I first met the boy eight years ago.
He was four years old. A small boy, not yet in kindergarten. Led by his mother, he appeared before me. He looked up at me with large eyes and said one word.
"Daddy?"
That single word was the beginning of a story that would span eight years. Now, he is about to enter junior high school. His voice is beginning to change, and he stands as tall as my shoulder. For eight years, I have lived as this boy's "father."
The Background of the Request
I will call the mother "Misaki" here.
Misaki divorced when her son was two. Her ex-husband had been a domestic violence perpetrator. Beaten, kicked, and verbally abused, she feared for her life and fled with her son.
She obtained a restraining order, changed addresses, and sorted out the family register. She completely severed ties with her ex-husband.
The problem was the son.
He had almost no memory of his father. They separated when he was two, so he didn't even remember his face. But other children around him had fathers. Once he started kindergarten, that "difference" became stark.
"Mommy, where is Daddy?"
He asked nearly every day. Misaki would answer, "Daddy is far away for work." But she knew that lie wouldn't hold forever. That's when she contacted Family Romance.
The First Meeting
I was nervous on the day we met.
Not from guilt about lying to a child. I had long since gotten past that when I entered this line of work. The source of my nervousness was the pressure of "I must not hurt this child."
I had three preparatory meetings with Misaki. The son's likes, dislikes, personality, habits. The "Dad" backstory — what his job is, why they don't live together, how often he can visit.
The story was: "A father whose job requires frequent overseas travel." He returns to Japan once or twice a month and visits his son each time.
Then the day arrived.
We met at a nearby park. Misaki walked toward me, holding her son's hand. I waited on a bench.
"Look, it's Daddy. Daddy's home."
Misaki's voice trembled slightly. The boy looked up at me and was silent for a moment. Then —
"Daddy?" he said. His voice was not a question. It was confirmation. The relieved voice of someone who had been waiting: "I finally get to meet Daddy."
The eight-year story began at a single park
Kindergarten Years — The "I Love You, Daddy" Era
The first two years were relatively easy.
A four- or five-year-old is simply happy that "Daddy came." No deep questions. Play together and they're delighted. Pick them up and they laugh.
I visited twice a month on weekends. Playing in the park, eating hamburger steak together, giving him a bath, reading picture books. One by one, I did the things a "normal father" does.
I attended kindergarten sports days, fathers' observation days, and parent-teacher meetings.
"His drawing skills have really improved lately," the teacher told me. I replied, "Thank you. He draws a lot at home too." It wasn't a lie — Misaki had told me, and I saved every photo she sent.
On Father's Day, I received a hand-drawn portrait. A face in crayon with impossibly large eyes and a mouth stretched ear to ear. But underneath it said "I love you, Daddy." That drawing still hangs in my room.
Early Elementary — The Age of Questions
Once he entered elementary school, things changed.
Shota — as I'll call him — was a clever child. Observant, logical, and willing to voice his doubts.
"Dad, why do you always wear the same clothes?"
That question startled me. I had indeed been wearing similar outfits each visit — to avoid confusion, since I was also "father" to other families. I began keeping a separate wardrobe just for Shota.
"What are the people at your company like?" "Where is your house?" "What about your parents?"
The questions grew more specific by the day. Misaki and I held regular "story meetings" to share what Shota had asked and ensure our answers stayed consistent.
"Dad's house" was a Tokyo apartment. "Dad's job" involved international business. "Dad's parents" lived in Kyushu, elderly and unable to travel far. Piece by piece, we built a world without contradictions.
"Children grow. With each stage, the questions become sharper. What was settled with 'I love you, Daddy' at age four becomes 'But why, Dad?' at age eight. I have been answering that 'why' for eight years."
— Yuichi Ishii
Upper Elementary — From "Daddy" to "Father"
Around fourth grade, Shota stopped saying "Daddy."
He started calling me "Dad" — the more mature form.
This shift was significant. "Daddy" carries the softness of a small child's affection. But "Dad" implies a desire for an equal relationship. Shota was trying to elevate me from "someone to cling to" to "someone to respect."
Our activities changed too. Instead of pushing him on the swings, we played soccer together. Competed in video games. Discussed the news.
"Dad, why did the war between Russia and Ukraine start?"
Fifth-grade Shota asked me this one day. I was surprised. He was thinking about the wider world. I explained as accurately as I could, in language a fifth-grader could understand. He listened intently and said, "War is wrong." An obvious statement, but I was proud that he could articulate it in his own words.
At the same time, I felt conflicted. I had watched this child grow. But I am not his father. How much have I really contributed to this growth? If his real father had been there, would he have turned out differently?
Report Cards and Parent-Teacher Conferences
I attended every parent-teacher conference throughout elementary school.
Sitting across from the homeroom teacher, with Shota beside me, the teacher would show the report card: "He's doing well in math." "His essays show real emotion." "His friendships are solid."
I would nod, take notes, and ask questions: "What should we focus on at home?" "Any trouble with friends?" The questions a real father would ask.
After each meeting, I reported the details to Misaki — what the teacher said, what I observed, how Shota seemed. Misaki would say "Thank you" and sometimes cry. She often couldn't attend these events because of work.
Once, the report card included a teacher's note: "Shota seems reassured by his father's warm presence at every event."
"Father" — even the teacher believed I was Shota's dad. I felt anew the weight of living up to that trust.
For eight years, I attended every school event as "father"
Birthday Promises
Shota's birthday is July 14th. I have celebrated it eight times.
Age 5: a Kamen Rider cake. Age 6: Pokemon. Age 7: Minecraft. Age 8: a soccer-ball cake. Age 9: a video game. Age 10: a bicycle. Age 11: a smartphone — Misaki and I chose a used one in good condition together.
With each birthday, his interests change. A day where his growth is crystallized.
On his 12th birthday, Shota said:
"Dad, I don't need a present. I just want to go somewhere together."
The two of us went to the aquarium. Shota stood in front of the jellyfish tank for a long time. Then, quietly, he said:
"Dad, I don't really look like you, do I?"
I thought my heart would stop. But I didn't let it show on my face. Eight years of experience made that possible.
"You have some things in common with me. Like being stubborn."
Shota laughed. "True," he said, and turned back to the tank. My heart was still racing.
The Moment the Performance Disappears
I have been "performing as a father" for eight years. But honestly, I can no longer tell where the performance ends and reality begins.
When I hear Shota has a fever, I worry. When he gets a good test score, I'm happy. When I hear he's been picked on, anger wells up. These emotions are not performance.
Once, Shota broke a bone during a soccer match. Misaki called, and I left work early to rush to the hospital. It wasn't a scheduled visit day. But I couldn't not go.
In the hospital bed, his arm in a cast, Shota looked at me and said, "Dad, you came?"
"Of course I did," I said.
Shota cried a little. Not from pain, but from happiness — Misaki told me later.
In that moment, I was not "performing." I was simply a worried father.
"Eight years has the power to turn a lie into truth. If the emotions are real, the relationship is real. Blood doesn't matter. Time and love make a father."
— Yuichi Ishii
The Mother's Perspective
How does Misaki view our eight-year relationship?
"At first, I thought of him as just a stand-in," she says. "A temporary measure to get through school events. But before I knew it, Mr. Ishii had become someone Shota couldn't do without."
Misaki had opportunities to remarry over the years. But each time, she'd think: "Shota's 'Dad' is Mr. Ishii. How would Shota feel if a new man appeared?"
In the end, she didn't remarry. "Not so much for Shota's sake, but because the current arrangement is working," she says.
"I'm grateful," she says. "But I also feel guilty. I wonder if we're taking away part of Mr. Ishii's own life."
I answer: "You're not taking it away. We're sharing it."
Starting Junior High — A New Chapter
This year, Shota enters junior high school.
I went with him to the uniform fitting. He looked slightly embarrassed as he tried it on. "How do I look?" he asked. I said, "It suits you." And it really did.
Junior high brings the beginning of independence. A widening world of friends. Club activities. Maybe even romance. "Dad's" role will gradually diminish.
But at the same time, adolescent challenges will emerge — rebellion, identity searching, anxiety about the future. When those times come, will he still want to turn to "Dad" for advice?
The trust built over eight years is about to be tested.
I am prepared. For however many years, as long as Shota needs me, I will remain "Dad." Ten years, twenty years — however long it takes.
Conclusion — The Question After Eight Years
After eight years of acting as one child's father, I have reached a single conclusion.
The word "acting" is no longer accurate.
Watching Shota grow, sharing joy and worry, celebrating birthdays, cheering at sports days, attending parent-teacher conferences — this is not "acting." This is simply "being a father."
The fact that we are not connected by blood hasn't changed. The fact that this is a contractual relationship hasn't changed. But eight years of time and emotion are real.
Someday, Shota may learn the truth. When that day comes, I don't know how he'll feel. He might be angry. He might be sad. He might feel betrayed.
But one thing is certain.
For eight years, my care for Shota has not been a lie.
"Eight years transcends the role.
— Yuichi Ishii
The performance fades, and only a father remains."