* All client names have been changed to protect privacy.
"Dad, can you tell if this cicada is a male or a female?"
Yuuki thrust the insect cage in front of my face, his eyes sparkling. A third-grader. Hair clung to his sweat-drenched forehead. The park in July was relentlessly hot. I squatted down, peered into the cage, and honestly replied, "I don't know." Yuuki, looking a little proud, then told me, "You look at its belly."
On this day, I was there to help Yuuki with his summer independent study project, acting as his "father." The theme was "Let's research the types of cicadas in the neighborhood park." The request had come from his mother, Ms. Sato—let's call her that for now—in early July.
The summer project needed "someone."
I clearly remember the first call from Ms. Sato. Her voice was calm, but there was a hint of apology in it.
"Summer independent study projects, in the end, are really determined by how much the parents get involved, aren't they? And at our house, it's just me... and I'm not good with bugs..."
Ms. Sato, raising Yuuki as a single mother while working, had no time to chase cicadas in the park on weekdays. She often had part-time work on weekends too. When Yuuki said he wanted to research cicadas, Ms. Sato was happy, but at the same time, she was at a loss.
The homework assignment of independent study isn't just a child's task. In essence, it's a family task. Deciding on the theme together, going to buy materials, helping with research, and overseeing the compilation onto a large sheet of paper—"some adult" is needed for every step of that process. Not a stand-in friend, nor a private tutor. What Yuuki needed was a "father" who would sweat alongside him and chase bugs.
I visited three times. The first time, we collected cicadas in the park; the second, we looked up encyclopedias at the library; and the third, I helped with compiling the work onto a large sheet of paper. Just three times. Yet, those three times were packed with many things.
Chasing cicadas requires no acting.
During that first visit to the park, I found myself absorbed to a surprising degree.
Yuuki would point to a tree and shout, "There it is!" I'd ready the net. It would get away. We'd both exclaim, "Ah!" Just doing that was truly fun.
In my work as a rental father, there are many situations where I have to play the part of a "proper father," such as at sports festivals or parent-teacher days. I make sure not to get names wrong, engage in natural conversation with other parents, and behave in a way that doesn't arouse suspicion from teachers. It's a mentally demanding job.
But catching cicadas was different. When an adult and a child are facing a bug, there's no room for acting. I genuinely felt frustrated, and genuinely rejoiced. When Yuuki taught me the difference between the calls of the *aburazemi* and *minminzemi* cicadas, I genuinely thought, "Oh wow, that's amazing." There was no falsehood in my emotions.
In moments like these, I always wonder. Is this acting? Or is it real? If the emotions are real, then it is real—that's what I believe. However, Yuuki doesn't know that behind the name "Dad" lies the fact that I'm here as part of my job. I smile, holding that asymmetry somewhere in my chest each time.
Moments of silence before the field guide.
The second visit was to a nearby public library. I sat next to Yuuki and opened an insect encyclopedia.
We had collected four types of cicadas in the park: *aburazemi*, *minminzemi*, *tsukutsukuboushi*, and *niiniizemi*. We copied the characteristics of each into a notebook. Yuuki wasn't very good at writing, and he used his eraser many times. I watched from beside him, but I didn't interfere.
As a rental father, there's one thing I keep in mind. Not doing things for them. Not helping too much. An independent study project neatly compiled by me wouldn't be anyone's treasure. Yuuki's own slightly crooked letters and crayon lines that went outside the bounds—that is the value of this research.
At one point, Yuuki silently stared at the pictures in the encyclopedia. I was about to ask what he was thinking, but then I stopped myself. When a child is engrossed in something, what an adult should do is not interfere. Being a parent, I think, probably means being able to sit silently next to them. It's not something flashy. It's about "just being there." There are moments when that alone is enough.
I have served as "father" to over thirty-five children in twenty-three families. What I've learned most from that experience is that children can do much more on their own than adults give them credit for. What they need, I think, isn't someone who "does things for them," but someone who "watches over them."
A summer vacation for a child "who has a dad."
During the third visit, we completed the project on a large sheet of paper. The title Yuuki wrote was "My Town's Cicada Encyclopedia." He drew pictures of the four types of cicadas with colored pencils, wrote their calls in katakana, and mapped out which trees they were found on. Honestly speaking, the result was humble. It likely wouldn't win any awards in a competition.
But I'll never forget the look on Ms. Sato's face when she saw it. She said, "That's amazing, Yuuki," and stroked the large paper sheet many times.
Summer homework assignments are put up on the classroom walls in September. There, records of family trips and crafts made with Dad line up. It is also a season when the difference between children with a father and those without is cruelly visualized on paper.
I do the work of bridging such gaps. Ideally, a service like this shouldn't exist. But if Yuuki can stand tall in his classroom in September, then I think my being startled by a cicada—or more accurately, by one landing on me—was well worth it.
It's not just single-parent households. There are families where fathers are absent due to solo work assignments, families where the atmosphere is heavy due to parents undergoing divorce proceedings, and homes where a "father's touch" is lacking for various reasons. Summer vacation is the season when children feel that absence most acutely.
Someday, I will be forgotten.
After the three visits with Yuuki concluded, I wrote a report as usual. Yuuki's demeanor, handover notes for Ms. Sato, and points to consider for any future requests. It was a detached, administrative task.
Suddenly, I wondered how Yuuki would remember this summer when he grew up. The memory of "going cicada catching with Dad in the summer of third grade" might remain. But the face of that "Dad" will blur someday. I think that's fine.
I don't want them to become dependent on me. I want them to use me to forge genuine human connections – that's my true feeling. A rental father is like a walking stick; once you can walk, it's okay to let it go. Just as Yuuki-kun learned to catch cicadas on his own, he will someday navigate life's path by himself. I just need to be someone who was there for a brief moment along that journey.
Yet, that moment in the park when we both cried out "Ah!", I feel as if it's etched more deeply in my own memory. Not as a job, but as a human being, I remember that heat and those laughs.
A single line written on the edge of the poster board.
Finally, just one last thing.
In the bottom right corner of Yuuki-kun's poster board, written in small script, it said:
"I researched this together with my dad."
Ms. Sato saw it and welled up a bit. I pretended not to notice.
Does a shared bloodline alone define a real family? It's not so simple a matter. Yet, if asked whether it's right for me, without a blood tie, to be called "father," I wouldn't know either. And without knowing, I'll probably be sweating alongside someone else's child again next summer.
As the cicada calls begin to fade into the distance, someone else's phone will ring once more.
「血がつながっていなくても、愛情は生まれる。それを僕は、この仕事で学んだ」
— 石井裕一