys — this part isn’t funny at all.
The alpha — sure, he’s power.
He’s reached the top.
He carries the world on his shoulders.
And you know what?
While the alpha goes to work and measures his balls,
kids are waking up at home.
Their world isn’t divided into men and women yet.
It’s just kids.
Just being kids.
Even if they’re already a bit older — they’re still kids.
A child wakes up and runs to his mother.
She tells him something.
She kisses him.
She takes him for a walk.
She comforts him.
She’s there — all the time.
While the alpha is out hunting.
She reads him a book.
He says, “My dad is a superhero.”
And mom kisses him and says,
“Of course. Your dad is a real hero.”
If he gets into a fight at school,
he tells everyone,
“My dad’s busy — otherwise he’d kick everyone’s ass.”
And the boy believes it.
Because his father is his hero.
The boy imitates his dad.
Dad is the benchmark.
Everything dad does — he should do too.
There’s no one stronger than dad.
No one more successful.
Dad is an unreachable ideal.
Father is his pride.
He’s proud that he’s a boy.
Proud that this father is his father.
He doesn’t need another one.
The boy doesn’t see his father’s vulnerability.
To the boy, his father is a wall.
And the boy measures himself against him in everything.
An invisible support.
A quiet backbone — while the alpha is at work.
Every breath.
Every “Mom, look!”
Is held up by mom.
Mom builds the image of the father.
She keeps the fire alive in the boy.
She feeds his admiration for dad.
“Did you show dad?”
“Did you tell dad?”
The boy blossoms.
“Oh, dad will be so proud of you.”
So proud of his son.
He did it.
He handled it.
Like a man.
The craft.
The drawing.
He managed.
He could do it.
Soon dad will come home.
And the boy waits.
All day.
He waits.
Every hour he runs to mom:
“When is dad coming?”
“Mom, when?”
And dad comes home.
The boy sees it — dad is tired.
Exhausted.
He doesn’t have space for the boy.
Not for his childish problems.
Dad has tons of things.
Tons of problems.
And none of that compares to a paper boat
or some stupid little thing.
But mom was there.
She saw how the boy waited.
How he sculpted.
How he tried.
How much he put into it.
She saw it.
She was there.
And now the whole world is squeezed into one glance.
One approval.
Just one smile.
So desperately wanted —
for dad to say he’s proud of his son.
That he likes it.
“Right, dad?”
“Right?”
“You like it?”
Mom is always nearby.
Mom will always support.
But how much a father’s approval means to a boy.
How it fills him from the inside.
How he’ll brag in kindergarten and at school:
“That’s my dad.”
“And my dad…”
“Yeah, you know what he can do.”
All the boys will shout and swear.
But he knows —
my dad is the best.
My dad is the coolest.
A superhero.
And it’s good if dad at least mutters something like,
“Yeah, yeah. Good job.”
And while the boy is little — he believes.
But when he grows up, he’ll understand:
it was just a brush-off.
Because his wife was right there, watching.
And he didn’t want a fight.
He was tired.
He didn’t want drama.
Eat.
Sleep.
The boy chatters nonstop.
Of course he does.
He didn’t wait an hour.
Not two.
He waited all day.
A long, huge day.
And finally dad is here.
So much he wants to tell him.
So much to share.
But dad is tired.
He doesn’t have space for it.
The wife is on his case:
“You never spend time with the kids.”
He’s barely holding it together.
Not now.
Kids can wait.
Business can’t.
Problems can’t.
Not now.
And the boy grows up.
And becomes more and more like his father.
More in his phone than with his family.
More and more: “Leave me alone, mom.”
The very one who was with him every second.
Who cried when he was upset.
Who fed him with a spoon.
Who admired his drawings.
Who covered for his father when he stayed late.
Now she’s just noise.
Now she’s “the one who nags.”
Do your homework.
Don’t sit on your phone.
Turn off the TV.
Now she’s just as invisible and unnecessary
as she once was to his father.
He copies his father.
Father is the standard.
That means this is how it’s supposed to be.
Do as your father does —
and you’ll be a man.
Mom is hurting.
She’s crying.
But come on — women.
Who understands them anyway, always whining.
He is just as logical and consistent as his father.
To hell with feelings.
That’s for girls.
He’s a man.
Mom is no longer warmth or love —
just familiar background noise.
The one who nags.
The one who’s always telling him what to do.

A girl.
A girl is a whole different world.
Dad.
Oh, dad.
A girl may sometimes remember that she has a mother —
but only while she’s drinking milk from her mother’s breast.
And then —
no.
Then mom is no longer needed.
Because there is dad.
Dad is her support.
Dad always spoils her.
Dad.
Oh, nothing compares to him.
Dad will always comfort her.
Mom says she’s manipulating him.
Nonsense.
Dad is just very kind
and loves her very much.
Period.
You can’t scold dad.
You can’t hurt dad.
Dad is the best.
If she’s scared — it’s dad.
He’s so powerful.
No one can defeat him.
Not the monster under the bed.
Not the older brother who bullies her.
No.
It’s dad.
Her beloved dad.
Dad knows everything.
Dad can do anything.
Dad will drink tea with her for a minute
and lift her up in his arms.
That’s dad.
He can do everything.
He’ll hug her if she’s cold.
He’ll press her close if she’s scared.
There is no one better than dad.
No one.

But dad also has the role of a man.
And so the girl waits for dad to come home.
She jumps by the door — dad will be here soon.
She and the husky are already at the limit.
Everyone is on duty by the door.
Dad. Dad. Dad.
He’s coming soon.
And dad walks in.
The girl is beside herself with happiness —
here he is, her beloved dad.
Her hero.
Her support.
Let mom grumble.
She doesn’t understand anything.
Dad is the best.
You can’t pull the girl away from her father.
She’s on his neck.
On his head.
On his knees.
Mom gets kicked away:
“Move over, I’m sleeping next to dad.”
Dad is so warm.
Big.
Always warm.
He hugs her —
and the whole world disappears.
Dad is here.
What could be more important?

But dad works.
Which means he’s often not there.
He’s always working.
The girl is very hurt.
She misses him so much.
But he’s working.
The older she gets,
the better she learns one thing:
dad doesn’t have time for her.
She’s not the priority.
She always comes after work.
First — work.
Then — her.
And so she loves her father more than life itself.
Always waiting.
Always hoping
that dad will come soon,
that he will notice her.
Years pass.
And the girl starts looking at boys.
At ordinary boys.
Boys raised by fathers who are always at work.
And they will ignore her —
just like her father did.
And she will love them.
Because that’s how she learned love.
You love deeply.
You wait endlessly.
But you’re not the priority.
There are always things
that matter more than you.

And time goes on.
Just like it does for everyone.
When testosterone can no longer carry everything and everyone on its back,
age takes its toll.
When the business is set up.
The mortgage is paid off.
The kids have grown up.
That’s when we start collecting dividends.
We’ll see what kind of work was done
and who did it how.
We’ll see whether the kids come on weekends.
Whether they actually want to be with the family —
or just brush it off.
Whether they want to be with their parents
not out of obligation,
but because they choose to.
We’ll see what kind of people our children became.
What values they absorbed.
What their priorities are.
And whether we’re proud
of what we invested in them.
Children are a reflection.
They simply mirror what was put into them.
How to support.
How to help.
What it means to be a friend.
What it means to be a family.
And guys —
you really don’t want to kick yourself later.
You need to think about it now.
While there’s still time.

Mothers.
This is not a joke, guys.
A mother is not “the wife who nags.”
A mother is the woman you chose.
The woman who, right now, every single day,
is raising your future.
Business.
Money.
Work.
But when the time comes —
and it comes very fast —
it becomes very clear, very fast
where the priorities really were
and who got fooled by shiny things.
A mother.
A wife.
The woman raising your children
is not an object for jokes
or contempt.
She is the mother of your child.
She is your child’s mom.
She is to him
exactly what your own mother is to you.
And something tells me
you really wouldn’t want anyone
hurting your mother.
Disrespecting her.
Or not carrying her in their arms.

P.S.
If you say, “Woman, you wrote those broccoli texts yourself,”
I’ll answer like this:
First — go to hell.
Second — I’m human. I can make mistakes.
Here.
I’m correcting myself.