踏み台でいい——僕が続ける理由

On a Sunday in November, I sat on a park bench. Beside me was a third-grader; let's call him Shota. As he carefully lined up acorns on his lap, one by one, he suddenly asked, "Dad, will you be my stepping stone?"

It seemed he wanted to retrieve a plastic bag dangling from a high branch. I got off the bench and crouched at the base of the tree. Shota climbed onto my shoulders, extended his small hand, and grasped the bag. His triumphant cry of "I got it!" ascended directly into the autumn sky.

A stepping stone. The word resonated with me, lingering in my heart. Perhaps, at its very core, that is precisely what I do. To be there, beneath someone, as they reach for something. Once they grasp it, my presence is no longer required. And that is fine. In fact, that is precisely how it should be.

After years of dedicating myself to this profession, what I eventually discovered was a quiet conviction, a resolve that it is perfectly acceptable to simply be a stepping stone.

In most professions, demonstrating one's indelible presence is the measure of success. A salesperson secures a contract; a creator leaves behind a lasting piece of work. Yet, our work diverges sharply from this norm. For us, success is precisely in our disappearance.

Consider, for instance, the case of attending a wedding as a stand-in. It is not at all unusual to receive requests from brides who find themselves with an extremely limited circle of friends. Let us imagine a woman named Misaki. A series of workplace transfers had gradually alienated Misaki from her local friends, leaving her with a profound worry: "What will the groom's family think if the friends' seats remain empty?" This anxiety alone, she confided, had stolen her ability to sleep at night.

Four of our staff members attended the ceremony, assuming the role of friends. We had meticulously "shared memories" with Misaki beforehand and even rehearsed the order of speeches. As the reception drew to a close, Misaki, tears streaming down her face, uttered these words: "Now, I can finally embark on a normal beginning."

A normal beginning. Can you truly grasp the profound weight of those words? For her, that wedding ceremony marked the absolute zero-point for forging new human connections. We were there solely to establish that starting line, and the instant the ceremony concluded, our purpose was fulfilled. We might appear in the photographs, but we will never cross paths again. The groom's family will forever remain unaware whether those friends were "genuine" or not.

There exists a form of success that can only be validated through our absence. Though it may appear paradoxical, I carry this with a quiet sense of pride.

With the arrival of November, we observe a distinct surge in requests. As the year-end draws near, people inevitably look back and lament, "I was alone again this year." The particular solitude of never being invited to year-end parties. The quiet dread of facing Christmas and the New Year holidays by oneself. These raw emotions begin to silently burgeon around November.

Quite recently, I received a request that has lingered in my mind. It came from a man in his fifties; let us refer to him as Mr. Tanaka. His solitary request was, quite simply, "I want to be scolded."

Mr. Tanaka held a managerial position, accustomed to issuing directives to his subordinates. Yet, he lamented that there was no one left in his life who would dare to admonish him. His parents had long since passed, he was divorced from his wife, and his friendships had dwindled to mere exchanges of New Year's cards. "Even when I am wrong," Mr. Tanaka confided, "there is no one to stop me. That, more than anything, is what truly frightens me."

As Mr. Tanaka's "superior," I meet with him once a month, listening to his recent affairs and, at times, delivering stark assessments. "Isn't that decision rather lenient?" "Are you genuinely listening to your subordinates?" Each time, Mr. Tanaka would wear a faint expression of chagrin, yet, without fail, he would ultimately bow his head and utter, "Thank you."

The very act of admonishment, I believe, is impossible unless one harbors faith in the other person's future. No one takes the effort to scold someone they deem inconsequential. What Mr. Tanaka truly sought, I surmise, was not to be bellowed at, but rather "someone who would believe in his future." What does it say about a society that such a fundamental human need must be fulfilled through a rental service? I always find myself pausing at that very thought.

Occasionally, I am asked, "Are those truly authentic emotions?" It is a question I have posed to myself countless times.

I have acted as a father in twenty-three families, and I meticulously recall the birthdays of over thirty-five children. At school sports days, my nerves are taut, vigilant against calling out an incorrect name. When a child who has passed their exams calls, exclaiming, "Dad, I passed!", their voice choked with emotion, can the feelings that well up within my own chest truly be a falsehood?

The answer eludes me. Yet, one truth remains undeniable. When that child wept on the other end of the phone, my own eyes were also moist. If there is anyone who can unequivocally declare that to be mere "acting," then I implore them to instruct me on the very nature of emotion.

Does the mere bond of blood guarantee a true family? Does the submission of a marriage certificate signify an authentic couple? I have been disabused of such simplistic notions hundreds of times through my work. The age in which mere formalities could vouchsafe authenticity has, regrettably, long since drawn to a close.

If the emotion itself is genuine, then it is, by its very nature, real. This is my steadfast conviction. Without such a belief, I could not possibly sustain this work.

There are times when I overhear the pronouncement, "Lonely individuals are simply reaping what they sow." The arguments are always the same: their communication skills are lacking; their efforts are insufficient; they fail to proactively engage with others. It is, undeniably, far too easy to summarily dismiss them in such a manner.

And yet, my observations from the front lines reveal an overwhelming number of cases where this simplistic judgment simply does not hold true. There are individuals who were confined to their homes for a decade due to the demands of caregiving. There are those whose capacity for trust was shattered by the traumas of childhood abuse. And there are people whose social connections were utterly reset with each successive job transfer, only to look up and realize they were fifty. None of these individuals were idle or neglectful. They simply, somewhere along life's intricate path, fastened a wrong button.

There exists a service we provide, that of proxy elder companionship. Our staff members regularly visit elderly parents who live apart from their children, not proclaiming, "I have come in place of your son," but rather assuming the guise of "someone who lives nearby." We share tea, discuss television programs, and gently confirm that their medication has been taken. The genuine son, meanwhile, labors abroad, able to return home only once a year. And that son, in turn, harbors his own quiet loneliness.

Loneliness, I have come to believe, is not merely an individual's plight, but a profound byproduct of society's very structure. The demand for our services, in itself, stands as stark evidence of these societal distortions. In an ideal world, such a service would, indeed, be utterly unnecessary. And yet, as long as there are individuals who find themselves in need, I will persist.

There exists a profound apprehension that weighs upon me most heavily. It is the fear that our clients might become dependent upon us.

I have, in my capacity, acted as a "husband" to over six hundred women. Among these, some have chosen to continue our arrangement for many years. Twice a month, we share meals as a couple, accompany each other on shopping trips, and occasionally even partake in family gatherings. It is not uncommon—indeed, it has happened more than once or twice—to be proposed to by a client's mother, who earnestly asks, "Won't you truly marry my daughter?"

Each time, it causes me pain. Though I should be a stepping stone, the stepping stone itself has become the destination. That is my failure.

That's why I try to tell my clients: "I don't want you to depend on me. I want you to use me to build real human connections." There are people who made genuine friends thanks to my proxy attendance at a wedding. Others, after using my father-proxy service, reconciled with their biological fathers. They kicked off of me, the stepping stone, and reached for a higher place with their own feet.

But there are also those who cannot kick off. Those who cannot step down from the stepping stone. What should I do for them? Honestly, I haven't found the answer yet. Still, I won't stop being at their feet. That is the very best I can do right now.

That day, after Shouta-kun took a plastic bag from a tree branch, he peeked inside and laughed, "What, it's empty!" I laughed too. Sometimes, a hand stretched out to grasp something will only grasp emptiness. But the fact that one reached out does not disappear.

The November wind was a little cold. Shouta-kun held my hand and walked to the park exit. The warmth of that hand was real. At least, in that moment.

Someday, I will disappear from Shouta-kun's life. I must disappear. The day he confronts his real father might come, or it might not. That is not for me to decide.

Just, if someday, when he reaches out to someone, he vaguely remembers, "Long ago, there was someone who lent me their shoulder," that will be enough. He doesn't need to remember my name. He can forget my face, too.

A stepping stone needs only to leave behind the traces of having been stepped on.