卒業証書よりも重い、たった一言の「ありがとう」

The moment I opened the gymnasium doors, the piano prelude to 'On the Day of Departure' filled the hall. I quietly took a seat in the back rows of the parent section, where pipe chairs were neatly arranged. In my breast pocket, a name tag read 'Sato'. That was my name for today.

The woman sitting about three rows in front of me—Tomoko-san, the mother of Misaki-san, my client, and my 'ex-wife' in this scenario—turned back once and gave a small nod in my direction. I nodded back. That was all. Our marital relationship is broken, but we are here together to witness our daughter's graduation ceremony. That's the kind of 'ex-couple' we are playing. No, I've started to wonder lately if 'playing' is even the right word. Three years had already passed since that spring when Misaki-san entered junior high.

I first took on Misaki-san's case in the spring, just before she was about to enter junior high. Tomoko-san's request was simple: "I want you to attend the entrance ceremony as her father." That was all. Her real father had left home when Misaki-san was in early elementary school, and there had been no contact since.

Initially, it was a one-off request. Once the entrance ceremony was over, it was supposed to be finished.

But then Misaki-san spoke to me. On the way home from the entrance ceremony, as the three of us ate ice cream from a convenience store, she asked, "Dad, will you come to the next class observation day too?" Tomoko-san, flustered, started to say, "Misaki, this person is—" but I stopped her with a look. I stopped her.

Three years passed from that moment. Class observation days, sports festivals, parent-teacher conferences—each time, I appeared at school as 'Sato'. During one of the parent-teacher conferences, the homeroom teacher told me, "Dad, Misaki-san has been working very hard lately." I replied, "Thank you. We support her at home too." I had never gone home with them. Yet, I couldn't entirely call it a lie. I truly was supporting Misaki-san.

And today was the final day of those three years.

At graduation ceremonies, what makes me most nervous is remembering names. This is truly no laughing matter.

Currently, I serve as a 'father' in over twenty families. My name is different for each one. Each has its own children's names. There was only one time in the past when I almost instinctively called out the wrong child's name at a sports festival. The chilling sensation down my spine from that moment is something I can still never forget.

That's why, on the morning of a graduation ceremony, I always review that family's information. The child's name, full name, class, homeroom teacher's name, names of close friends. When spoken to by a parent sitting next to me, I must be able to respond naturally with something like, "It seems like they're good friends with Misaki-san."

Graduates were called up one by one. "Sato Misaki." Watching her profile as she headed towards the stage, I discreetly filmed a video with my smartphone. Tomoko-san had asked me to. She had said, "I think I'll cry too much to film it myself."

The moment she received her graduation certificate, Misaki-san glanced at the audience for just an instant. Towards where I was sitting. That's how it seemed to me. It might have just been my imagination. But that was enough.

After the ceremony, there was time for photos on the school grounds. This, in fact, is the most difficult part.

Next to Misaki-san, who was taking photos with her friends, Tomoko-san and I stood a little apart. As 'ex-spouses,' standing too close together would be unnatural. But if we stood too far apart, people around us would suspect, "Who is that person?" An exquisite sense of distance. This is something I can only grasp by intuition, no matter how many years I do this.

Misaki-san's friend's mother approached us and said, "Sato-san, it's wonderful you could make it today." I smiled and replied, "Yes, I managed to adjust my work schedule." For three years, I had been perceived as "the father who is busy with work and can't come often." That was just right. If I came every time, it would raise suspicions. Coming sometimes, not coming others—that's the realistic image of a father.

As we were leaving, Misaki-san came up to me and said, "Dad, thank you for these three years." I couldn't discern the meaning behind her words. Was it gratitude for the father I was playing? Or was it gratitude, knowing that I was a rental?

Tomoko-san had repeatedly told me, "I haven't told her." But fifteen is not a child anymore. It wouldn't be strange if she had figured it out.

I only replied, "You too. Keep up the good work in high school." I couldn't say anything more. Would a 'real' father have been able to say something more thoughtful? No, what even is a 'real' father? For three years, I came to class observation days, cheered at sports festivals, and bowed my head to her teachers at parent-teacher conferences. Is that still not 'real'? Is a family 'real' only if there's a blood connection? I don't believe it's that simple.

When I talk about these things, there are always criticisms. "Are you buying a family with money?" "Are you deceiving children?" they ask. I've been told as much on social media and in the media.

But I ask you to consider something for a moment.

It is said that there are now over 1.4 million single-parent households in Japan. Among them, how many children are subtly hurt by their surroundings simply because they don't have a father? Lessons like "Let's draw a picture of Dad." Homework assignments like "Write a letter to Dad." "Parent participation slots" for three-legged races at sports festivals. School events are still often designed with the premise that both parents are present.

Tomoko-san's reason for commissioning me was that Misaki-san had cried before entering junior high, saying, "If Dad doesn't come, I don't want to go to the entrance ceremony." After much deliberation, Tomoko-san found the Family Romance website and sent an inquiry email. The message read, "I just want to send my daughter off to her entrance ceremony with a smile."

I cannot deny these feelings. I believe no one has the right to deny them.

Of course, ideally, a service like this wouldn't be necessary. A society where children can attend school without any worries, with both parents present, is undeniably the ideal. But there is a deep chasm between the ideal and reality. My job is to build a bridge across that chasm. A temporary, fragile bridge that might one day be removed. Still, I believe it's better than not being able to cross at all.

After seeing Misaki-san and Tomoko-san off, I headed to the station alone.

I take off the 'Sato' name tag from my suit pocket. I check my next appointment. In the afternoon, another request awaits: another name, another family, another life.

To be honest, after graduation ceremonies, I always feel a little empty. Happy, yet empty. It sounds contradictory, but that's how it is. A relationship painstakingly built over three years ends today. From tomorrow, I won't be a part of Misaki's life. I won't share my contact information either; that's the rule. I don't want them to become dependent on me. My wish is for them to use me to build real human relationships.

But you know, being human, I waver. There's a part of me that wonders what I'd do if asked, "I want you to come to my high school entrance ceremony too." It's the sensation of the boundary between my private self and my professional self dissolving. No matter how many years I do this, I never get used to it. Perhaps I shouldn't. If I did, my emotions wouldn't be genuine. If the emotions are genuine, then it is genuine. I've operated believing that.

Waiting for the train on the station platform, I idly opened my smartphone. A video taken during the ceremony remained. I didn't play it. This is for Tomoko-san. It's not mine.

March is the busiest season for me, and also the most poignant.

Requests for graduation ceremonies are increasing every year: elementary school, junior high, high school. Some even include university graduations. At each venue, under each name, I offer my applause. When my 'child's' name is called, I gently wipe away tears from the parents' section. I no longer know if those tears are an act, and I don't think I need to know.

In the 'farewell speeches' that children read at graduation ceremonies, there's often this phrase: "I thank my family for supporting me." Every time those words echo through the gymnasium, I ponder: Am I included in that 'family'? It's fine if I'm not. But what if I am?

This morning, I kept ruminating on the weight of Misaki's "thank you" on the train. A graduation certificate is just paper. It can be framed and displayed. But that "thank you" can't be saved anywhere. It will only remain in my memory.

On the train ride home, I saw cherry blossom buds outside the window. They'll bloom soon. And then, the entrance ceremony season will come again. New names, new families, new 'fathers' might begin.

I touched the name tag in my pocket once more. The name 'Sato' was no longer visible. But I felt something certainly lingered in my hand.