My mother is 77 now. Time has softened her voice, but not her clarity. When you’ve lived long enough, you stop wasting words. You ask the questions that matter.

Last week, we had lunch together. Nothing formal. No assistants. No schedule. Just two people sitting across from each other, sharing a quiet meal. At some point, she looked at me—not as the world sees me, not as a CEO or a billionaire—but as a son. And then she asked two questions I wasn’t prepared for.

“Do your children feel proud of you?”

“When was the last time you were truly happy?”

I didn’t answer.

Not because I didn’t hear her.

But because the honest answers frightened me.

The world measures my life in numbers. Market value. Launch success rates. Factories built. Companies founded. By those standards, I’m winning. I’ve spent decades pushing forward, solving problems no one else wanted to touch, betting everything on ideas that scared most people away.

But those questions didn’t care about numbers.

Do your children feel proud of you?

I’ve provided for them. I’ve given them opportunity. I’ve tried, in my own way, to build a future worth inheriting. But pride isn’t guaranteed by provision. Pride is emotional. It’s presence. It’s memory.

I’ve missed birthdays. School events. Ordinary moments that don’t show up in headlines. I’ve justified it by telling myself I was building something bigger—for them, for everyone. But sitting across from my mother, I realized something uncomfortable: intention doesn’t erase absence.

Children don’t remember what you meant to do.

They remember what you did.

The second question cut even deeper.

When was the last time you were truly happy?

Not productive.

Not accomplished.

Not relieved after a crisis passed.

Happy.

I searched my memory for a clear answer. A moment without pressure. Without deadlines. Without responsibility hanging overhead like gravity. And I couldn’t find one that felt honest.

Happiness, somewhere along the way, became postponed. Delayed until the next milestone. The next success. The next solved problem. I told myself I’d rest later. Feel later. Enjoy later.

Later kept moving.

The truth is, ambition is a powerful engine—but it doesn’t know when to stop. It always asks for more. More time. More sacrifice. More of you. And if you don’t consciously step back, it will quietly take everything you don’t actively protect.

My mother didn’t accuse me. She didn’t judge. She just waited.

That silence was heavier than criticism.

Because it forced me to confront a possibility I’d avoided for years: that I might succeed publicly while failing privately. That I might change the world and still disappoint the people whose opinions matter most.

We often believe legacy is what survives us. But sometimes legacy is simply how safe people felt around us while we were alive.

I’ve built machines that travel beyond Earth. But I’m still learning how to stay grounded in the moments that matter. I’ve optimized systems, processes, and timelines—but relationships don’t respond to optimization. They respond to presence.

Those two questions didn’t give me answers. They gave me direction.

I don’t know yet whether my children are proud of me. That’s not something I can demand or calculate. It’s something I have to earn—not through achievement, but through attention.

And happiness? I’m beginning to understand it might not arrive as a grand moment. It might live in quieter spaces: shared meals, unplanned conversations, the ability to be still without feeling guilty.

Success trains you to keep moving. Life eventually asks you to look around.

As my mother finished her lunch, she smiled—not sadly, not warmly—just knowingly. As if she understood that some lessons can’t be taught early. They only land when time makes them unavoidable.

I left that table changed. Not because I failed, but because I finally saw what success doesn’t measure.

You can build the future and still need to repair the present.

You can be admired by millions and still wonder if you’re known by the few who matter most.

Those two questions didn’t break me.

They woke me up.

And for the first time in a long while, I’m not asking what I can build next—but who I need to be more present for now.

Because time doesn’t stop asking hard questions.

And eventually, it stops waiting for answers.