入学式の朝、僕はネクタイを三本持っていく

At half past six in the morning, I slip into my suit. A navy tie, a gray tie, a burgundy tie. I place all three in my bag. Today, there are two entrance ceremonies. One in the morning, one in the afternoon, where I will become the "father" for separate families.

My first client, Ms. Koyama, is a thirty-four-year-old single mother. Her son, Yuta-kun, is starting elementary school today. "We might be the only ones without a father there," Ms. Koyama had said quietly on the phone. She wasn't crying, but I could tell she was trying not to as she spoke.

Since I started this job, April has always been my busiest month. Entrance ceremonies for elementary schools, for kindergartens. Events where families are expected to attend together. Many mothers know the weight of that "empty seat."

What Ms. Koyama feared was Yuta-kun getting hurt, not herself. "What if Yuta sees other kids walking hand-in-hand with their dads and feels something?" That single thought was the entirety of her anxiety.

The requests for entrance ceremonies I receive through Family Romance are concentrated in April every year. Most of them come from single mothers. The reasons vary—divorce, bereavement, childbirth out of wedlock. But the catalyst for the request is always similar: the child asks, "Isn't Daddy coming?" That single sentence.

In Ms. Koyama's case, Yuta-kun had been told, "Dad is working far away." It's a lie, but how do you explain it to a six-year-old child? There's no right answer. Ms. Koyama agonized for months before finally contacting us.

On the day itself, when we met at the school gate, Yuta-kun looked up at my face and said, "Daddy, you came!" His eyes were wide and round. "Naturally," I replied. We held hands. It was a small, warm hand. Ms. Koyama walked a little behind us, repeatedly pressing a handkerchief to her eyes.

Was that "Naturally" a lie? I don't know. But the warmth of that hand was real.

The gym for an entrance ceremony has a unique atmosphere. The scent of new randoseru, the nervous chatter of children, the excited energy of parents with cameras poised. Lost amidst it all, I sit there as "Yuta-kun's dad."

There are countless things to be mindful of. First, how to respond if other parents strike up a conversation. "What do you do for work?" "Where do you live?" I have a pre-arranged backstory with Ms. Koyama: my profession, where I live, my hobbies. It's all committed to memory. There must be no inconsistencies. The entrance ceremony is a day of beginnings. If any cracks show here, it will cast a shadow over the next six years.

Then there are photos. The risk of me appearing in group photos, the possibility of someone asking later, "Who was that person again?" So, I watch for the timing of photos and subtly position myself at the edge of the frame. The ones meant to be in the main shot are Ms. Koyama and Yuta-kun. Always.

And one more thing, the most important: I must not get too emotionally involved. When Yuta-kun is called and stands up for "Congratulations on your enrollment," my heart swells. How could it not? But I am not his real father. Every time, I wonder if I have the right to shed tears. As I ponder this, my eyes still well up a little. That is the nature of this work.

Something I feel strongly through this work is the cruelty of the term "single parent."

Many of the mothers who request my presence at entrance ceremonies have been hurt by this term. A nursery school teacher told them, "Because you're a single-parent family..." In-laws said, "Children raised by a single parent..." They saw the term "single parent bread" online. Perhaps none of these were said with ill intent. But words are blades. They can cut, even without malice.

One client, Ms. Tanaka, once said, "Having both parents is treated as 'normal,' and anything else is treated as if something is 'missing.' I am missing nothing. I am simply doing everything by myself." I can never forget those words.

A father's absence at an entrance ceremony. In itself, there should inherently be no problem with that. However, Japanese school events operate on the unspoken assumption that "both parents will attend together." There are seats for two parents. Family questionnaires have sections for "Father" and "Mother." Every document, every chair, seems to tell a single mother, "You are not enough."

By me sitting in that chair instead, does the problem truly get solved? No, it doesn't. Fundamentally, nothing changes. But on that day, in that place, Yuta-kun sat proudly. Ms. Koyama was able to watch the ceremony with a sense of peace. Those were undeniably real moments.

On the phone, when mothers make their requests, there's a phrase they often use: "I didn't know if it was okay to ask for something like this." In this single phrase, everything is contained.

Many single mothers feel a sense of guilt about asking for help. Because it's the path they chose. Because it's their responsibility. Because they don't want to inconvenience anyone. And so, they carry everything by themselves: work, housework, childcare, school events, nursing a sick child, PTA duties. Everything.

Requests come to us when their endurance reaches its limit. Or when a child's single comment becomes the final push: "Why don't we have a daddy?" A mother must face this question alone. In the middle of the night, in bed, alone.

Requests to Family Romance aren't limited to entrance ceremonies. Parent-teacher conferences, sports days, Father's Day crafts. With every school event, the "father's absence" becomes visible. Each time, mothers ponder: What should I do? How should I explain? I don't want to hurt my child, but I don't want to lie. Beyond that struggle, we are there.

I am not a handyman service. Nor am I a last resort. I simply want to convey: you don't have to do everything alone. That is all.

That afternoon, I changed my tie to burgundy and headed to a different elementary school. My second client, Ms. Sato, was forty-one. It was her daughter Misaki-chan's entrance ceremony.

Ms. Sato's case was a little different. Her divorced ex-husband was alive and reachable, but he wouldn't come. She had asked him to come, but he had told her, "It's no longer my concern." Ms. Sato wasn't angry; she had simply given up. Even giving up requires strength.

Misaki-chan had been told beforehand, "The dad coming today is Mommy's friend's uncle." Ms. Sato hadn't wanted to lie. So Misaki-chan called me "Uncle." "Uncle, look at my randoseru. It's red!" I said, "It's really cool, isn't it?" Misaki-chan laughed.

On the way back, Sato-san said, "I'm glad Misaki looked happy. That's all that mattered." How many emotions were folded within those simple words, "that's all that mattered"? I can only imagine.

Two entrance ceremonies. Two mothers. Two children. Both were suffering from the pressure to be "normal" in someone's eyes. But what exactly is "normal"? Is it having both parents present? Being all smiles? Carrying a brand-new randoseru? I don't know. And I continue this work, still without an answer.

After the entrance ceremony, I receive a polite thank-you message from the client: "Thank you very much," and "Thanks to you, everything went smoothly." I reply, "I'm glad to hear that." And then, I ponder for a moment.

In the future, there will be sports festivals. There will be parent-teacher conferences. There will be graduation ceremonies. Perhaps requests will come each time. Perhaps they won't. Perhaps the day will come when Koyama-san can manage on her own. Perhaps the day will come when Yuta-kun can think, "It's fine even without a father." That is my true wish.

I don't want them to depend on me. I want them to use me to stand on their own two feet. If Koyama-san gained even a little confidence by getting through the day of the entrance ceremony, then that's enough.

Truly, it would be better if a service like this didn't exist. A society where an entrance ceremony without a father isn't considered "pitiable." A society where raising a child alone isn't viewed as something special. If that were the case, my job would become unnecessary. But today, too, the phone rings. "Um, about the entrance ceremony..." To that voice, I reply, "Yes."

The cherry blossoms of April scatter in an instant. But the memory of holding hands on the morning of the entrance ceremony will remain in the child forever. Whether that is real or not is not for me to decide. It is for someone who remembers the warmth of that hand to decide someday, on their own.