Good luck to Paul Ryan.

I am not referring to whether he will get along with the Freedom Caucus, what with its insistence on a congressional version of Magna Carta (down with the power of the speaker, up with the power of the committee barons), but whether he can make it home on the weekend to be with his kids. Many a man has pledged such a thing, explaining years later to those very kids that he meant well — but, heck, lots of people relied on him and … sorry.

If Ryan fails to be both a good father and a good speaker, he will not be the first man who could not find that sweet spot in life. In fact, in my experience if you ask any really successful man what his biggest regret is, he’ll say he didn’t spend enough time with his family.

I’ve heard it over and over again, and I’ve heard it from the kids, too. Sometimes when they toast their father on his birthday or retirement or something like that — they get a bit soused and a bit of the truth sort of dribbles out of their mouth: I wish I knew him better. I wish he had been home more. I wish he had taken me to the ballgame. Here’s to you, Dad, they say lifting a glass. Whoever you are.

I’m tempted to conclude that it is impossible to be a huge success — a leader, a CEO, a magnate of some sort — and not have a kid somewhere who’s sulking with resentment. I recently viewed “The Diplomat,” HBO’s upcoming documentary about the late Richard Holbrooke. This is an hour and a half well spent — an engrossing film about a hugely engrossing man. (He would have agreed.) It takes you from the war in Vietnam to the war in Afghanistan and lingers on the one in the Balkans that Holbrooke ended with the Dayton Accords. Dick Holbrooke was a sensational diplomat.

But a lousy father. The documentary was made by his son David, an accomplished filmmaker, and its real theme is a son’s search for his father. Holbrooke was away so much. He was so busy. He was so distracted. He was so much in demand by the Washington-New York-Hollywood-Paris-Berlin set. He knew everyone. Everyone knew him. Only his son did not.

Sometimes I want to ask these guys who say they lament their rationed fatherhood whether they are serious in their regret. I recently asked one if he really would have traded some business success for more time with his children. He hardly paused. No, he had to be who he was. He made it sound as if he had been in the grip of some powerful force, like the one that brings salmon upstream to their spawning grounds. He had no guilt, just regret. What could he do? (I’d love to ask his kids if they would have preferred more time with daddy over their trust fund.)

I know that women have problems of their own when it comes to handling a career and motherhood, and those problems can be more stressful and even painful than what a man faces. (They have to decide whether or when to have children, and worry about the effect on their career.) But I am hearing more men talk the talk of fatherhood and say they try to limit their workload and spend time with their kids. I suspect, though, that when the boss calls, when a deal is closing, when a promotion is in the offing, the kids still suffer. In some industries, people come home at 5 or 6 — and then work some more. In others, they hardly come home at all.

Years ago, I wrote an article for a now-defunct magazine about “blue-collar envy.” My piece was largely about construction workers who, at 4 o’clock or so, would quit work for the day. They could not take their work home with them. The boss never called. I know, of course, that their work is hard and dangerous, but I know, too, that they can coach little league or even have a pop or two without fearing they’ll slur their words when the office calls. There is no office.

Paul Ryan wants his weekends. But on the weekends his caucus is going to want him. A fundraiser. It’s important. A crucial House seat. We’ll send a plane. Just this once.

Good luck to you, Paul Ryan. Good luck, daddy.

Richard Cohen is a columnist for The Washington Post. His email address is: cohenr@washpost.com.