A widower writes: "To the man I just met at the airport..."

To the man I just met at the airport.

I hope this letter finds you, but more so I truly hope it finds your wife. Why? Because she needs to hear this.

While I don’t know your real name, I do know that ‘d*ckhead’ pretty much sums it up. So I’ll refer to you as Dick, and I’m sure if your wife ever reads this she’ll know exactly whom you are.

Firstly, thank you for the drink at Melbourne airport on Wednesday 25 January at around 3.15pm in the Virgin terminal.

Unfortunately though, that’s where my accolades for you as a human being have to stop.

LISTEN: There are seven stages of grief. (Post continues…)

Dick, wearing a pink shirt does not the feminist make. Your lack of respect for your wife, and your children was abhorrent in the ten minutes that we spent chatting, and I just hope that your 10-month-old daughter doesn’t grow up to marry someone like you.

You first mentioned your wife having just sat down as we both waited for our plane – well, at least that’s what I thought at the time. I asked you the simple question, ‘Was that gin?’ and your reply was enlightening and enraging.

“Vodka… I’ve gotta have one now when the wife’s not here to bust my balls.”

At that point, I could have opted out of our conversation, unsubscribed from your slander, and stuck my head back into my book, and I should have. But unfortunately I didn’t, I gave you a wry smile, said nothing, and instead said ‘yes’ when you offered me a drink as well.

What I should have said was that my wife wasn’t here either, in fact she never is anymore, having passed away over two years ago. In the 12 years we were married I never once used the term ‘busting my balls’.

My next question opened a darker door to your lack of respect for your wife and your young family.

“Where are you flying to?” I asked.

“No where. I’ve just come in from a couple of days away with work and don’t want to go home yet.”

“Right.”

“Yeah if I go home now the kids will be being fed, and it will be crazy. So I’ll wait here for an hour or so, then have the hour cab ride home in traffic, and then things will have settled down… and the wife won’t be at me to help out.”

“Right. How old are you kids?” I asked hoping they weren’t young.

“Three and ten months, a boy and a girl.”

“Right…”

“Do you have kids?” Dick asked.

“Yes, I do. A boy and girl, five and four.”

“It’s hard work isn’t it?” said Dick.

“Yes, yes it is,” I said (with an eye roll) as I thought how hard it must be for his wife. After all, I know how hard it is to be a solo parent.

At this point Dick, three questions into our conversation, I knew you were a d*ckhead, but the really intriguing thing was just how carefree you seemed to be about it. You seemed to own it, and inflame it. You assumed that puffing out your pink shirted chest and bragging about it would somehow impress me.

Well Dick, not impressed.

Over the next five minutes or so, you proceeded to tell me stories of conquests, and bucks parties, and lines of cocaine, and continually referenced ‘bitches’, which only reinforced my opinion.

Wow, what a dad. What a husband.

To be honest, I would've loved to slam you on your attitudes there and then, but it was clear you’d had a few drinks before starting your hideout, and who knows what a bloke like you would have done when told to pull his head in by a bloke like me…

What were you hiding from in the airport that day? Was it guilt, perhaps? Was it fear? Was it a lack love for your wife and two children? Who knows, but somehow I hope you can find out what it is, and sort it out. Quickly.

For your sake, but for those you are supposed to love as well.

The true irony of our ten-minute exchange, which was pretty one sided, was that I was actually heading off to a bucks party in Adelaide, much to your disdain.

Meeting 12 blokes for the first time over the weekend reinstated my faith in the Australian male. And I was just glad you weren’t on our trip… you Dick.

Sure it was fun, a little silly and a little loose at times, but there was certainly no disrespect of women. On meeting some of the lads, it was pretty cool to hear them talk about how their wives were looking after their kids, and were doing a great job of it.

There was unprompted and unabashed respect. Something you should perhaps consider.

None of these guys, my 'new mates’, tried to impress me or anyone else with crassness and dressing room smut, and do you know why? Because real men don’t respect that. Sure, blokes like a laugh, but the next time you decide to make your own ‘new mate’ at the airport, instead of going home to your wife and family after two days away, maybe you shouldn't.

Or better still, maybe your wife should think again because I’m pretty sure deep down she already knows you’re a dick. And the real kicker is this: if you continue in your ways, it won’t be long before your kids realise you’re a dick too.

Pull your head out of the pink shirt and be a dad, not a lad.

PS Dick, if this does happen to find its way to you, and you want to take a step in the right direction, read ‘The Greatness of Dads’ by Kirsten Matthew…

Oh, and give up the cocaine.

You can follow Lach Searle and The Daddy Letters on Facebook here, or check out the blog here.

Other articles you may like:

• Mum was the admin person on our team...
• The New Years Eves I spent with your mummy.
• To my children on their first day of school.