2月14日、僕は「夫」として chocolate を受け取る

"Here, this is for you. Thank you, as always."

Let's call her Misaki. Standing in the kitchen, she held out a small paper bag to me. In the living room, her third-grade daughter was watching TV. I smiled and said, "Thank you, homemade again this year?" and took the paper bag. Inside was a single gâteau chocolat. Her daughter ran up, exclaiming, "I'm giving one to Dad too!" and pressed a small package into my lap.

I am neither the husband nor the father of that household. As a rental husband, I visit this home a few times a year. Valentine's Day is one of the visiting days I never miss.

As February begins, requests for "rental husbands" to *Family Romance* noticeably increase. The nature of these requests differs from those for Christmas or New Year's. They are quieter, more heartfelt pleas. Why Valentine's Day? Having done this job for many years, I've come to gain some insights of my own.

On Valentine's Day, it's not just "those who don't receive" who feel lonely. "Those who have no one to give to" are also in solitude.

Misaki's husband left home several years ago. Even after their divorce was finalized, she tells her daughter that "Daddy is busy with work." In her daughter's friends' homes, it's customary to give chocolate to their fathers on Valentine's Day. When conversations like "What did you give your dad?" start at school, her daughter can only stay silent.

Misaki's reason for requesting my service was clear: "I want to provide my daughter with someone to give chocolate to."

However, after visiting several times, I realized something. Misaki herself also needed the act of handing chocolate to someone. To have it received. To be told "Thank you." That small exchange sustains her throughout the year.

One reason for the increase in requests in February lies here. Valentine's Day is "a day to convey one's feelings to someone." When there's no one to give to, people lose a place for their feelings to go. Emotions with nowhere to go quietly corrode a person. I sit across the table as that receptacle.

There's another major pattern among Valentine's requests: proving one's "married" status to parents or relatives.

Let's call her Yuka. She's in her late 30s. Every February, her mother calls from her hometown asking, "What are you giving your husband for Valentine's this year?" Yuka is divorced, but she hasn't been able to tell her mother. Her mother's poor health, the desire not to worry her mother, who repeatedly says, "As long as you're happy, that's all that matters" — the reasons are intricately intertwined.

As Yuka's "husband," I visit her family home a few times a year. Valentine's Day is especially important. Yuka's mother wants to witness her daughter giving chocolate to her husband. She wants to eat cake together at the dining table. She believes that is proof of a "happy family."

Yuka buys chocolate at a department store the day before, and on the morning of, she texts me on LINE: "I wasn't sure what you like, but I went with bitter. Sorry." Every year, I reply, "I like bitter, so that helps." In fact, I do like bitter. This much, at least, isn't a lie.

In front of her mother, I accept the chocolate with a "Thank you" and smile as if embarrassed. Her mother squints her eyes, saying, "You two are close, aren't you?" Yuka lowers her gaze slightly. I deliberately don't put the meaning of that expression into words.

When doing this kind of work, I'm always asked something: "Doesn't it feel empty?"

Honestly, I don't know.

When I receive the chocolate Misaki's daughter offers with "Here, Daddy!", the feeling that arises within me is real. I feel happy. I imagine this child worked so hard to wrap it. I smile, seeing the chocolate smudges on her hands. In that moment, I no longer know if I'm acting or truly feeling.

A certain philosopher supposedly said, "There's no such thing as real or fake emotions. Once felt, they are real." I'm not a philosopher, so I can't put it so neatly. However, what I feel in these situations is that I cannot dismiss emotions born from a relationship built on a lie as "fake."

The event of Valentine's Day is a day to give form to one's feelings. First there is the "form" of chocolate, and then emotions are imbued into it. Is it truly impossible for the "form" of a rental husband to come first, and then emotions to be attached to it? What do you think?

Behind the increase in Valentine's requests lies a social structure that presupposes "couples" and "families."

Convenience stores, department stores, and cafes all simultaneously fill with Valentine's decorations as February begins. Turn on the TV, and "to your loved ones" is repeated. Social media is lined with photos of homemade chocolates. That itself isn't a bad thing. But for those without partners, those who have lost family, and those who are lying to their families, February 14th cannot simply be "just another day."

At *Family Romance*, requests come in not only on Valentine's Day itself but also before and after. Requests like "I don't want to be alone on February 14th." Requests like "I want to have a story ready because I'll be asked about it at work the day after Valentine's Day." There are also requests to help choose chocolates as a stand-in friend. I've even received calls from elderly individuals asking me to "come receive chocolate on behalf of my deceased husband."

Seasonal events both embrace people and, at the same time, corner them. I believe our work increases in February because it's a month where society's kindness and cruelty are revealed simultaneously.

To date, I have served as the "husband" for over 600 women. How many of them have I received Valentine's chocolate from? I haven't counted precisely, but it's no small number.

What's interesting is that everyone has a different way of giving it. Some push it on me shyly. Some neatly arrange it on the table and present it. Some hand it over with a laugh, saying, "It's just an obligation." Some silently place it in my bag.

Only once, someone handed me chocolate while crying. Her pseudonym was Masako. She had lost her husband to domestic violence—or, more accurately, she had escaped him. How much meaning did the act of "giving chocolate to a husband" hold for her? To safely and trustingly convey her feelings to a secure partner—how much healing that could bring. The following year, Masako found a real partner and graduated from her requests to me. "Because I could practice with Ishii-san," she told me finally.

I don't want people to become dependent on me. I want them to use me as a step towards building genuine human relationships. I always feel that way. But when she spoke of "practice," I felt I had truly grasped one meaning of this work.

On the night of February 14th, I return home after all my visits are done. Inside my bag are several paper bags: handmade ones, department store ones, convenience store ones. All of them are addressed to me, and yet none are truly for me.

Honestly, it would be better if services like this didn't exist. A society where everyone has someone to give chocolate to, right from the start, would be better. A society where mothers don't have to lie. A society where daughters don't have to hang their heads at school. A society where being alone isn't this painful.

But for now, it's not like that.

So, on February 14th, I say "thank you" and receive the chocolate. I smile. I act shy. "I'm looking forward to next year too," I say. Those words might be an act. But the warmth in the palm of my hand as I receive it isn't a lie.

On the train ride home, I opened one of the gateau chocolat from a paper bag and ate it. It was sweet. A little salty. I no longer know if that's my feeling or someone else's. Lately, I've come to think it's okay not to know.