Let me start with this: I love mothers. Truly. They’re the backbone of the damn human race. If there’s any reason we’re not all living in caves eating raw squirrels, it’s because some overworked, underappreciated woman decided to raise her kids with a shred of decency and a lunchbox that wasn’t full of garbage.

That said, Mother’s Day? It’s a con job, plain and simple. A big, glitter-covered guilt trip designed by Hallmark, 1-800-Flowers, and restaurants that jack up the price of eggs Benedict by 40% for one Sunday a year.

Let’s look at the facts. You’ve got folks who haven’t called their mother since Christmas suddenly posting weepy tributes on Instagram. “My rock, my queen, my everything.” Oh shut up, Carl. You ignored her last six texts and only remembered today because your phone calendar dinged.

Back in my day, yeah, here we go, we made a card with crayons and lies. “I’ll clean my room forever.” No you wouldn’t. But Mom kept that damn card in a shoebox like it was the Constitution. And that’s what gets me. No matter how half-assed we are, mothers never stop giving a damn. They love with a kind of insanity that defies logic and exhausts the soul.

And this “one day a year” nonsense? It’s insulting. You think a bouquet and a $50 brunch makes up for the years she wiped your butt, kept you alive despite your best efforts, and didn’t throttle you when you were a mouthy teenager? No. It doesn’t. But she’ll smile and say thank you anyway. Because that’s what moms do.

You ever seen a mother go to war for her kid at a parent-teacher conference? That’s battlefield courage. Seen one show up to a baseball game after working a double shift, still yelling in the stands like her kid’s about to be drafted by the Yankees? That’s devotion. She’s not doing it for applause. She’s doing it because you’re hers, even when you don’t deserve it.

And let’s be honest: some of us didn’t have great moms. Some had complicated ones. Or none at all. That pain doesn’t go away on Mother’s Day. So here’s to the grandmas, the aunts, the stepmoms, the foster moms, the dads who played both roles, and every woman who stepped up when she didn’t have to. That’s motherhood too, dammit.

So this year, do it right. Call her. Write her a damn letter. Cook something. Don’t pawn it off on DoorDash. And if she’s no longer around—raise a glass, play her favorite song, and don’t pretend like it doesn’t still gut you sometimes. That’s love. That’s the point.

Happy Mother’s Day, you magnificent warriors. We don’t deserve you, but we sure as hell need you.