* All client names have been changed to protect privacy.
On New Year's Day morning, three messages arrived on my smartphone.
"Happy New Year, Dad! Let's make it a great year again!" — This was from Yuki-chan, a second-year middle school student. Three emojis lined up: a dog, a kadomatsu, and a heart. I replied, "Happy New Year. Let's do our best." I was carefully searching for just the right emotional tone, as a father.
The second message was from Misaki-san, a mother in her thirties. "The kids are eating ozoni and asking, 'When is Dad coming again?' lol." The third was a photo of a New Year's card from Take-san, in his seventies. Written in elegant calligraphy, it read: "To my son, are you doing well?" I am Take-san's "son."
On New Year's Day morning, my true self was alone in my futon. No Osechi, no Ozoni. And yet, three families were thinking of me. What would you call this strange state of affairs?
"Proof of Family" Arriving on New Year's
The year-end and New Year period is a time when requests for Family Romance services multiply. The reason is clear: there’s no season when the contours of "family" come into such sharp relief as during the New Year.
No husband for the family gathering. No partner to bring home to one's parents. Wanting to show "Grandpa" to the children visiting for the holidays. Wanting to take a family photo for New Year's cards. — While the motivations for these requests are diverse, I sense the same underlying essence: a fervent prayer to be "a normal family."
One year-end, I received a request from a woman in her forties named Mayumi-san. She had been divorced for three years and hadn't yet told her parents. "Could you play the role of my husband when I go home for New Year's?" As Mayumi-san's "husband," I ate Osechi at her parents' home, drank sake with her father, and praised her mother's simmered dishes. Her mother waved goodbye at the entrance, saying, "Please come again next year." I waved back with a smile. The moment we got into the car, Mayumi-san cried. "Thank you so much. My mother looked so happy." I couldn't say anything. The guilt of lying and the profound sense of having protected someone weighed equally in my chest.
"Real Families" Are Tested During the New Year
The New Year is cruel. Turn on the TV, and images of happy families gathering flow across the screen; supermarkets are lined with Osechi boxes proclaiming "for family gatherings." For elderly people living alone, the quietness of New Year's Day possesses a different quality from the quietness of any other day.
I want to tell you about Take-san. He is in his eighties, lives alone, lost his wife, and hasn't been in contact with his real son for over ten years. I became Take-san's "son" a few years ago. Once a month, I visit his home, and we drink tea together. We play shogi. Sometimes, I pat his shoulder. That's all.
But the New Year is a little different. When I send him a New Year's card, Take-san always sends one back. It's written in elegant calligraphy: "To my son." He apparently shows it to his neighbors, saying, "My son sent me a New Year's card, you know." I believe that card is, for Take-san, "proof that he has a family."
The real son doesn't send a New Year's card. The fake son does. So, which one is Take-san's "family"? I don't know. But when Take-san shows that New Year's card to his neighbors, his smile is real. That much, at least, is certain.
Is a Blood Tie a Necessary Condition for "Family"?
Currently, I am a "father" to over thirty-five children in twenty-three families. I have served as a "husband" to more than six hundred women. Looking at these numbers alone, you would probably consider it abnormal. I myself, at times, feel it is abnormal.
Yet, as I continue to stand in this field, one question repeatedly surfaces: If there is a blood connection, does that make it a real family?
A father who inflicts violence is a "real father." A mother who abandons her children is also a "real mother." A son who hasn't made contact for decades is still a "real son." In the singular fact of a blood connection, they are real. Yet, it is precisely those who have been hurt by these "real" people who come to me.
Yuki-chan's mother once told me, "You are more of a father than her biological father." I couldn't accept those words straightforwardly. I only see them once a month. I don't check homework, nor can I rush over if she gets a fever in the middle of the night. There's a subtle guilt, as if I'm only receiving the "pleasant parts" of fatherhood.
Even so, when Yuki-chan runs in a sports day race, I cheer her on with all my heart. If she falls, I genuinely worry. There is no lie in those feelings. If the emotions are real, then it is real — that's what I tell myself. The very act of telling myself this suggests that the answer has not yet emerged.
New Year's in a Society Where One Cannot Say "Help Me"
Why is a job like mine even necessary? I cannot avoid confronting this question.
In Japan, there's an unspoken expectation that "family matters are for the family." This pressure intensifies further during the New Year. A seemingly casual question like, "Are you spending New Year's with your family?" can pierce someone's heart. People without family, those whose family relationships are fractured, or those who continually lie to their families — they are forced to perform "normalcy" during the New Year.
Proxy attendance at weddings, apology representation, friend rental — various requests arrive at Family Romance. Yet, those concentrated during the New Year are, as expected, related to "family": husband proxies, father proxies, son proxies, grandchild proxies. In essence, people attempt to fill the void during the season when they most acutely feel "the absence of family."
What I believe is that this is not an individual problem. It's a problem of a society that makes isolation feel shameful. It's a problem of an atmosphere where one cannot simply say, "help me." My service exists in the gaps of that atmosphere. Frankly, it would be better if such a service didn't exist. But as long as there are people who need it, I will continue, all the while wishing for the day it becomes unnecessary.
Reflecting on "Who Am I?" on New Year's Day
On New Year's night, after I had finished replying to the three families' messages, I suddenly found myself pondering. Who am I, I wondered.
In front of Yuki-chan, I am a gentle father. At Mayumi-san's parents' home, I am a serene husband. In front of Take-san, I am a dutiful son. Each of these is me, yet none of them are entirely me. After I step out of a role, what remains of me beyond my name?
To be honest, there are moments when I question if I'm acting even in my private life. When talking with friends, when talking with a lover, I find myself doubting, "Is this my true self? Or an optimized version of myself?" This sensation of my identity's contours dissolving is frightening.
Yet, when I reread the three messages that arrived on New Year's Day morning, a strange calm settles over me. At the very least, for these three families, I was a necessary presence. That fact sustains me. A fake father, sustained by fake relationships. Is this irony? Or is it, perhaps, the very essence of being human?
Beyond "Happy New Year"
One of my staff members passed away last year. He was a man in his sixties who had served as "Grandpa" for a certain family for many years. The client family doesn't know about his death. They couldn't even attend his funeral. When the child must have said, "Grandpa hasn't visited lately," how did the mother explain it? I introduced another staff member to that family. A new "Grandpa." Whether this was the right thing to do, I still don't know.
Yet, without truly understanding, I continue to stand in the moment.
A new year has begun. This year, too, I will become someone's father, someone's husband, someone's son. In each and every one of those moments, I will continue to confront the question, "What is family?" No answer will emerge. And without an answer, the year will draw to a close once more.
For you, what is "family"?
Is it blood? A legal bond? Living together? Or—is it the very emotion of genuinely caring for someone?
On the morning of New Year's Day, my futon was cold. But my smartphone screen was warm. I don't consider that warmth to be fake. I don't want to. I've decided not to.
I hope for your continued kindness this year. —To my three families, and to you, who read these words.
「本当はこんなサービスはないほうがいい。でも、必要としている人がいる限り、続ける」
— 石井裕一