「お父さん、来てくれてありがとう」が聞こえなくなる日

Sitting on the folding chair in the gymnasium, a faint chill lingered on my back. Even with the heating on, March gymnasiums have a bone-chilling cold. The mother sitting next to me—let's call her Yuki-san—whispered, "I'm nervous." I smiled and replied, "Me too." It wasn't a lie. No matter how many times I experience it, graduation ceremonies always carry a unique tension.

It was the graduation ceremony for Yuki-san's son, Takeru-kun. An elementary school graduation.

I became Takeru-kun's "father" when he was in the fourth grade. Yuki-san's request was simple: "I need a father who can come to sports days, parent-teacher conferences, and also parent-teacher-student meetings." After her divorce, she had completely lost contact with her ex-husband. Takeru-kun had been telling his school that "Dad is away on a work assignment," and she wanted me to fit that narrative.

During the first sports day, Takeru-kun didn't look directly at my face. Whenever our eyes seemed about to meet, he'd quickly look away. I thought that was fine. I was a stranger. I'd be more worried if he warmed up to me too quickly.

But children are a mystery. At the second sports day, Takeru-kun waved at me. During the third parent-teacher conference, he pulled my arm in the hallway, saying, "Dad, over here!" I remember the strength of that hand growing year by year.

And then the morning of the graduation ceremony arrived.

The song "Tabidachi no Hi ni" (On the Day of Departure) began to play in the gymnasium. Graduates were called by name, one by one, to receive their diplomas on stage. I held my video camera ready. Yuki-san had asked me to. Through the viewfinder, I followed Takeru-kun. I wanted to call out "Congratulations," but I couldn't draw attention to myself here. After all, I was "the father who had returned from a work assignment," and an unfamiliar face to the other parents. Naturally, but discreetly. Striking that balance is always required in this job.

The ceremony ended, and it was time for photographs on the school grounds. The cherry blossoms hadn't bloomed yet. But the March light was soft, brightly illuminating the children's faces. Takeru-kun came running towards Yuki-san and me.

"Dad, let's take a picture together!"

Takeru-kun stood between Yuki-san and me, and we asked another parent to take the photo. The three of us stood side by side, smiling. That picture, by all appearances, was a family photo.

—This—this is my job.

Requests for graduation ceremony stand-ins concentrate in March. Naturally. And every year, around this time, I find myself lost in thought.

A graduation ceremony is a ritual of transition. One period ends, and the next begins. That's true for the children, and presumably for their parents too. But what about for a "rental father"?

To be honest, graduation ceremonies often mark a turning point for me as well. There are cases where the requests end with elementary school graduation. Once they enter junior high, the children grow up. Some mothers, like Yuki-san, tell me, "We're alright now." That should, ideally, be a cause for joy. It means they no longer depend on me.

But there's a part of me that cannot rejoice.

I remember the strength of Takeru-kun's hand. That feeling of being pulled by him, "Dad, over here!" at a parent-teacher conference. That small hand that gripped the hem of my trousers when he fell and cried at a sports day. All those memories come flooding back in March.

To date, I have served as "father" to over thirty-five children in twenty-three families. How many times, among those, have I witnessed a graduation ceremony? Elementary school, junior high school, high school. At each graduation, there was a different child, and a different mother.

At one high school graduation, a girl—let's call her Misaki-san—for whom I had been "father" for over ten years, called me after the ceremony. "Dad, I graduated!" Her voice was buoyant. I said, "Congratulations." No other words would come. Ten years. A girl who was in fourth grade when we started had now graduated from high school. For those ten years, I had been "Dad." But I am not her father.

How am I supposed to reconcile this contradiction? I still don't know.

I'm often asked, "Isn't it hard, getting too emotionally involved?" My answer is, yes, it's hard. Of course, it's hard. But what does "hard" matter? A child is there, needing a "father." In the face of that fact, my own pain is but a small thing.

There's another question I'm often asked. "Isn't it a lie?"

A lie? Perhaps. I'm not a real father. There's no blood relation. No legal ties. Perhaps I don't even have the right, fundamentally, to sit beside them in the gym.

But I want them to look at that picture of the three of us taken on the school grounds. I want them to see Takeru-kun's smile. That smile is real. Yuki-san pressing the corners of her eyes was also real. And—I don't know if I should say this—my smile, in that moment, was also real.

If the feelings are real, then it is real. That's what I believe. If I didn't believe that, I couldn't continue this work.

There is just one thing, however, that I must not forget.

On the night of the graduation ceremony, I return home alone. Takeru-kun and Yuki-san go out for a celebratory meal, just the two of them. I am not there. I shouldn't be. My role as "father" concludes in the gymnasium and on the school grounds. There is no place for me at the family dinner table.

And that is how it must be. That is the correct way.

—And yet, my head understands this.

March nights are still cold. I walk to the station, my coat collar turned up. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It was a message from Yuki-san. "Thank you so very much for today. Takeru was absolutely delighted." Below it, a photo taken on the school grounds was attached.

A photo of the three of us laughing.

I didn't save it. I felt I shouldn't save it. This is Yuki-san's and Takeru-kun's memory, not mine. I was just there. No, I was merely "made to be present."

But that photo I didn't save, I will probably remember it forever.

Ideally, such a service wouldn't be needed. Every child should have a real father to attend their graduation. But that's not the reality. Given that reality isn't that way, when March comes, I will again put on a suit and sit on a folding chair. If the mother sitting next to me says, "I'm nervous," I'll reply, "Me too." And then I'll hold up a video camera, and through the viewfinder, wait for the name of a child who is not my own to be called.

I have a question for you.

What is truly needed at a graduation ceremony: a "real father"? Or is it "someone who is simply there"?

That answer has not yet come to me. And without that answer, March will come again. The gymnasium will be bone-chillingly cold, "On the Day of Departure" will play, and the children's names will be called one by one. I will clap. From the bottom of my heart, I will clap.

No one can call that applause a lie.