入学式の朝、僕はネクタイを3本持っていく

At 6:30 AM, my smartphone rang. The screen displayed 'Ms. Tamura' – today's client.

"Excuse me, Mr. Ishii," she said. "My son asked, 'Dad, what tie are you wearing today?' Could you please wear a navy blue one?"

I replied, "Understood," and picked out the navy blue tie from the three already in my bag. On the morning of an entrance ceremony, these calls are common. They ask me to match the child's uniform color. Black shoes. Hair styled just so. What might seem like small details are, in fact, each a deeply earnest request.

Ms. Tamura, a single mother in her thirties, had requested that I attend her son Taichi's elementary school entrance ceremony as his 'father'. Taichi had been told, 'Dad is busy with work and can't always meet you, but he'll be there for important days.' Taichi didn't know my face; today would be our first 'encounter'.

I met Ms. Tamura at the station, and we had a brief discussion. We went over Taichi's favorite things, his recent catchphrases, and how he preferred to be addressed. Each time, I commit such details to memory. In those fifteen minutes, I noticed Ms. Tamura's hands were trembling.

When I asked, "Are you alright?" she smiled faintly and said, "I'm more nervous than he is."

Taichi was much smaller than I had imagined. His school backpack was almost half his body. The moment Ms. Tamura said, "Look, it's Dad," Taichi tightly gripped my hand. Without a moment's hesitation.

This is the moment that always gets to me the most.

Children don't doubt. If their mother says, 'This is your father,' then he becomes their father. The strength of his grip on my hand conveyed pure trust. Only adults are capable of deception. In Taichi's world, a father came today. That alone was the truth, nothing more, nothing less.

We took a picture in front of the school gate. When Ms. Tamura said, "The three of us, as a family," I offered my usual smile. But whether it was a 'forced smile' or not, honestly, I couldn't say. When Taichi looked up at me and exclaimed, "Dad, you're so tall!" my face was, I admit, genuinely smiling.

Entering the entrance ceremony venue, it was overflowing with families. Families with both a father and a mother, families where even grandparents had come. Amidst them all, Ms. Tamura was clearly relieved by my presence beside her. I could see the tension in her shoulders, once held tight by the weight of others' gazes, ease just a little.

As I continue this work, April is always a month when requests particularly surge. Entrance ceremonies, parent-teacher meetings, home visits – I believe schools are places where the 'form of family' is most visibly laid bare.

One single mother client—let's call her Ms. Sato—once told me, "I don't believe my child is pitiful. But the gazes of others, they make a child pitiful."

Ms. Sato's daughter, when her father didn't come to a kindergarten observation day, was asked by a friend, "Why isn't your dad here?" The little girl silently looked down. That night, she didn't touch her dinner. And from the next day, she began to say, "I don't want to go to observation days."

Several weeks later, Ms. Sato contacted Family Romance. "I just want my daughter to wear a normal expression on her face." That was the sole motivation for her request. No grand performance, no dramatic story was needed. She simply wanted a man standing beside her. "I want to buy 'normalcy'." When she said that, my chest tightened.

What kind of society is this, I wonder, where 'normalcy' has become such an unattainable luxury?

During the entrance ceremony, Taichi pulled my sleeve several times. "Dad, is that teacher scary?" "Dad, I need to use the restroom." Each time, I whispered my replies: "No, he's not scary." "Shall we go together?"

After the ceremony, during the explanation in the classroom, Taichi sat on my lap. Ms. Tamura sat beside us, diligently taking notes of the teacher's words. If you were to capture only this scene, it would portray an ordinary family, indistinguishable from any other.

I have served as 'father' to over 35 children in 23 families. Not a single one is related by blood. Yet, the weight of the child on my lap is always real. The voice calling out 'Dad' is real. So, does that make me a fake?

I am often asked, "Aren't you deceiving the children?" I, too, have grappled with that question for a long time. There is no simple answer. But one thing is certain: when Taichi gripped my hand, that strength was real. Taichi's sense of security was real. If those feelings are genuine, then I cannot dismiss them as a lie.

Is a family 'real' simply because there's a blood connection? It's not that simple. There are fathers related by blood who inflict violence. There are fathers related by blood who never come to visit. So then, what exactly is 'real'? I am still immersed in this question, seeking an answer.

Single-parent households continue to increase. This in itself isn't to say that divorce is inherently bad; rather, there's also the aspect that people are now able to escape relationships they should have left. The true problem lies in the societal structure that allows single parents to slip through the safety net the moment they become one.

Speaking with single mother clients, what I consistently feel is the profound weight of the word 'isolation'. It's not merely economic hardship. There's no one to confide in. No relatives to rely upon. At work, they hold back 'because they have children,' and within circles of 'mom friends,' they are kept at a distance 'because there's no father.' It's a pervasive sense of drifting, of never fully belonging anywhere.

A common reason for requests to Family Romance is, "My child will stand out if there's no father at the entrance ceremony." But as I listen to their stories, what they truly yearn for isn't merely a 'father' for a few hours at an entrance ceremony, but someone who will regularly ask, 'Are you alright?'

Our service also includes care for the elderly and acting as a stand-in friend. Though the forms differ, the root is the same. People cannot live alone. This is a fundamental truth, yet this country attempts to resolve this fundamental need through individual effort alone. I believe the fact that requests for father roles flood in for April's entrance ceremonies reflects the profound depth of isolation within this society.

The entrance ceremony was over, and I said goodbye to Ms. Tamura and Taichi-kun outside the school gate. Taichi-kun waved his hand, saying, "Dad, come again!" I replied, "I will come again." Whether that promise will turn out to be a lie or the truth, that all depends on Ms. Tamura.

Ms. Tamura bowed deeply, and said, "Thank you so much for today. It's been a long time since I've seen my son with such a joyful expression."

Walking towards the station, I took off my tie. The navy-blue tie. The tie Taichi-kun had chosen. Once I take it off, I am no longer 'Taichi-kun's dad.' I become Yuichi Ishii again.

But I cannot fully return.

When I've been doing this job for a long time, there are moments when I don't know who I am anymore. When I laugh in my private life, is it a genuine smile, or a smile trained to be shown in front of others? The boundaries melt away.

Even so, I've never thought of quitting. I still remember the warmth of Taichi-kun's hand. That warmth certainly warmed something within me. I don't want them to become dependent on me. I want Taichi-kun to use me as a stepping stone to build genuine human relationships. I want Ms. Tamura to someday no longer need me. That is the ideal way for this job to end.

In truth, it would be better if a service like this didn't exist. It would be better to live in a society where children can proudly go to school without needing to hire someone to play a father's role at their entrance ceremony. It would be better to live in a society where single mothers don't have to 'buy normalcy.'

But today, the phone still rings. And tomorrow, requests will keep coming in. As long as there are people who need me, I will continue to be there.

On the train home, my eyes fell upon the two remaining ties in my bag. Red and grey. I didn't use them today. But at another entrance ceremony next week, I might have to choose one of them.

April still stretches on.

Next April, I hold a small wish that Ms. Tamura won't call. That Taichi-kun will be able to pass through the school gate with just his mother. But if the call does come, I will once again leave home with three ties.

Because that is what I can do right now.