踏み台でいい——僕が続ける理由

On a Sunday in November, I was sitting on a park bench. Next to me was a third-grade boy. Let's call him Yuki. Yuki had three acorns lined up on his lap and was silently rolling them around.

"Dad?"

Yuki said.

"Dad, will you ever not come anymore?"

For a moment, I was speechless. This child knows. He shouldn't know I'm not his real father. But children sense far more than adults imagine. I said, "I'm not going anywhere." It wasn't a lie. As long as the request continues, I will come here. But when the request ends, I will disappear from this child's life. An acorn rolled off the bench. Yuki didn't pick it up.

Many years have passed since that day. Yuki's mother's request continues to this day. But that question has stayed with me ever since. I am a presence destined to eventually disappear. Even so, does my presence here now hold any meaning? Every time the cold November wind blows, I remember that park bench.

My work has an end. It's a given. When a client says, "I'm okay now," it ends there. For a proxy attendance at a wedding, my role vanishes with the end of the reception. For a friend substitute, I disappear the moment the other person finds a real friend.

However, this very "premise of disappearance" is also why I can continue this work.

Once, a woman—let's call her Miki-san—requested me to be her substitute husband. After her divorce, Miki-san had circumstances that required her to introduce a "husband" to her parents. Once a month, I visited Miki-san's parents' home and acted as their son-in-law. I played Go with her father and praised her mother's simmered dishes. About a year later, Miki-san contacted me. "I've found someone I'm truly dating. I'm okay now." Her voice over the phone was bright.

That night, I drank a little more beer than usual. I didn't know if I was lonely or relieved. The only thing certain was that my disappearance allowed Miki-san's life to move forward. A stepping stone only has meaning when it is stepped on. If the person who stepped on it could reach higher, then that's enough.

In this line of work, I am sometimes thanked. But sometimes I am not. Or rather, it's more often that I am not thanked.

There's a service for monitoring elderly individuals. We regularly visit elderly people living alone, keep them company, and check on their well-being. In one particular request, my staff member visited an eighty-year-old woman—let's call her Haru-san—as "a young man living nearby." Haru-san was in the early stages of dementia and forgot the staff's name every time. Even so, the staff member would introduce himself the same way every week, saying, "Hello, I'm Tanaka from next door," then they would drink tea and talk about the weather.

Haru-san moved into a facility, and the request ended. Haru-san never remembered the staff's name, not once. There were no "thank yous" or "goodbyes." The staff member said, "I've lost sight of why I was visiting her."

I told him: "It's a fact that Haru-san brewed tea and waited every week. Even if she forgot your name, she looked forward to Wednesdays when someone would come. That was because you were there." He nodded silently. Even if words of thanks aren't spoken, the time that truly existed there doesn't disappear. Even if memories fade, the traces of emotion remain. I believe that.

To say "It's fine to be a stepping stone" might sound like self-sacrifice. But I don't intend to sacrifice myself.

Without even needing to borrow the words of philosophers, human relationships have "means" and "ends." I am a means for the client. A means to provide a father for a family without one. A means to fill an empty seat at a wedding. A means to bow my head in apology. Would you feel that is cold?

But consider this: If someone told you, "You are needed as a means," would that truly be a sad thing? There are situations that cannot come to be without you. Through your presence, someone can take a step forward. That is different from being a mere "tool." A stepping stone requires the strength to bear the weight of the person who steps on it. It requires the wisdom to indicate direction. And it requires the resolve to quietly remain there after being stepped upon.

The reason I serve as "father" to over thirty-five children in twenty-three families is because it is meaningful to me as well. Watching the children run at their sports day, my heart can't help but be moved. Holding back tears at a graduation ceremony is not acting. My emotions are real. If the emotions are real, can that relationship truly be called "fake"?

As November arrives, the city becomes a little lonelier. That half-hearted darkness before the illuminations begin. As people get busier towards the year-end, those who are lonely become even lonelier.

Around this time of year, requests for my service increase. Requests for a "family" for the New Year holidays. Requests to attend year-end parties as a "friend." Requests to act as a "lover" on Christmas. Some people might laugh at these, calling them "pathetic." But I want to focus on the courage of those who make these requests.

Japanese society loves the phrase "self-responsibility." It's your fault if you don't have friends. It's your fault if your family life isn't going well. It's your fault if you're lonely. But is that truly the case? In a society where nuclear families are prevalent, community ties are weakening, and workplace connections have become tenuous, continuously building human relationships on one's own is, in fact, incredibly difficult.

The people who come to Family Romance are not weak. They are people who know what they need and are acting to obtain it. Using a stepping stone is not shameful. It is proof that one is trying to reach higher.

I've said some lofty things, but when it comes to myself, it's a different story.

Having served as "husband" to over six hundred women, it has, frankly, become difficult for me to be a real partner to someone in my private life. There are moments when I no longer know if I am acting or being myself. When I say "Have a good day," who exactly am I saying it to? In the morning, looking in the mirror, I sometimes wonder, "Who am I today?"

As the representative of a company with over five thousand staff members, I wonder if I am being their stepping stone. When an older staff member passed away, the client couldn't attend their funeral. To the client, that staff member was a "friend." They didn't even have a place to grieve the death of that "friend." I haven't been able to resolve that contradiction.

Even as I told Yuuki, "I'm not going anywhere," I didn't know where I myself stood. A stepping stone must be stable for others. But I, this stepping stone, sometimes sway. Even so, I have no choice but to keep standing, swaying all the while. Because to keep standing is the only thing I can do.

The park in November is covered in fallen leaves. They rustle when you step on them. Footprints are left behind. But when the wind blows, more leaves pile up, and the footprints vanish.

My work is much like that. I leave temporary footprints in the lives of my clients, only to disappear in time. But the ground, once trodden, becomes a little firmer. It remembers the weight of the person who walked there.

Yuuki is now in junior high school. The other day, I heard from his mother. "My son was apparently telling his friends, 'My dad is amazing!'" There's nothing amazing about me. All I did was cheer him on at sports day, help with homework, and occasionally play catch. But for Yuuki, that was an "amazing dad."

Ideally, a service like this shouldn't exist. It would be better if all children had real fathers, all elderly people had someone to talk to, and everyone had true friends. But that's not the reality we live in. As long as there are people who need it, I will continue.

Being a stepping stone is enough. If the person who steps on me can see further, beyond my head.

A single acorn lies fallen from the bench. It doesn't need to be picked up. I remember that it was there.