新郎側53名、全員が赤の他人だった六月の結婚式

The reception hall in June was brimming with white tablecloths and hydrangea decorations. At the tables on the bride's side sat childhood friends, college classmates, colleagues and mentors from work, aunts and uncles. It was a lively corner, never without laughter. In stark contrast, on the groom's side: a boss, colleagues, college friends, cousins, aunts, and uncles. Fifty-three people. Every single one was a staff member of Family Romance.

I first received a call from the groom, Mr. Takagi (a pseudonym), four months before the ceremony. His voice on the phone was calm, yet he spoke as if something was caught in his throat. "Mr. Ishii, I'd like to ask you to arrange all the guests on my side. All of them." For a moment, I thought I had misheard. We routinely handle requests to stand in for a few friends or fill in for absent relatives. But the weight of the word "everyone" was entirely different.

Mr. Takagi was in his late thirties. He had moved to Tokyo from a rural area and had worked alone for many years. He was estranged from his family home. His parents' divorce had severed his ties with relatives, and his father's whereabouts were unknown. His mother had remarried and built another family. He could contact her, but he didn't want to, he quietly stated.

"How about at work?" I asked. Mr. Takagi paused for a moment before answering. "I perform well at my job. But we aren't close enough to go out drinking together. There's no one I can ask to come to my wedding." It wasn't that he was isolated. Rather, he was someone who had, somewhere along the way, forbidden himself from forming deep connections.

His fiancée—the bride, Ms. Asami (a pseudonym)—came from a large family. Over thirty relatives alone, and many friends besides. It was Asami who wanted to have a wedding, while Takagi, it seemed, had always maintained that "we don't need a ceremony." But Asami didn't yield. "I want to meet your parents too," she said.

Mr. Takagi couldn't bring himself to tell Asami the truth. To be precise, he had told her part of it. He had said, "I'm estranged from my parents." But he just couldn't bring himself to say, "There's no one I can invite." That's when he contacted us.

Standing in as a proxy at a wedding is one of the most high-pressure jobs Family Romance undertakes. If it's just one friend, a single meeting might suffice. But with fifty-three people, the situation changes entirely.

First, we jointly constructed Mr. Takagi's "life profile." His alma mater, club activities, previous job, current department structure, hobby groups. According to this profile, we assigned roles to each staff member. The boss role went to a calm man in his fifties. For colleagues, we selected multiple staff members who were roughly Mr. Takagi's age. For college friends, we chose staff who were familiar with the atmosphere of the university Mr. Takagi had actually attended. For relatives, we placed older, veteran staff.

The vexing part was conversing with guests from the bride's side. Even if tables are separate during the reception, people mingle and converse freely at the after-party. When asked, "What is your relationship with Mr. Takagi?" all fifty-three people had to answer without contradiction. We held three full team meetings and multiple individual consultations. "We were in the same university seminar," "We sat next to each other in the sales department at my previous job," "We're cousins, and we used to meet every Obon holiday when we were children." Each staff member committed their respective "history with Mr. Takagi" to memory.

Each time we met for a consultation, Mr. Takagi wore an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry for such an elaborate undertaking." And each time, I would say, "There's no need to apologize. This is our job." But in truth, I, too, harbored complex emotions.

The ceremony proceeded smoothly. When the bride and groom exchanged their vows in the chapel, sobbing could be heard from the bride's side. On the groom's side, several people were dabbing their eyes. Was it an act? I couldn't say. No, to be honest, I believe some of the staff were genuinely crying.

When you do this job for a long time, strange things happen. Even though we are supposedly sitting there in character, our emotions are pulled along by the atmosphere of the moment. There they are, two people pledging their love, with flowers, music, and light all around. Are the emotions that well up at that moment a lie? Do the tears shed by a rented person have no value?

I always think: if an emotion is real, then it is real. But at the same time, I also think this: Asami doesn't know that the "colleague of Mr. Takagi" at the next table is actually someone who met Mr. Takagi for the first time today. What would she think if she knew? Would the tears of blessing turn into a falsehood? Or would the emotions that undeniably existed in that moment remain true?

There is no answer. Without finding one, we head to the next assignment.

Requests like Mr. Takagi's are, in fact, not uncommon. Consultations for proxy attendance at weddings are increasing year by year. Few friends, estranged from relatives, tenuous workplace relationships—the reasons vary, but I believe the root cause lies in the very structure of modern society itself.

Migration from rural areas to cities. The rise of nuclear families. Work environments where job changes are commonplace. Even if one is connected to hundreds on social media, relationships deep enough to invite to a wedding can be counted on one hand. It's not an individual's fault. Society has changed.

Yet, the format of the wedding ceremony, as a ritual, has not changed. Guests sit divided between the groom's side and the bride's side, balancing the number of guests; there are speeches, entertainment, and a "representative friend of the groom." This format presupposes the illusion that everyone lives within a rich tapestry of human relationships. We are bridging the gap between that illusion and reality.

It's not Mr. Takagi's fault. Nor is it Asami's fault. Our work exists in a place where no one is to blame.

The most tense moment at the reception was the representative friend's speech. It was delivered by a veteran staff member, Sakamoto (a pseudonym), a man in his early forties with a gentle manner of speaking and extensive experience in proxy attendance.

Mr. Takagi and Sakamoto had consulted many times beforehand. They jointly crafted episodes from their university days: "the story of pulling an all-nighter together before a seminar presentation," "the story of toasting in an izakaya when he got his job offer." None of it had actually happened. Yet, each time we met for a consultation, Mr. Takagi would smile faintly and say, "I wish I had memories like these."

The moment arrived. When Sakamoto stood before the microphone, the venue fell silent. Sakamoto began to speak in a calm voice. "Takagi and I met in a university seminar." It was exactly as prepared in the script. But midway, Sakamoto added a slight ad-lib. "Takagi is an unpolished man. But he never shirks what's important. That much has never changed about him."

Those words weren't in the script. But they weren't a lie. Mr. Takagi was indeed unpolished, and he indeed did not shy away from what was important. Even knowing he had no one to invite, he decided to hold a wedding for Asami. Sakamoto had observed that truth during their brief acquaintance.

Mr. Takagi was looking down. He might have been crying. I, watching from a corner of the hall at that moment, felt a warmth well up deep in my chest.

The reception ended, and the after-party concluded without incident. The staff left the venue in twos and threes. No one's true identity was revealed. It was a perfect "success."

The next day, Mr. Takagi called. "Thank you so much. Asami said she had a wonderful time." His voice was calm. But at the end, he added this: "Mr. Ishii, from now on, I'll be living with this lie, won't I?"

I thought for a moment before I spoke. "Perhaps so. But the desire to make Asami-san happy, that isn't a lie, is it? If not, then you can gradually build a true relationship from this point on. I don't want you to rely on us. I want you to use us to build genuine human connections."

After I hung up the phone, I looked out the window. June rain was falling.

The friendships, social hierarchies, and familial bonds performed by the 53 staff members. The smiles, tears, and applause that undeniably existed within that reception hall. Will they simply vanish? Or will they remain as tiny seeds, somewhere in the lives of Takagi-san and Asami-san?

I don't know. I don't know, but truthfully, I wish such a service didn't have to exist. Yet, as long as there are people who need it, I won't stop. Next weekend, too, at some wedding venue, someone's "friend" will be smiling as they lead a toast. Whether that smile is fake or not, perhaps no one can truly decide.

It's the season when hydrangeas are drenched in rain. And today, too, we are filling a void in someone's life.