運動会で声を枯らす男

"Dad, you came!"

At the entrance to the schoolyard, a third-grade boy in a red hat—let's call him Yuta—looked up at me. His eyes widened, then glistened a little, and finally, he broke into a crinkled smile. That change in expression probably didn't even last two seconds, but I know I'll never forget those two seconds, no matter how many years pass.

The October morning air was crisp and clear, and the flags of all nations strung across the schoolyard fluttered with a soft rustle. The parent seating area was densely covered with picnic sheets, and video cameras on tripods were lined up in neat rows. I sat next to Misaki (a pseudonym), Yuta's mother, and glanced down at the program they'd handed out. Sprints, ball toss, tug-of-war, gymnastic pyramids. A completely ordinary sports day, just like any other. The only difference was that the person sitting in "Dad's" spot for Yuta was me, someone with no blood relation.

I've been doing this job for a long time. Even just as a stand-in father for sports days, I've had countless experiences. Still, I get nervous every single time.

The reason is simple: a sports day draws a lot of "eyes from around." Other parents, grandparents, teachers. Everyone is subtly observing each other. A single remark like, "Oh, I haven't seen that child's father before," can push the client mother into a corner. That's why I prepare meticulously during our preliminary meetings. Family structure, Yuta's personality, his homeroom teacher's name, the names of his close friends, what events he participated in at last year's sports day. I commit it all to memory. I met with Misaki three times. Our LINE exchanges exceeded fifty back-and-forths.

The starting pistol for the sprint rang out. Yuta started third among four, and faltered slightly at the corner. I stood up and yelled, "Go, Yuta!" Before I knew it, my voice was as loud as the father's next to me. He finished third. Yuta glanced my way and waved shyly.

At lunchtime, the three of us ate our bento. Fried chicken and rice balls that Misaki said she'd made since four in the morning. Yuta said, "I heard your voice, Dad." He laughed, "It was super loud!" I laughed too. Misaki quietly brought an egg roll to her mouth, but I saw that her eyes were just a little red.

A sports day is a child's big stage, their moment to shine. But for a child without a father, it can also be the cruelest day of the year.

There are parent-child events. "Bread-eating race with Dad," "Cavalry battle on Dad's back." Every time the word "Dad" appears in the program, mothers feel a pang in their chests. Misaki was no different. When she first consulted me, she said: "Last year, I had his grandfather come. But Yuta cried, 'Everyone else has their dad, why do I only have my grandpa?'..."

For me, requests for sports day services start to increase from mid-September each year. By October, they reach their peak, and my schedule fills up. From a staff of over five thousand, I select individuals whose age and demeanor match the client's wishes, and we have multiple meetings beforehand.

However, I often go to the actual events myself. Especially in cases where "the child clearly recognizes their father's absence," less experienced staff find it difficult to handle. Children are sharper than adults often think. They can see through lies. That's why I try not to lie. Instead of acting, for that day, I genuinely become that child's father. I cheer until my voice is hoarse. If they fall, I worry genuinely. If they win first place, I rejoice with all my heart. If there's no falsehood in the emotions, children will accept it. At least, that's what I believe.

If someone were to ask me what the most nerve-wracking moment is as a stand-in father, I would answer without hesitation, "When I call their name."

Currently, I am "father" to over thirty-five children across twenty-three families. During sports day season, I sometimes visit three or even four schools on a single weekend. In the morning, I'm Kenta's (a pseudonym) father at one school; in the afternoon, Aoi's (a pseudonym) father at another. I flip a switch in my head. I change the settings. But my emotions—my emotions alone—I pour genuine feeling into them from scratch, every single time.

That's why I must never, ever get the name wrong. There was one close call, just once. The name of the child I was cheering for in the morning almost slipped out. I swallowed it back just in time. I still remember the cold sweat from that moment.

Ever since then, on the morning of a sports day, I always practice saying the child's name out loud thirty times. In the car, by myself. "Yuta, Yuta, Yuta..." To an outsider, it must seem strange. But for those children, how significant it is for "Dad to call their name." Knowing that, I have no option but to continue.

When you do this kind of work, there's one question you're bound to hear. "Isn't it okay with just the mother?"

No, it's not "not okay." Of course, it's not "not okay." There are many people raising children splendidly as single parents. Misaki herself wakes up at five every morning for her part-time job, picks Yuta up in the evening, helps with homework at night, and takes him to the park on weekends. She works harder than anyone.

But just for sports day, they want to be "just like everyone else." Yuta thinks that. Misaki thinks that too. I am here to grant that "just like everyone else" for a single day.

If society changes, perhaps services like this won't be necessary anymore. A world where it's "normal" for a child to have no father, or two mothers, or grandparents, or anyone else. I want that world to come to pass. In truth, it would be better if services like this didn't exist. But right now, today, there's a child who needs it. I can't tell that child, "Wait until next year." A child's year carries a different weight than an adult's year. A third-grade sports day happens only once in a lifetime.

By the time the afternoon events began, my voice was quite hoarse.

There was a parent participation event for the tug-of-war. I joined the line without hesitation. I exchanged bows with the other fathers lined up next to me, saying, "Let's work together." No one doubted me. Of course not. Because today, I was Yuta's father. I gripped the rope with all my strength. We won. Yuta jumped up and cheered.

After the closing ceremony, as evening shadows began to stretch across the schoolyard, Yuta took my hand. It was small, a little sweaty, and covered in sand. "Dad, come again." I replied, "Okay." I couldn't say anything more. It was because my voice was hoarse—or so I'll tell myself.

At the school gate, Misaki bowed deeply. "Thank you so much," she said. Her voice was trembling. I just said, "Yuta was fast, wasn't he?" It was true. He came in third, but his recovery around the corner was magnificent.

In the car on the way home, I thought as I gripped the steering wheel. What was I, today? "Dad" to Yuta. "A husband's replacement" to Misaki. "Yuta-kun's father" to the other parents. And to myself—that's what I can never quite grasp.

Does a blood connection make a family "real"? I don't believe it's that simple.

When Yuta said, "Papa, I heard your voice," that smile was genuine. When I shouted, "Go!" that voice was genuine. When Misaki-san held back tears while eating her tamagoyaki, those emotions were genuine.

The only thing that isn't real is my title.

Family Romance receives various requests besides Sports Day: proxy apologies, stand-ins at weddings, proxy friends, companionship for the elderly. At their root, they are all the same: humanity's simplest wish – "I want someone by my side."

I don't want them to depend on me. I want them to use me to build genuine human relationships. I always think that. But at the same time, I know there are nights when people cannot survive without someone to depend on. It's a contradiction. Yet, I've decided to embrace that contradiction wholeheartedly.

Once the October Sports Day season draws to a close, my throat is always completely worn out. While sucking on a throat lozenge, I review the documents for my next assignment. Next week, I’ll be a father to a different child at a different school. I’ll wear out my voice again. I’ll practice the name thirty times again. And I’ll hold a small hand again.

To you, what exactly is a "real father"?

I still haven't found an answer. Perhaps I never will in my lifetime. But I believe my way is to keep running forward without finding one. Next week, if there's a man somewhere on the school grounds wearing out his voice—that might be me.