Please tell me I’m not like them…

YOU know the words a father least wants to hear?

No, not that his son is gay, or his daughter’s pregnant.

It’s the proposal that girls take partners who are like their fathers.

Oh my God.

Does this mean “like” as in “physically resemble” or like as in “personality similarities”?

And does it make any difference?

I have nothing to gain either way. My world has collapsed.

Are they suggesting I have hair like a lantana thicket, or a skull like a billiard ball? Do I look like the sort of person who drills holes in his eyebrow, or his navel? Do I have short legs, more body hair than a border collie, or a physique that resembles a filleted haddock?

Because my daughters’ partners have all had these.

Or can I infer that I am — take your pick — truculent, pompous, tight-fisted, immature, naive, full of my own self-importance, lacking in substance, vision and determination, and a workshy bludger, all of which I have accused them of over the years. With a good deal of perspicacity, I thought.

I can’t bear it. Since my eldest daughter suggested it I haven’t slept at night. I’m beginning to see signs of myself in them. Not my three daughters – their boyfriends! They’ve started agreeing with me at the dinner table.

At least, I thought they were agreeing with me; but is it possible I’m agreeing with them?

If you think I’m creating demons out of pimply youths, look at your own daughters and their boyfriends.

Do you imagine you could ever like that music, for heaven’s sake? Do you grunt like a Neanderthal when someone engages you in a perfectly ordinary conversation, like what your prospects are? Do you pick your nose at the table, or reach across everybody for the Vegemite without so much as an excuse me?

Of course not!

So how could they say these things! I thought my daughters loved and respected me. The idea that they compare me in some way — in any way! — with those unshaven aliens is more than I can bear.

I came to this conclusion last night. There’s a lookout a short drive from my home. With a long drop. I thought they’d be sorry when they realised they’d pushed me over it.

I parked the car and walked the 100 metres to the spot where my life and my pain were to end but, as luck would have it, I could see by the light of the moon there was another group in my spot.

I heard one of trio say, “Right then. All together. On the count of three…”

Was this a suicide pact? My own troubles were cast off. I leapt forward. “No! don’t do it­–”

They turned. “We can’t bear it any more,” said my eldest daughter’s boyfriend. “It was something my girlfriend said…”