自由研究の隣に座る、知らない父親のこと

"I don't get this part, Dad."

A third-grade boy—let's call him Yuta—was biting the tip of his pencil, his math workbook open. I sat beside him, working on a long multiplication problem, 23 x 4, together. It was such a simple thing. And yet, that simple thing had been missing from this home.

The request from Yuta's mother, Sayaka, was simple: "I'd like a father figure to help with his summer homework." That was all. Not a cram school teacher. Not a private tutor. Just "a dad" who would sit next to him at the living room table, sipping barley tea, and supervise his homework. I accepted that role.

It was late July, and cicadas were buzzing relentlessly outside the window. In the air-conditioned living room, I leaned over Yuta's long multiplication and said, "If you write down the carried-over numbers small, you won't forget them." Yuta asked, "Did you do that too, Dad?" I paused for a moment, then replied, "Yes, I did." It wasn't a lie; I had done the same when I was a child. But I was not Yuta's real father.

Every time I take on a request like this, something occurs to me. The true essence of the request isn't the homework itself.

Sayaka has been divorced for three years. Yuta's father left when Yuta was in kindergarten. Child support is paid, and there are visitation arrangements. But in reality, his father visits once a year, if that. Whenever Yuta is asked at school, "What did you do with your dad?", he falls silent. Once summer vacation begins, those questions become even more specific: "Did you go to the pool with your dad?" "Did you do your independent research project with your dad?"

What Sayaka sought from me wasn't academic improvement. It was for Yuta to be able to say in the second semester, "I did my homework with my dad." To create that one simple fact. That was the true essence of the request.

In our service, requests for such "father substitutes" increase in the summer. It's different from the autumn sports festivals or the winter parent-teacher conferences. Summer vacation is long. And the longer it is, the longer the "time without a father" becomes. Children, within that extended period, become aware of what's missing in their own homes. Sayaka knew this, which is why she contacted me in July.

Among all the homework, the most challenging was the independent research project. The difficulty wasn't in its content. It was difficult to maintain the right distance.

Yuta said he wanted to do "Ant Nest Observation." He planned to put sugar in the garden and observe where the ants came from. I said, "Sounds great, that's interesting!" and we went out to the garden together. Under the scorching sun, over thirty-five degrees Celsius, we both squatted down and watched the procession of ants. I almost blurted out things like, "These are black garden ants, aren't they?" or "They're following a pheromone trail!" But Sayaka had told me beforehand: "I don't want you to teach him. I want you to discover things together."

This was an important lesson for me. A father's role isn't to impart knowledge. It's to look at the same thing beside them and be amazed together, saying, "Wow, that's incredible!" I bit back my words and simply said, "I wonder why these ants walk in such a straight line." Yuta's eyes lit up, and he declared, "I'll look it up!" In that moment, I truly felt that I was there as a "father," not a "teacher."

A private tutor would teach the correct answer. A cram school teacher would teach efficiency. But a father is someone who can enjoy the unknown together, even if it remains unknown. At least, that's what I believe.

During our third visit, we tackled his book report. The book Yuta chose was a story about a father and son on an adventure. I don't know if Sayaka chose it, or if he picked it himself. I didn't ask. It felt like I shouldn't.

Yuta had finished the book, but he was stuck in front of the composition paper. He said, "I don't know what to write." I asked, "What's the part you remember most?" Yuta replied, "The part where the dad gets hurt, and the son helps him." When I asked, "How did that part make you feel?", Yuta was silent for a moment, then murmured, "I want to help my dad too."

And then, he cried.

I couldn't say anything. Still sitting beside him, I gently placed a hand on his back. Even now, I don't know if that was the right response. A real father might have hugged him. But I am a rental father. How far I'm allowed to step in, that boundary is always blurry.

After a while, Yuta sniffled and wrote the first line: "Reading this book reminded me of my dad."

That line wasn't meant for me. It was a message directed to his real father, wherever he might be. Seeing it, I simultaneously felt both the meaning of my presence here and the reason why I shouldn't be here.

I wonder who you did your summer homework with?

Perhaps many of you would say, "my mother." Indeed, in Japanese households, it's overwhelmingly mothers who oversee their children's studies. So, what does a father do? In many cases, they "watch over." Rather than teaching directly, they turn off the TV in the living room, creating an atmosphere conducive to study for the child. If there's a part the child doesn't understand, they'll lean in and say, "Let's see, let's see." Or they might go to the hardware store together to buy materials for the independent research project.

That isn't education. It's "being there." Just being present. That presence becomes a source of reassurance for the child.

That's precisely why absence stands out. Within the long stretch of summer vacation, a father's absence becomes an invisible wound. While some, like Sayaka, turn to rental services, many families live through it without being able to make such a request. What I do is merely a temporary first aid measure for a very small number of families. However, without that first aid, the wound might spread even further.

When summer vacation ends, Yuta will return to school. And he'll be able to say, "I did my independent research project with my dad." He finished his book report. He finished his math workbook. As a request, it's a success.

But I always stop here.

Once September arrives, I won't be coming anymore. I haven't told Yuta that. I've left it to Sayaka to explain how she sees fit. She might say, "Dad got busy with work." Or, perhaps another request will come in the fall: for me to attend his sports festival.

I am currently a father in twenty-three families. Over thirty-five children call me "Dad." Some of these relationships have continued for more than ten years. There was even a time when a child who was in fourth grade graduated high school and called me, saying, "I got in, Dad!" The emotion that surged within me when I received that call was not an act.

I don't know how long my relationship with Yuta-kun will last. Honestly, I hope the day comes when he no longer needs me. Either his real father returns, or Yuta-kun accepts his father's absence and learns to stand on his own two feet. I don't want him to depend on me. I want him to use me as a stepping stone to build true human connections. I always think this. Yet, even as I do, I will likely find myself peeking over someone's homework in another living room next summer.

On my last visit, Yuta-kun finished all his homework, raised both hands, and exclaimed, "Yay!" I high-fived him. Sayaka-san brought refills of barley tea, and the three of us ate watermelon. As we played a game of spitting out the seeds, Yuta-kun laughed heartily.

As I was leaving, Yuta-kun came to the entrance and said, "Dad, come again." I only replied, "Alright." I don't make promises. Because I can't.

Stepping into the apartment elevator, the moment I was alone, I let out a small sigh. Reaching into my pocket, I found Yuta-kun's short pencil. It was the one I had used for notes during his summer project. I had forgotten that Yuta-kun had given it to me, saying, "You can have it."

The pencil, now shortened to about five centimeters. Its tip was rounded, a testament to much writing.

Honestly, it would be better if a service like this didn't exist. But as long as there are people who need it, I will continue. I put the pencil back into my pocket and checked the address for my next assignment. Today was another day to be a "father" for a different family.

The July sky was an endless blue. I will surely never forget the day I looked up at that blueness with Yuta-kun. Even if Yuta-kun forgets, I will remember. Because I believe that is the only real thing a rental father can do.