運動会で声を枯らす男

"Dad, did you see? Did you see?"

A boy, breathless from running, tugs at the hem of my tracksuit. He was the anchor in the relay, passing someone on the final curve. My throat stings because I'd been cheering so loudly until just now. "I saw it," I told him. "That last curve was incredible." His sweaty face crumpled into a joyful smile.

He isn't my real child. Let's call his mother Ms. Sasaki. I'm here at this sports day as his "father," a request from her. Every October, these kinds of requests increase: sports days, school plays, parent-teacher conferences. Autumn is truly "the season when fathers are needed."

As October begins, my schedule book quickly bursts into color: red for sports days, blue for school plays, green for parent-teacher conferences. Most weekends are completely booked. On busy days, I sometimes even hop between different schools in the morning and afternoon.

Family Romance has over five thousand staff members, but in cases where I've played a father for an extended period, many clients express a wish not to change the person in charge. The child already recognizes me as their "father," and bringing someone else would only confuse them. That's why I continue to be the one present, year after year.

Ms. Sasaki's request began when her son, Takuma-kun, was in second grade. After her divorce, all contact with her ex-husband had completely ceased. I heard the catalyst was Takuma-kun crying, saying he was the only one whose father didn't come to sports day. At that first sports day, it took Takuma-kun quite some time to take my hand. Now, as soon as he finishes running, he comes straight to me.

Having done this job for a long time, the mere scent of October air now tightens my chest. The dust from the schoolyard, the international flags, and the aroma of karaage wafting from the parents' tents—for me, it's a scent where memories of countless families mingle and intertwine.

At these sports day events, the one thing I'm most meticulous about is "names."

I serve as a father figure for over thirty-five children across twenty-three families. Every child's name, their grade, class, their homeroom teacher's name, their close friends' names—I confirm them multiple times in advance. Even so, there are moments when, just as I'm about to cheer, another child's name almost slips from my throat.

There was a close call once. I had spent the morning shouting "Go, Shota!" at one elementary school, then moved to another school in the afternoon. Just before the relay started, my mouth instinctively began to form "Shota." But the child standing there was Takuma-kun. I swallowed the name just in time. I thought my heart would stop then and there.

If I get a name wrong, everything crumbles. Children are sensitive. "Dad, you got my name wrong"—that one sentence has the power to shatter the relationship I've carefully built. So, on the morning of a sports day, I repeatedly say the child's name out loud in my car, just like an actor checking their lines.

But it's different from being an actor. If there's a mistake in the script, you can reshoot. My stage has no retakes.

Something like this happened at a sports day when Takuma-kun was in fourth grade. When I picked him up, crying after being knocked off in the cavalry battle, I overheard a conversation between two mothers nearby. "Takuma-kun's dad, it's so wonderful he always comes," one said. Ms. Sasaki offered a vague smile.

I felt a strange emotion then. It's not me who's wonderful. It's Ms. Sasaki who's wonderful, preparing everything each time, telling her son, "Your dad is coming," and making a two-tiered lunchbox. I'm merely standing there.

Is a family "real" simply because there's a blood connection? I don't think it's that simple. Is a father who plays catch in the park every Sunday real, and am I, who appears at a sports day only once a year, merely fake? Then what about a father who's blood-related but never comes to his child's events? What truly defines "real"?

The smile Takuma-kun shows me is real. The feelings I have in response are not false, either. But someday, I will disappear from this child's life. Thinking of that, even as I cheer myself hoarse, something inside me aches.

Single-parent households continue to increase. That itself is a fact demonstrated by statistics. But there are things that don't appear in the numbers: a child's gaze, scanning their surroundings in front of the school gate on the morning of a sports day, those few seconds of silence as they compare themselves to families with both parents present.

Requests related to sports days that come to Family Romance are increasing year by year. Most of these requests come from mothers. "I know I'm enough on my own," they say. "But when my child says, 'I want Dad to come too,' I want to be able to fulfill that wish." Ms. Sasaki also said the same thing.

Society is trying to acknowledge "diverse forms of families." I think that's the right direction. However, it's cruel to expect an elementary school child to understand that. Children judge the world by the scene in front of their eyes: whether a father is next to them or not. That is everything to that child.

I don't have the power to change social systems. All I can do is stand on the schoolyard on sports day and shout one child's name. Even if it's a false presence, if it allows that child to run with confidence, I will stand there.

When the sports day ends, I always return to my car alone. Ms. Sasaki and Takuma-kun leave through the main gate. I exit through the back gate and walk to my car, parked a little distance away. This is because if I'm seen "going home together" by other children's friends or parents, my cover might be blown.

The moment I close the car door, silence descends. The cheers, announcements, and children's laughter from moments ago vanish as if they were never real, and only my own rough breathing can be heard. My throat is hoarse, and even after drinking water, the stinging sensation remains.

Sometimes, I can't move for a while, just gripping the steering wheel. I lose track of where my emotions belong. Takuma-kun's smile was real. My cheers were genuine too. But after this, I'll check another family's schedule and rehearse another child's name. Where am I, the person, in all of this?

There are moments when the boundary blurs between whether I'm acting even in my private life or if this is my true self. When I'm with my wife or friends, I sometimes suddenly wonder, "Which role am I playing now?" Perhaps that is the price I continue to pay for doing this job.

Nevertheless, when October comes, I will stand on the schoolyard again, a throat lozenge hidden in my pocket.

Takuma is in sixth grade this year. Next year, he'll be in junior high. While some junior high schools still have sports festivals, the custom of fathers coming to cheer on their children tends to fade. Ms. Sasaki and I have talked about it: 'Once he's in junior high, let's slowly begin to distance ourselves.'

'Slowly creating distance.' Easy to utter, but it is the most difficult thing. I don't want him to depend on me. I want him to use me to forge genuine human connections. I always hold that thought. But when I'm there, in the moment, I come to realize how cruel that ideal can be. For Takuma, I might have become 'real human connection' itself.

Someday, Takuma will grow into an adult and attend his own child's sports day. When that day comes, will he recall the 'father' who cheered himself hoarse at his elementary school's sports festival? If he does remember, will it be a warm memory? Or will he learn the truth and feel betrayed?

I don't know. And without knowing, I lost my voice again this year.

In truth, it would be better if a service like this didn't exist. Yet, as long as there is a child in the October schoolyard calling out my name—or, to be precise, the name of someone who isn't truly me—I will continue to stand there.

By the time the stinging in my throat subsides, the request for the next sports day has already arrived.