叱られたい大人たち——誰にも怒ってもらえない孤独について

"Please, scold me in earnest."

This past August, amidst the oppressive heat, the man across from me in a Tokyo family restaurant — let's call him Mr. Takagi — spoke those words, his hands gently cupping a glass of iced coffee. Thirty-four years old, a mid-level manager at an IT company. His appearance was neat, his voice calm. By all accounts, he seemed utterly unlike someone who required a scolding.

Yet, his eyes held a profound earnestness.

Alongside over 5,000 staff members, I've undertaken every conceivable "relationship proxy" service: acting as a stand-in father, friend, apologizer, even attending weddings on behalf of others. Yet, "proxy scolding" — when I first received such a request, I must confess, I was bewildered. People, as a rule, don't wish to be scolded. They don't want to be angered at. I'd always assumed this was a fundamental truth.

Mr. Takagi, however, defied this inherent understanding.

Listening to Mr. Takagi's story, I found myself rendered speechless.

He had lost both parents in quick succession a few years prior. There were no siblings. At work, he was known as "the capable one," relied upon by both his superiors and subordinates alike. He had friends, yet never engaged in deep conversations. There was no romantic partner in his life.

"I can't recall the last time someone genuinely got angry with me."

Mr. Takagi uttered these words. Even when he made a mistake at work, those around him were careful, never speaking too harshly. He was left with no choice but to discipline himself. Yet, there's a limit to self-reproach. Uttering "get a grip" to one's reflection is merely a monologue. It holds no resonance.

"To have someone who gets angry at you, I believe, is to be loved."

These words pierced my heart. To scold someone is an act possible only when one believes in that person's future. One doesn't get angry at those they deem insignificant. They wouldn't even expend the energy to do so. Mr. Takagi had lost someone who would direct that vital energy towards him.

August in Tokyo is cruelly, brutally bright. Outside the window, cicadas chirped, and families with children enjoyed shaved ice. That very scene seemed to magnify Mr. Takagi's solitude, making it stand out all the more.

When it comes to actually performing a "proxy scolding," the task proves far more challenging than one might imagine.

For a proxy apology, there exists a certain "form" to follow: the precise angle of a bow, the tone of voice, the careful selection of words. Proxy wedding attendance also comes with its established procedures. But for "scolding," no script can ever be created. Shouting formally, simply for the sake of it, will not resonate with the other person. Worse, it becomes outright comical.

During our preliminary discussion with Mr. Takagi, I found myself repeatedly seeking clarification. In what specific scenarios did he wish to be scolded? What words, precisely, would resonate and truly pierce him? We delved into his daily habits, his work-related anxieties, and all the things he had been procrastinating on. It felt remarkably akin to a counseling session.

Ultimately, the role I chose was that of a "father." Mr. Takagi had mentioned that his relationship with his late father was a good one. He was strict, he said, but always watched over him.

On the appointed day, Mr. Takagi and I entered a private room at an izakaya. After a single beer, I questioned him, point by point, about everything he had recently been neglecting, running from, and those things he knew he shouldn't be doing yet couldn't stop. And then, I spoke as earnestly as I possibly could.

"You know this better than anyone, don't you? Don't you dare run away."

Mr. Takagi wept. Silently, he simply let the tears flow. A thirty-four-year-old man, crying before a complete stranger on an August night. Yet, in that moment, I believe I was no longer a complete stranger. At least, for that fleeting instant.

I always find myself returning to this persistent question.

When I scolded Mr. Takagi, were my emotions merely an act? To be frank, it wasn't entirely a performance. As I listened to his story, something began to stir within me: a sense of impatience, of frustration, the quiet conviction that "you are capable of more." Perhaps these were emotions born of my profession, but they were undeniably genuine.

I have played "father" to over thirty-five children across twenty-three families. I have served as "husband" to more than six hundred women. Within these roles, I have felt one truth time and again: emotions are not swayed by the authenticity or artificiality of a relationship. Does a blood connection alone make a family genuine? Does a contractual bond automatically render it false? The matter is simply not that straightforward.

The tears Mr. Takagi shed were undeniably real. The emotion I felt, akin to frustration, was equally authentic. If so, then wasn't that "scolding" itself real?

Of course, it's not so simple as to be resolved by such neat logic. The following morning, I head to another location, as always, to become someone else's "father" or "friend." Mr. Takagi's story, I file away in a drawer within my heart, until the next time I might retrieve it. Such is the nature of a professional's work. Yet, merely because something is put away does not mean it vanishes.

Requests such as Mr. Takagi's, I've observed, are actually on the rise.

As nuclear families become more prevalent, community ties weaken, and in the workplace, fear of harassment has silenced strong words from everyone. This in itself isn't a bad thing. I, too, have no desire to return to an era of unreasonable shouting. Yet, as a result, "adults who are never reprimanded" are emerging. This is an unforeseen side effect.

Inquiries for our scolding proxy service have been gradually increasing on the Family Romance website. "I want to be reprimanded to correct my lifestyle habits," "I'm contemplating a career change, and instead of being encouraged, I want my self-indulgence pointed out," "I can't stick to my diet, so I need regular firm admonishments." The reasons vary, but at their root, they are all the same.

There is no one who will genuinely engage with them.

Social media overflows with "likes." Everyone affirms and encourages each other. That, in itself, is beautiful. But people cannot stand on affirmation alone. Only when there is someone who tells you, "You can't go on like that," do your own boundaries become clear. A reprimand, I believe, is in a sense the most intimate form of communication.

On the night Mr. Takagi's request concluded, I swayed alone on the train ride home, lost in thought.

Who was I today when I reprimanded him? A father substitute? A counselor? Or simply Yuichi Ishii?

There are moments in this job when I can't tell if I'm acting even in my private life. When I reprimand my own child, I sometimes wonder, "Is this my true feeling, or is it just years of proxy experience ingrained in my body?" How much of this is me, and where does the "role" begin? That boundary line grows blurrier with each passing year.

Yet, in that moment when I reprimanded Mr. Takagi, I was genuinely angry. Angry at him for wasting his own talent. That was an emotion not in the script. It wasn't a line I'd prepared in our meeting.

So, I've decided to believe that it was for the best. "I've decided to believe" is the only way I can put it. I can't be certain. There is no certainty in this line of work. All there is, is the feeling that the person before me might have felt a little bit lighter.

Mr. Takagi contacted me only once after that.

"Since that day, I've started running every morning."

That was all. And that was enough.

I don't want them to become dependent on me. I want them to use me to build real human relationships. I always feel that way. This is especially true for the scolding proxy service. There's no meaning in me continually reprimanding someone forever. If a single "reprimand" can light a small fire within that person, then my role is complete.

Ideally, a service like this shouldn't even be necessary. It would be ideal if everyone had someone in their life who would genuinely reprimand them. But reality isn't like that. As long as there are people who need it, I will continue.

August is drawing to a close. The cicadas' cries are gradually fading. I wonder if Mr. Takagi is running this morning, too. For me now, there's no way to confirm. Nor is there a need to confirm.

To reprimand is to believe. To believe that the other person can change. And after reprimanding, it is to let go. That is the only certain thing I have learned from this job.