入学式の校門で、僕は「お父さん」になる

In front of the school gate, I readjusted my tie.

The woman next to me—let's call her Yuki—said in a small voice, "Excuse me, could I just confirm one more time? My daughter's name is—"

"It's Miu, isn't it? Don't worry."

Yuki nodded, but her hands were trembling. She gripped the handle of her brand-new handbag so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Miu is six years old. Today is her elementary school entrance ceremony. She was in a navy dress, with a brand-new randoseru on her back. Cherry blossoms swayed in the breeze; it was a spring morning straight out of a painting.

Miu looked up at me and said, "Dad, hold my hand."

I took her hand. It was small, slightly damp, and warm.

This is my job.

In April, requests surge. Reservations for entrance ceremonies, then for parent-teacher conferences. Requests from single mothers are particularly common. "I'd like to ask you to play the role of a father." The circumstances behind that simple phrase are completely different for each person.

Those who divorced. Those who lost a spouse. Those who chose to raise a child alone from the beginning. Those who escaped from domestic violence. The reasons vary, but what they all share is that expression when their child asks, "Why don't we have a dad?" I can tell, even over the phone. Their voice falters just a little.

In Yuki's case, it was a divorce. They separated when Miu was two years old. I don't ask the reason; there's no need to. All I need to know is what kind of "dad" I should be for this one day.

During our meeting, Yuki said, "Please just be a normal dad. You don't have to do anything special. Just be ordinary."

This "ordinary," however, is actually the hardest thing to be.

As we entered the entrance ceremony venue, it was overflowing with families. Fathers held video cameras. Mothers straightened their children's collars. Grandparents watched with warm, narrowed eyes. It was an everyday, common sight. But for Yuki, I imagine she felt as though they alone were missing from that "ordinary scene."

The ceremony began. The names of the new students were called one by one. "Tanaka Miu." Miu raised her hand and said, "Yes." It was a small voice, but I heard it clearly.

Next to me, Yuki was crying. Quietly, trying not to make a sound. I took a handkerchief from my pocket and handed it to her. At times like these, words aren't needed. Just being there, beside her. That's all.

After the ceremony, we took a commemorative photo in front of the classroom. An mother next to us called out, "Alright, let's take one with the three of you!" I picked up Miu and stood next to Yuki. The shutter clicked.

In that photo, we were a family.

Every time I receive a request like this, I find myself thinking.

Why must a father be present at an entrance ceremony?

If you think about it calmly, a father doesn't have to be there. Institutionally, there's no problem whatsoever. Single-mother households aren't rare, and it's no longer an era where you'd be discriminated against for having a single parent—that's what everyone says.

But the reality on the ground is different.

One client—let's call her Satomi—went to her eldest child's entrance ceremony alone. She thought, "It's fine, I can go alone." Indeed, the ceremony itself finished without any problems. But when moving to the classroom, her feet stopped when she saw other fathers giving their children shoulder rides. On the way home, her child asked, "Hey, why didn't Dad come?" She replied, "It's work." The child just said, "Oh."

Satomi said that "oh" had been stuck in her heart ever since. That's why, for her younger child, she requested my service.

When I heard this story, I felt something akin to anger. Not towards Satomi, but towards a society that can so easily say, "You'll be fine on your own." Because it's not fine, that's why people call me.

The issue of single-mother poverty rates is clear from the data. But there's a hardship that doesn't appear in the data: the list for the entrance ceremony stating "parent/guardian," being asked "Where's your husband?" at parent-teacher meetings, a child not being able to draw a picture for Father's Day. These are small pains, yet they accumulate steadily.

My job is to temporarily obscure that pain. It's not a fundamental solution. I know that.

But an entrance ceremony only happens once.

Whether a child remembers that one time as "I went with my dad" or "My dad wasn't there"—that influences their future life more than one might imagine. At least, that's what I've felt working in this field.

There's another unforgettable story.

At one entrance ceremony, I attended as a "father." After the ceremony, we went out to the schoolyard, and this was for a different client than Miu-chan, but the child — let's call him Kota-kun — pulled my hand and led me to his classmates.

"This is my dad!"

Kota-kun was so proud. His eyes, looking up at me, sparkled. In that moment, I momentarily forgot who I was. To this child, I was a real father. Yet, in a few hours, I would vanish from his life.

I was lying. I was definitely lying.

But was Kota-kun's smile a lie? Was the mother's gratitude, when she bowed her head and said "Thank you," a lie? Was the warmth I felt holding Kota-kun's hand a lie?

What exactly *is* real?

There are fathers who have a blood connection but don't come to the entrance ceremony. There are fathers who don't pay child support. There are fathers who resort to violence. On the other hand, there are people like me who, despite no blood relation, live fully as a "father" for just that one day.

Which one is the real father? I don't know that. I don't know, but at least, in that moment in the schoolyard, holding Kota-kun's hand, the emotions flowing through me were real. That much, I can say.

Honestly, it would be better if this kind of service didn't exist.

A society where no one cares if a father isn't at the entrance ceremony. A society where no explanation is needed if only one name is written in the "parent/guardian" section. A society where children can say, "We only have Mom," without any hesitation or self-consciousness. If that were the case, half of my job would disappear.

But even today, the phone rings.

"It's about the April entrance ceremony... I need a substitute father..."

Their voice is always a little soft, as if they are ashamed of themselves for asking such a thing. I always reply, "It's alright. Leave it to me."

There's nothing to be ashamed of. I believe that any parent who can humble themselves for their child is admirable for that alone.

On the way home from Miu-chan's entrance ceremony, Yuki-san asked, "May I display today's photo in the living room?"

I thought for a moment and replied, "Of course."

In that photo, I'm wearing a tie, holding Miu-chan, and smiling next to Yuki-san. To anyone looking, it's just an ordinary family, like any other.

The "normalcy" that Yuki-san wished for was indeed present in that single picture.

If someone were to call it fiction, perhaps they would be right. But in that moment when Miu-chan, her school bag swaying, waved goodbye and said, "See you, Dad" — I couldn't quite smile.

As I replied, "See you," only I knew there might not be a next time.

The cherry blossoms had begun to scatter. The wind felt a touch chilly. Loosening my tie, I made my way to the next engagement.