My friend has an extraordinary Barbie collection, rare, collectible pieces. They’re not toys lying around; they’re part of who she is. She once told me she started collecting them partly for financial security, in case she ever needed to sell them. Before her husband came into the room, she’d mentioned she was planning to pack them away. I’d already clocked that moment.When I asked why, he said it was because they were having a baby boy.“He’ll be sitting here,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “and I don’t want him looking at Barbies.”Then, unprompted, he added, “No offense. I know you’re bisexual.”He went on to explain that he wants his son to like racing and cars. That’s what he plans to expose him to, what he plans to bond with him over. He doesn’t want him looking at Barbies, or anything glittery or colourful.“If I were having a girl,” he said, “maybe.”I didn’t respond immediately. I felt something register, but I let it sit.What struck me wasn’t just the content of what he was saying. It was the certainty. The casualness. The assumption that this worldview was neutral, obvious, even protective.I didn’t react because, in that moment, I realised something important. This wasn’t a conversation I usually get access to. Not unfiltered. Not in a private, unguarded space. He described himself as “quite traditional,” and it was clear he meant it, not as a label, but as a framework through which everything else was organised.Later, the conversation drifted to childbirth.He spoke about women who choose not to have children, referencing a woman in her thirties they both know. He suggested she probably didn’t want children because she didn’t want to “stretch herself.” He questioned why anyone would put a baby’s experience at stake by not carrying a child themselves.I’m paraphrasing him gently here. His actual language was more concerning.He said he couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t “just go through the pain,” as if it were minor, “a little pain, a few stretch marks.” In my head, all I could think was, you don’t know that. You really don’t know that.He moved on to abortion. He believes it’s killing a child. I asked when a child becomes a child.“From the start,” he said. No cut-off. No nuance. If you have the physical ability to carry a pregnancy, you must.My friend tried to soften the conversation. I don’t think she agrees with him, but I also don’t think she has much room to challenge him. She isn’t a traditionalist, that’s where they differ, but difference doesn’t always translate to power.At one point, he said, “Don’t get me wrong, if it’s rape, then abortion is fine.”As if that settled something.I remember thinking, you really need to think carefully about who you choose as a life partner.Later, he launched into a monologue about how the world has “gone crazy” over the last fifty years. Gay people. Trans people. Liberalism. It followed a familiar trajectory. He wasn’t angry; he was convinced.Toward the end, I asked him something directly.“In theory,” I said, “if men could carry children biologically, if that were the default, would you?”He initially deflected with something about the future and politics, but I stopped him. I wasn’t talking about ideology. I was asking about embodiment.He said yes. Immediately. That it would be natural. That of course he would.And I believe him. I genuinely think he would go through the pain. He’s deeply invested in the idea of creating life. He spoke at length about baby health, development, responsibility.Then he ended with, “You know what I mean?”I said, “I don’t. But it’s okay. You have your opinion.”I thought that would be the end of it.It wasn’t.He continued, seriously and earnestly, trying to convince me. I don’t think he realises how liberal I am, or how firmly rooted I am in my principles. That’s fine. What stayed with me was something else, how persuasive this could be to someone less anchored. How easily certainty can masquerade as truth.I don’t want to be angry at him as an individual. His views are troubling, but he isn’t speaking in isolation. He’s articulating something collective, something inherited, rehearsed, normalised. A particular kind of straight, white, pub-table logic that’s been circulating for generations.And I thought about his mother. About how likely it is that she shares, or has endured, those same views her whole life.I’m sure more will surface for me from this conversation. I’m still sitting with it.Because honestly, what?