クリスマスの夜、演じる男

On Christmas Eve, I had two cakes.

One was for a delivery at 5 PM. The other, for 8 PM. I would return to two different homes, as two different "husbands." December 24th becomes the longest day of the year for me. On the train, I change my tie color, switch the ring on my left ring finger. A silver ring for the 5 PM home. Gold for the 8 PM home. One mistake and it's all over.

When I opened the door of the first home, a six-year-old girl came running. "Papa, welcome home!" Her name is Yui-chan. It's been three years since I became the "husband" in this household. The "Papa" Yui-chan remembers has always been me, from the very beginning. She doesn't know her real father's face.

Manami-san, the client, said in a small voice before I took off my coat, "Thank you for today." Her eyes were a little red. I believe she had been crying. But I pretended not to notice, and smiled, saying, "I'm home." Because I'm her husband. Not just for tonight, but a husband of three years.

As December begins, requests surge. Especially on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve. "Rental husband" requests more than triple the usual amount.

The reasons vary. A mother raising a child alone after divorce wants to show her child a "family Christmas scene." Or, parents from their hometown, who believe they have a husband, are visiting at the end of the year, so things must be made to align. A single woman who lied to her ailing parents that she "got married" needs a husband to play the part during her year-end visit home.

Behind every request, there is a pressing, earnest circumstance.

The two families I visited this Christmas Eve also carried different pains. The first, Manami-san, divorced due to domestic violence. She hasn't told Yui-chan about her ex-husband's abuse. After a period of telling her, "Papa is busy with work and can't come home often," I eventually became "Papa." A father who comes twice a month on Sundays. A father who always comes for Christmas and birthdays. For Yui-chan, I am the "busy but kind Papa."

The second cake, delivered at eight, was for Keiko-san, a woman in her forties. Keiko-san has no children. She lives alone. She calls on me as her "husband" a few times a year. Mostly for family gatherings, work events, and Christmas. Keiko-san said, "It's not being alone on Christmas Eve that scares me. It's the morning after spending Christmas Eve alone." Those words have stayed with me ever since.

Christmas at Yui-chan's house follows the same routine every year.

I come home. We eat cake together. Yui-chan shows me the wreath she made at kindergarten. I say, "That's amazing." Manami-san serves her home-cooked meal. The three of us gather around the dining table. After Yui-chan falls asleep, I place the present by her bedside and quietly leave the house.

This year, only one thing was different.

Mid-meal, Yui-chan suddenly asked, "Hey Papa, is Santa Claus real?" Apparently, her friends at kindergarten told her, "Santa is your dad." I was momentarily speechless. My eyes met Manami-san's.

"Hmm, what do you think?" I asked back. Yui-chan thought for a moment and then said, "I think he is. Because Papa isn't Santa. Papa is Papa."

My heart ached.

For this child, Santa's true identity might be "Papa." But this child doesn't know the true identity of that "Papa." I'm not her real father. Yet, it's I who places the present by her bedside. If Santa's true identity is the father, then I am also Santa. A real Santa, played by a fake father. I've always stood in the midst of such contradictions.

Having served as a "husband" to over six hundred women, there is one thing I am certain of.

A "real husband" is not something determined by law.

I've seen hundreds of homes where the legal husband is not truly present. Not due to a work transfer. He is there, yet he isn't. Living under the same roof, yet never speaking a word. Never attending a child's school event. Not noticing when his wife cries. Or, noticing and simply ignoring.

Is that a "real husband"?

I only come twice a month. My name isn't on the family registry. But I go to Yui-chan's sports day every year. I send Manami-san a message on her birthday. I clearly remember the drawings Yui-chan makes. Last month she drew a giraffe. Before that, a rabbit.

Is this "fake"?

I often ponder this. No blood ties, no legal contract, no shared address. Yet, the warmth I felt at that dining table was real. The resonance of Yui-chan's voice calling me "Papa" was real. Manami-san's tears when she said "Thank you" were real. If the emotions are real, then it is real. I want to believe that. If I didn't, I couldn't continue this work.

Having continued this work for a long time, I can see societal changes reflected in the nature of the requests.

Ten years ago, most "rental husband" requests for Christmas came from families with children. Homes without a father would arrange for one, for the child's sake. The motive was clear, and the child was the main focus.

But recently, things are different. Requests from women without children, like Keiko, are increasing. It’s not that anyone is blaming them for not having a partner; it’s that there are nights they themselves can’t bear to be alone. And these nights often fall on Christmas Eve.

Open social media, and you’re flooded with images of happy dinner tables. Couples holding hands under dazzling lights. Videos of children gleefully unwrapping presents. These are beautiful sights in themselves. But the brighter the light, the deeper the shadow it casts.

Every year, Keiko and I drink wine together. We don’t do anything special. We watch TV, chat a little, and I leave before the date changes. But Keiko once said, "Because you come, Mr. Ishii, I can face the morning of the 25th."

I genuinely believe it would be better if this service didn't exist. Yet, if I’m needed to help someone greet the morning of the 25th, I will go. I’ll go, changing my tie in the taxi, swapping out rings.

It was half past eleven at night when I left Keiko’s house.

I get into the taxi and remove the ring from my left hand. I tuck the gold band into its case. In my coat pocket, a silver ring still rests. Two rings. Two families. Two lives. Neither is truly mine.

The driver asked, "Are you working today?" "Yes, well, you could say that," I replied vaguely. Outside the window, Christmas illuminations streamed past.

It suddenly occurred to me: When was my own Christmas? It’s been years since I spent Christmas Eve for myself. A father to twenty-three families, a husband to over six hundred women, and yet, my real family…

I stopped thinking. Tomorrow is December 25th. I have three requests lined up from the morning. The first is a visit to a care facility, playing the "grandchild couple" for an elderly gentleman. He believes his grandchild is married. His dementia has progressed, and he greets us joyfully, as if for the very first time, every time.

The taxi arrived at my home. I unlocked the front door. Turned on the lights. An empty room. On the table, the convenience store chicken I’d bought was sitting, now cold.

I ate it without reheating it.

Once Christmas passes, the town rapidly shifts into New Year's mode. The illuminations vanish, kadomatsu stand tall. The Christmas songs that filled the air just yesterday give way to the ringing of New Year's Eve bells.

But my work doesn’t change.

On the morning of December 26th, a message arrived from Manami. "Yui keeps saying, 'Daddy's chicken was delicious.' Thank you so much." Attached was a drawing by little Yui. Three figures stood before a Christmas tree: the tallest was "Daddy," the middle was "Mommy," and the smallest was "Yui." All three were smiling.

A message also came from Keiko. It was brief: "Thanks to you, I was able to face the morning of the 25th."

To both, I replied with the same words: "No, thank *you*."

In truth, I wish a service like this didn’t have to exist. I wish for a world where a rental husband isn't needed to deliver a cake on Christmas night. But this year, I delivered. And I likely will again next year. Until the day little Yui discovers who Santa really is. Until the day Keiko no longer fears facing a morning alone.

The night I ate that cold chicken—I won’t tell anyone about it.