クリスマスの夜、演じる男

On a December night when illuminations blanketed the street trees, I tucked a small note into the breast pocket of my suit. "Eldest daughter, Misaki, 8 years old. Favorite character: Sumikko Gurashi. Youngest daughter, Yui, 5 years old. Recently obsessed with: Precure. Client playing the wife, Megumi-san, 36 years old. Called 'Papa' by the eldest daughter, 'Otousan' by the youngest." There was a reason for the different names. When the eldest daughter began to understand things, she started calling me 'Papa,' and the youngest, instead of imitating her, chose 'Otousan' in her own words. If you miss those small details of reality, children notice immediately. So I read the note. I read it again and again. At five o'clock on Christmas Eve evening, I picked up a whole cake from the bakery in front of the station and headed to Megumi-san's apartment. When I rang the doorbell, I heard Yui-chan's voice from behind the door, "Otousan is here!" In that instant, I ceased to be Yuichi Ishii. My name was Kenichi Tanaka. I was Megumi-san's husband, and the father of these children.

December is one of the busiest months of the year for family romance. Christmas, year-end visits to relatives, company parties – situations where people are expected to "be with someone" rush in relentlessly. Requests for a rental husband surge during this period. The reasons vary, but the most common is wanting to "create Christmas memories for their children."

Megumi-san's case was also like that. Three years since her divorce, she couldn't contact her ex-husband. Her eldest daughter, Misaki-chan, apparently didn't want her friends to know she doesn't have a father, so at school, she explained, "Papa travels a lot for work." "Just for Christmas, I want to spend it as a family of four," Megumi-san had said. "Just for one day is enough."

But "just one day" is never truly just one day. Children remember. What they ate last Christmas, what Papa said, the expression on his smiling face when he laughed. That's why I reread all the records from my previous visit. I must remember the Santa drawing Misaki-chan made for me last year, and how Yui-chan placed a strawberry from her cake onto my plate. To act is to remember.

On the dining table were chicken, salad, and potage soup. Megumi-san must have prepared it all since morning. I took off my coat, borrowed an apron, and opened the cake box. "Papa, it's chocolate cake again this year, isn't it?" Misaki-chan said. She noticed I had chosen the same kind as last year. In moments like these, a tightness forms deep within my chest.

After the meal, we took a photo in front of the small Christmas tree in the living room. Megumi-san set her smartphone timer, and the four of us lined up. Yui-chan sat on my lap, and Misaki-chan, a little shyly, made a peace sign beside us. The shutter clicked.

This photo would be saved to Megumi-san's phone camera roll. Perhaps it might even be displayed in the living room. Proof that I existed as "Kenichi Tanaka" would remain in this house. Was that a source of joy, or was it frightening? To be honest, it was both. The me in the photo was smiling. There was no falsehood in that smile. But "Kenichi Tanaka" was a person who did not exist. The smile of a non-existent person becoming a real memory. I have carried this contradiction for many years now.

I am often asked, "Doesn't it feel empty, acting like that?" My answer is, no, it doesn't. At least not while I am there. When Yui-chan told me, "Otousan, I love you," there was no way my heart wouldn't be moved. That emotion is real. If the emotion is real, then it is real—that is what I have believed.

But on the way home, I think. About the impact I am having on these children's lives. Misaki-chan will realize someday that the person she called 'father' was a stranger her mother paid to be there. When that day comes, how will the memories of tonight's Christmas transform? Will joyful memories turn into betrayal? Or will she say, "It was still fun"? I don't know. Without knowing, I will likely buy a cake and visit this house again next Christmas Eve.

What is real? The day I find an answer to this question will probably never come. But if I stop asking, I will become merely a person doing a "job of lying." As long as I keep asking, I believe I can barely remain honest.

I have served as the "husband" for over six hundred women to date. Not just for Christmas, but for entrance ceremonies, graduation ceremonies, Shichi-Go-San festivals, parent-teacher conferences. It is surprisingly common for a man by one's side to be needed at life's milestones.

The reasons for the requests vary from person to person. There are those who are divorced, those who are widowed, those who were never married in the first place. Some have even fled from domestic violence. What they have in common is the suffocating feeling that "society dictates the form of family." School documents have two spaces for "guardian." Sports day programs include a race called "Run with Dad." Being a single parent is still, in some way, seen as "lacking" in this country.

My existence temporarily fills that void. But, truthfully, it would be better if a service like this didn't need to exist. If society could say "that's perfectly fine" to any family structure—whether it has one parent or two, whether blood-related or not—then there would be no need for me. But reality is different. As long as there are people who need me, I will continue. On Christmas nights, and on the mornings of entrance ceremonies.

Nine o'clock at night. I gave the children their presents, watched them brush their teeth, and said "good night." Megumi-san escorted me to the entrance. She bowed deeply, saying, "Thank you again this year." I simply replied, "It was good to see Misaki-chan and Yui-chan looking so well," and closed the door.

As I stepped into the elevator, the "Kenichi Tanaka" I had been just moments ago rapidly thawed away. I looked at my face reflected in the mirror. It was still smiling faintly. Whose lingering scent was this smile, I wondered? Was it Yuichi Ishii's, or Kenichi Tanaka's?

As I left the apartment building, the city was still awash in Christmas lights. Couples held hands, and families emerged from restaurants. My smartphone rang. A schedule confirmation for tomorrow. A request from another client asking me to "accompany them for year-end visits to relatives." December was not over yet.

I am sometimes asked about my own private life. To be honest, I no longer quite understand what "my own Christmas" even means. I spend so much time acting that I sometimes lose sight of where my "true self" is. This might be an unavoidable price for those who continue this work. Yet, strangely, I don't consider it unhappiness.

On the train ride home, a message arrived from Megumi-san. "Misaki said before bed, 'Tonight's Christmas was the most fun I've ever had.'" I gazed at the screen. I started to type a reply, then stopped. It felt as if anything I wrote would be a lie. After a moment, I simply sent, "I feel the same way." It was not a lie.

On Christmas night, I am a man who acts. But whether the word "act" is truly accurate, I find myself understanding less and less with each passing year. The children's smiles are not acting. Nor is Megumi-san's relief. And the warmth that arises within me is probably not acting either. Yet, this relationship has no name. Not family, not friend, not lover. Without a name, it undeniably exists there.

Truthfully, a service like this should not exist. I say it again and again. But tonight, Misaki-chan's words, "It was the most fun I've ever had," were real for me too. An unnamed light had certainly lit up that room. That much, I will let no one deny.

The train arrived at my nearest station. As I stepped onto the platform, the cold air pricked my cheeks. I took out the note from my pocket. "Eldest daughter, Misaki, 8 years old. Youngest daughter, Yui, 5 years old." This note would be rewritten next year. Misaki-chan would be nine, and Yui-chan would be six. I would buy a cake again and ring that doorbell. Until that day, I would not discard this note.