In my Irish/Swedish family back in South Ozone Park, the men tended to die young. By 67, in fact, which gets me worrying about my own shelf life. The women, though, tended to live long, so each, in her turn, got to be the matriarch.

Grandma Sadie ruled the family, and when she passed, Grand Aunt Bea took lead. At some point, Aunt Rita became the oldest woman, and thus the matriarch. She retained the title for more than two decades, passing away just this past year in her nineties. She was a grand old dame, and in fact was the first person in the family to approve of the guy I was dating, Brian.

“He dances on Broadway, Kevin. His family came off the Mayflower,” she told me. “You sell blenders at Macy’s. I’m thinking you’re trading up. Do what you can to keep him around.”

I did my best. Moved in with him. Domestic partnered him. Illegally married. Legally married. Thirty-seven years later, I’ve done what I can to keep him around, and I’d like to think I had her blessing.

But she made that whole matriarch thing seem easy. If Aunt Rita had doubts, you would never know it.

“Fisher-Paulson” is an invented family, or as Aunt Rita might describe it, “Downton Abbey” meets the Bunkers.

Brian and I created the hyphenation when we adopted Zane. Neither Zane Paulson nor Zane Fisher sounded quite right. We debated, though not long, on “Paulson-Fisher.” But as the one who started out life as a Paulson, I knew that the teachers didn’t get to my name until about two-thirds of the way through the class roster. And, yes, because I have OCD, it felt better to put the names in alphabetical order.

It wasn’t until after Zane was adopted that we went to court and changed our own last names. This was before we could marry legally, so I cannot even claim Paulson as my maiden name.

My Brother XX claims that I’m no longer a true Paulson, and refers to Brian and me as his half-brothers-in-laws. “You guys are your own clan now.”

But in this chosen family, I am the oldest Fisher-Paulson in existence and, there being no matriarch, this makes me the patriarch.

Sometimes the role chooses you. To misquote Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night”: Some people are born patriarchs, some achieve patriarchy and some have patriarchy thrust upon ’em. I guess you could say that I’ve achieved my status only by default. We are a family of choice, four boys and two dogs that don’t fit into most convenient spots, and at least one of us at all times is either figuratively or literally broken.

In the past few weeks I’ve had a number of opportunities to doubt my prowess as patriarch. Zane, his foot in a cast, got robbed at the bus stop. Aidan got bullied by students in school. In neither case was I there, because a father cannot be everywhere at all times.

This column is not the place to discuss commuter crime, repeat offenders or cyber-bullying. But a father wants his own sons to be safe in his own neighborhood and his own school.

The bad part about being the patriarch is that people expect you to have the answers. There’s no mentor for me to ask my own questions: Did Zane leave his phone in the wrong place? Was Aidan talking too loud? I don’t know.

Protecting them cannot mean standing guard all day. It means providing guidance. I know only this much: It’s my job to trust my sons, to believe in them, even when I cannot quite believe them, even when the truth is murky.

Maybe that’s the role of the patriarch, to be the family truth teller. I tell our story, and that story, with all its embellishments and omissions, becomes the truth of our kin. And I try to be like Aunt Rita. If I have any doubts, I try not to show them.

My sons will know, at least I hope they will know, that none of us are perfect. Not one single Fisher-Paulson, hyphen and all. But we do our best. And we try to make the world a better place, starting with our own neighborhood.