My father is no longer here. He suddenly passed away when I was fifteen.
In reality, he had been absent from our home even earlier, as he had gone on a work assignment to a distant place.
Since I was in second grade, I could no longer see him casually. As a result, my memories of him became hazy. But even as a child, I clearly remember thinking, “I mustn’t show weakness” and holding back my tears.
One day, an old video recorder was found deep in the closet. It was big and heavy. When I thought about how we used to film with this, I felt grateful for the era where we can do everything with a smartphone. While thinking that, I powered on the recorder and played the video tape that was inside.
It was footage of my sports day. It was the parent-child three-legged race with my father. I was trying to run in sync with him. My father was trying to run in sync with me.
But it didn’t quite match, which made it a little awkward. Even so, my father was running seriously with me. His hand, placed on my shoulder, seemed so large.
That’s when my memories started to resurface. No matter how busy he was, my father always came to my sports day. We didn’t have time to practice, so we had to sync up during the event itself. I was nervous about it, but my father seemed to be enjoying it.
Now, my father would be 67 if he were alive. Although my wish to live together again was never realized, this video tape preserved the memories of my childhood that I had almost forgotten.

When I met my father once a month, there was something that always bothered me, no matter what. I couldn’t say it out loud, so I’ll tell you secretly.
It was that my father’s stomach seemed to get bigger every time we met.
It was the perfect softness for a pillow when he took a nap, so I didn’t mind his stomach at all. In fact, I rather liked it. But I thought it might be bad for my father’s health, so every time we met, I would say, “Lose some weight.”
My father would always reply, “I guess I’ve gained weight again. Alright, I’ll lose weight before we meet next time.”

However, those words rarely became a reality. How could I help my father lose weight? Maybe living alone made his eating habits go awry? Then how could I raise his awareness of healthy eating? After thinking about it a lot, I decided to start a certain operation.
It was called “The Exchange Diary Operation.”
Though it’s called an exchange diary, it was a little different from a regular exchange diary.
First, both my father and I would each prepare a notebook. In it, we would always write the date and the events of the day.
My father would also write down his meals for the day.
Then, during the next meeting, we would exchange the diaries.
This way, I could monitor his meals.
And by being monitored, my father would hopefully start following a regular eating routine.
The Exchange Diary Operation was a huge success. My father’s eating habits improved.
This happened when I was in elementary school.
More than three years have passed since then, and after I got a smartphone, I stopped the exchange diaries with my father.
Recently, however, I started noticing my father’s stomach again.
I guess I’ll have to start it again.
The Exchange Diary Operation, Part 2!

I still vividly remember the day my mother said to me, “I’m sorry.”
It was the day I was diagnosed with a developmental disability and intellectual disability.

Until then, both my mother and I had believed that “if you try hard enough, you can do the same as everyone else.”
So, in matters of studying and daily life, I was scolded constantly.
Especially during my school years, being reprimanded for my studies and test results was a daily occurrence.
“Why can’t you do better? Aren’t you studying?”
“I am! But I just can’t do it!”
Even as I cried and pleaded, I was told, “It’s not something to cry about.”
Every day was a cycle of negativity.

The turning point came when I visited the hospital with my mother as an adult.
After the tests, I was diagnosed with both developmental and intellectual disabilities.
Right after the diagnosis, my mother said to me,
“If I had known this earlier, I wouldn’t have scolded you so much.”
“I’m sorry for calling you stupid.”

At that moment, tears overflowed. From that day onward, the emotional distance between my mother and me began to slowly shrink.
Now, my mother understands my traits, and when needed, she tells me, “Don’t push yourself too hard,” and “The motto is not to overdo it.”
Those words have become a brake for me, who tends to rush forward, and there are more opportunities for her to praise me.
My mother’s words have gradually restored my self-esteem.

My mother’s apology gave me a new parent-child bond.
On this special day, “Oyakoday,” I wrote this essay to express my gratitude to my mother, who has supported me.
This is also the beginning of a new chapter in my relationship with her.

And now, I truly feel this:
“Mom, thank you. I’m so glad you are my mother.”

When my son was young, he would cry and chase after me even when I just needed to go to the bathroom. Now, he’s in his teenage years.
When I try to talk to him, he brushes me off, and depending on his mood, he might even say hurtful things.
The son who was once so adorable… Is raising a boy a short and intense experience?
The fact that my son has turned 18 means that, perhaps unknowingly, I too am aging, with my metabolism slowing down. The more I eat, the more weight I seem to gain—no, even though I’m not eating that much, the weight tends to settle around my waist.
At this rate, I’ll have no choice but to change my size and buy new clothes.
That means more spending. Rather than for beauty, I skip dinner to save money, not because of dieting, but simply to eat less.

“You’re not eating again today?”
“I am eating.”
“That’s barely anything!”
“I’m fine, I’ve already eaten a lot for breakfast, lunch, and snacks.”
“You need to eat more! If you don’t get proper nutrition, you’ll get sick!”
“When you get to my age, you gain weight easily.”
“You can gain weight if you want!” My son is truly angry.

Even though we argue… in his anger, I can still sense my son’s true feelings:
(I am loved.)
When I think this, I realize that, for him, I will always be the one and only, irreplaceable person. Being a mother feels wonderful, and I ask for seconds at dinner.

One summer day, when a neighboring town recorded the highest temperature in history at 41.8°C, I took my eldest son, who moved like a well-grown raccoon, and my younger son, who was like a little raccoon scurrying around, to a certain mountain area.
Our destination was a place called the “Fishing Center,” a fancy name for a typical fishing pond. It was a leisure spot where they would grill the rainbow trout and sweetfish that you caught, but the most noteworthy part was the opportunity to experience “sweetfish catching.” The raccoon and the little raccoon were determined to catch something, not glory or success, but rainbow trout and sweetfish.
The problem, however, was that “catching a fish that freely moves around in a pond is a feat that even a wild bear could not achieve.” As expected, within five minutes, the little raccoon (my younger son) gave up and quickly switched to fishing for rainbow trout. Since the fishing was so easy, it wasn’t long before he caught three in under five minutes.
Meanwhile, the raccoon (my eldest son) was deeply focused, using a style reminiscent of Miyamoto Musashi, holding a net in both hands and chasing the fish without giving up. Since the fee was the same regardless of how long you played, I ordered a grilled rainbow trout while leaving my eldest son to continue his battle.
Five minutes later, there was a cheer from the fish-catching pond. Looking over, the center of attention was none other than our own raccoon.
“I caught it!” he said proudly. Inside the net he was holding was a shining sweetfish, flapping its tail in frustration as if to say, “What are you doing to me!”
The raccoon excitedly explained how he caught the sweetfish, but as usual, he wasn’t very good at explaining, so I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying.
“Anyway, well done!”
I praised the raccoon’s great achievement and spent 700 yen for an extra grilled sweetfish.
Seeing my raccoon smiling as he bit into both the grilled rainbow trout and sweetfish, I was reminded of how quickly time passes and how much my children have grown. It was a summer day I will never forget.

By chance, I started living in Hiroshima this April.
Hiroshima is the first city in the world to have been bombed, and because of this, it is a city where you can strongly feel the prayers for peace.
On a hot summer day, as I was walking, I heard the sound of “paper cranes” drifting from a nearby elementary school, perhaps as part of peace education.
It had been about 20 years since I last heard that sound.
As I felt nostalgic, my grandfather’s face appeared in my mind.
Hiroshima is also the birthplace of my grandfather.

To me, my grandfather was a well-educated, skilled cook, a talented artist, and a person full of vitality with many talents.
His thick, sweet omelets were exquisite, and when I was a child, this was often my snack.
Even when I won awards for my paintings in art competitions, I would look at my grandfather’s solemn and unique paintings of the same scenes and think to myself as a child, “I can never match this.”
But still, my grandfather always praised me, no matter the circumstances.

Last year, I gave birth to a son and became a mother.
After coming to Hiroshima, I witnessed the remnants of the wartime devastation that still remain here. I think about my grandfather as a young child who lived through that time, someone I never knew.
What I know of my grandfather is that he was a “multitalented grandfather who adored his granddaughter,” but just like my son, he once had a childhood too—though it was in a completely different environment.
I think about how, in those days, he had to live thinking about surviving each day, being tough and strong.
It’s because people like my grandfather overcame such times that we are here today.
This summer, I felt peace more profoundly and closely than ever before in my life.
I also experienced new feelings of wanting to pass on peace to the next generation, to my son.

I want to trace the roots of my grandfather and ancestors here in Hiroshima, and the places where they lived.
Where did our lives come from? What kind of times did they live through, and with what thoughts did they live? How did their blood flow into us today?
I want to follow the history of the relay of life and pass that baton to my son, and to future generations.

At that time, I was living in Osaka, where my husband had been transferred for work.
It was an unfamiliar place, my family was far away, and my husband worked in sales, often coming home late into the night.
It was what you would call a “one-person operation.”
My young son often had fevers.

That day, I was incredibly sleepy.
My husband had come home late the night before, and the housework stretched into the early hours of the morning.
Even though he told me, “You can sleep,” I stayed up, waiting for him to come home.

My son, who had been napping, woke up.
I think he was around three years old.

“Mom, wake up! I want to go on the slide!”
I was too sleepy and replied, “Just a little more sleep,” but he insisted, “Ken-chan isn’t sleepy. Let’s go for a walk.”

I said, “There’s pudding in the fridge,” and my son ate it skillfully, then came back to persuade me again.
I still wanted to sleep, so I said, “My head hurts. I think I have a fever. Watch the Tomica video.”
In reality, I didn’t have a headache or a fever. I was pretending to be sick.
My son became quiet and left my side.

Just when I thought I could sleep for another 20 minutes, I felt something cold on my forehead.
“Mom’s head, ‘Itai no itai no tondeike!’ (Pain, go away!) This will make your fever go down!”

My son had taken a cooling pad from the fridge and placed it on my forehead.
There was a small chair in front of the fridge.
I could picture him saying, “One step, two steps,” as he carefully carried the chair and stretched up to grab it.

Tears quietly fell. The mix of guilt and emotion over his growth moved me deeply.
“Ken-chan, thank you! I’m better now.
Let’s go for a walk. I’ll get ready right now, so wait for me.”

My son, who had been waiting by the door with his shoes on, muttered,
“Mom, you’re so slow! How long are you going to make me wait?”
That was exactly my husband’s tone.
I burst out laughing.

Children observe their parents well.
I held his small hand and we went outside.
My son, who will soon turn 29, is likely to become a father soon.
I’m sure he’ll be a kind father.
But please, take your time while your wife gets ready.

A cream-colored baby blanket with a big picture of a rabbit.
In times of anxiety or when I was scolded, I would spread it out like a magic carpet and bask in the sun, enjoying a moment of pure bliss.
Gradually, sleep would overtake me, and I would close my eyes and drift off…
When I woke up from my nap, the rabbit blanket was always covering me, gently and sweetly, like soft castella cake.
“You always kick it off right away. Every time, I had to tuck it back in for you. Ah, you were so cute.”
My mother would smile as she looked into my face, seemingly searching for traces of the past.
Surely, the comfort of the blanket wasn’t just from its soft texture. My mother’s deep love must have soaked into it, making the warmth even more comforting, wrapping me up entirely.
Over time, it became sun-bleached and faded, with a few stains that soap couldn’t remove.
Still, I never threw it away, always hanging it in the front of the closet.
Just having it nearby, it felt as if it was there beside me, and it strangely soothed my heart, filling me with a sense of happiness.
Now, as I bask in my mother’s love through the blanket, I watch my daughter, snoring loudly beside me.
“Honestly, you always kick it off. We’ll cover you up properly, so you don’t catch a cold.”
Relaxing by the window at my parents’ house, I pull down the hem of my polka-dot blouse to hide my belly button. I then cover my daughter with her favorite dolphin-patterned baby blanket and hum a lullaby.
“Maybe I’ll take a break with you.”
Lying down with the familiar rabbit blanket on my stomach, I curl up like a little caterpillar.
In the same position as my daughter, with my mouth open and eyes closed, I drift off into a peaceful sleep…
Eat well, play well, rest enough, and grow up strong.
While wishing for my daughter’s healthy growth, I too am slowly enchanted by the magic of the blanket.

There came a day when I stopped going on family trips.
I had been glued to my desk preparing for university entrance exams… or perhaps, I had just come up with that excuse.
The truth was, I simply couldn’t find a reason to go to noisy places with my family anymore.

— In other words, I longed for silence.

My family silently accepted it. Gradually, the number of trips they took without me increased.
They must have sensed that I was yearning for “serenity.”

In my house, silence never truly existed.
The TV was always on, laughter shook the walls, the ventilation fan hummed, and the air conditioner groaned.
Even if I curled up in the furthest corner of the house, the noise would follow me.

— However, when my family was gone, silence would unexpectedly arrive.
A silence so empty it felt almost unnatural.
The body left behind in the stillness experienced a strange sense of liberation.
The air spreading from corner to corner of the room didn’t clear with a “shh” but instead carried a tension, as if it were on the verge of snapping. I tried to merge with it.

I wanted to live in that stillness forever.

…That was my feeling for the first three hours.

Soon, the silence turned into a ringing in my ears, summoning phantom sounds that gnawed at my mind.
I started feeling ill, and in the end, I turned on the TV and played music…

— Ah, please come back.

When the door opened, the noise rushed in.
Laughter bounced through the air, the clinking of dishes echoed, and the TV blared noisily.
I frowned, but deep inside, I felt relieved.

The stillness certainly comforted me.
But it was the noise that connected me to something.

I hear there is something called “OYAKO Day.”
I want to celebrate that day not as a day to give flowers or exchange special words, but simply—
as a day to truly appreciate the value of the noise.

The discomfort of being alone.
The disharmony born from the interactions between parent and child.
That disharmony is my life, my comfort,
— and the place to which I belong.

This spring, I started working as a doctor.
Having attended private schools throughout middle and high school, and also having experienced a gap year and studying abroad, I found myself finally entering society at the age of 28.
The moment I received my first paycheck, I asked my mother, “Is there anything you want?”
She smiled and said, “I don’t need anything, but I’d like you to pull the weeds in the garden.”

During the Golden Week, when I went back to my parents’ house, I remembered my mother’s words, and for the first time since elementary school, I got to work pulling weeds.
My body, which had spent its youth buried in tests, found the May sunshine blinding, and it was quite exhausting. When I thought about how my mother had done all of this by herself, silently, while I was at my desk, my heart felt like it was being sunburned.
As I became a doctor, the first lesson I received from my mentor was, “Treat your patients as if they were your own parents.”
What is truly important when facing others is listening to their needs and responding to them.
I realized that pulling weeds for my mother and working in the medical field have the same root.
The “thank you” my mother said after we finished pulling the weeds still lingers inside my white coat, somewhere, unresolved.

I left my 89-year-old mother alone at her home, and at the age of 61, I quit my job as a doctor and moved to the Netherlands. I finally made the decision to pursue my childhood dream of becoming a novelist.
My mother did not immediately forgive me for this. “How could you leave an old woman alone and go to a distant foreign country?”
The letters I received from her often started with the same complaint and ended with the same anxiety. My father passed away at the age of 71, and my mother, who had entrusted me to be his doctor during his final moments, likely wished for me to care for her in the same way. I understood that feeling all too well. But even so, I wanted to go. I wanted to write the continuation of my dream.
One day, my mother’s letters suddenly changed. “You always used to write stories when you were little.”
It was a sudden sentence. Thinking back, I realized that as a child, as long as I had paper and a pencil, I could create worlds wherever I was. My mother said that she saw my image of sitting at a desk, weaving words, and she saw that in my father’s youth.
My father was a doctor, but he was also someone who loved poetry and novels. In between patient visits, he would read books and sometimes write something in a notebook. He was a person who had once sealed away his dream of becoming a writer, wrapped in his white coat. Perhaps, unknowingly, I had inherited that dream.
Finally, my mother said, “You’re going to carry on your father’s dream. Well, I guess there’s no more to be said.”
On the morning of my departure, I found a small envelope tucked in the corner of my bag.
“Be careful. Both your dream and your father’s dream, I’m cheering for you.”
I cried out loud at the trembling handwriting.

Dreams may seem like they belong to an individual, but perhaps they are, in reality, a legacy woven with someone else’s memories and wishes.
My mother’s permission became my first step. And even now, as I write in a distant country, my mother’s quiet prayer supports my back.

My father passed away from stomach cancer at the age of 53.
I was 17 that summer, so it’s been over half a century now.
He had left the railroad company where he worked before turning 50 due to strained interpersonal relationships.
Thanks to an introduction from my brother-in-law, he was able to find a job collecting payments for a power company.

He was naturally a serious and sincere man, so the job seemed to suit him well.

One evening after dinner, he said, “Hey, look what I’ve got,” and placed a large coin on the low dining table.

“Wow! That’s the Olympic 1,000 yen silver coin!”

My mother was astonished and he explained, “An elderly woman at one of the houses I collect from didn’t have a 1,000 yen bill on hand, so she gave me this instead.”
It became clear that he had immediately exchanged it with his own 1,000 yen bill and brought the commemorative coin home for the family.

“Wasn’t that coin probably a treasure to her?” my sister said.

“She probably got scolded by her family afterward,” added my mother.

My father’s expression changed.
He had thought everyone would be delighted, but now he seemed to feel as though he was being blamed. The cheerful mood in the living room suddenly grew heavy. Only I, a grade-schooler at the time, remained excited—flipping the coin over and holding it up to the fluorescent light.

“If that’s how it is, I’ll return it tomorrow,” my father said, slipping the silver coin into his wallet. His profile looked lonely. It’s a distant memory now, but whenever the Olympics approach, that moment comes back to me. I’ve long since surpassed the age my father was when he passed away. I have a family of my own now, children of my own, and I’ve come to know the joy of gathering around the table with loved ones. I understand now—almost painfully—how my father must have felt at that time. He just wanted to see everyone smile.

That day was my eldest son’s 12th birthday.
I finished work on time and hurried home to my family, who were waiting for me. His requested birthday present was already prepared.
But somehow, it didn’t feel quite right to show up empty-handed on the day itself—so I decided to pick up an extra gift at the bookstore near our house, hoping to make it a bit more dramatic.

Knowing he liked books related to games where monsters evolve and grow, I browsed the shelves for something fitting. As I wandered the store, I suddenly heard my son’s name from the other side of a shelf. His name is fairly unique—there’s no one else with it in his grade—so I was certain the voice was referring to him. Peeking through the shelves, I saw a group of three upper-grade elementary school boys whispering and calling out my son’s name again.

“Could it be… is my son being bullied at school?” I wondered uneasily, hiding in the shadows of the shelf to observe them. “Don’t tell me they’re planning to shoplift?” I listened closely for a while, but found no signs of bullying or theft.

Eventually, the three boys picked up a soccer magazine, paid for it, and left the store. Even so, my unease didn’t go away. I bought the game-related book, had it gift-wrapped, and returned home.

When I got back, my son’s face lit up with joy as he saw his presents: his original gift, a handmade cake from my wife, and the bonus book. My younger son, three years his junior, was equally ecstatic about a little “extra” gift he received too.

My son, perhaps because he is an only child, was never fond of competition and rarely asked for things.
Even when he did want something, the adults around him would eagerly grant his wishes, so he never really needed to assert himself strongly to get what he wanted.

When he reached his final year of kindergarten, the school announced a special overnight event for the Tanabata festival.
We went over the list of items needed, provided by the school, and packed his backpack together.
His face showed a mix of small anxieties and great excitement—it would be his first sleepover away from home.

The parents’ association was planning to set up a mock “festival” with little stalls, and we were instructed to give our children 500 yen as spending money—specifically, five 10-yen coins, three 50-yen coins, and three 100-yen coins—in a small purse worn around the neck.
It would be his first night away from us, and his first time shopping by himself.
For him, it was a tiny summer adventure.

The next day, I went to pick him up, half-worried—Did he wet the bed?—but when I saw him standing a little taller than usual, I knew he had enjoyed himself, and I felt relieved.

With sparkling eyes, he began to tell me all about it.
“Before shopping time started, the teacher took us to the festival classroom and showed us what was there. That way we wouldn’t get confused when it was time to buy things. And when it started, I ran to the stall so I wouldn’t lose to the girls!”

I wanted to ask him all kinds of questions, but I held back, waiting for him to tell the story in his own order.
Before even saying what he bought, he reached into his backpack and placed his first-ever purchase in my hand.

It was a slightly heavy, pink necklace.

“They asked me, ‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ And I said, ‘It’s a souvenir for my mom,’ and they told me, ‘How wonderful!’ I used the rest of the money to buy some sweets!”

There he stood, holding out that pink necklace—his trophy from his very first competitive moment.
In my eyes, he was a tiny knight, and that image of him is etched forever in my heart.

Maybe it was because I had turned twenty, or maybe it was because my older sister had just started her first year working and begun living on her own, but my mother started opening up about parts of the past I had never known.

My father, who had inherited and was running a family business that had been passed down since my great-grandfather’s time, was being pressured by his parents to produce a male heir. But after my sister was born, and then I came along, my mother experienced two miscarriages.

As she grew older, concerns about late-age childbirth began to grow. When she was over forty, my father apparently said to her, “It’s okay, we don’t need a boy.”
Still, my mother had left her job upon marriage and joined the family. The unspoken expectation of bearing a son from a different father—my grandfather—had become a heavy burden.
Alone, she knocked on the door of a shabby apartment in Shinjuku, where a blind fortune-teller was waiting.
She asked, “Will I be able to give birth to a boy?”

The fortune-teller told her:
“You two are nothing alike in terms of hobbies or personality, yet you always make decisions at the same timing. That’s a wonderful thing.
I see two adorable little girls riding in a handcart. The two of you are turning equally sized wheels at the same speed, and the girls are bouncing along happily, ‘yo-tto-to, yo-tto-to,’ enjoying the ride.”

It was then, my mother said, that she finally felt at peace—realizing that having two daughters was enough.

I had never known about her miscarriages, or that she once longed for a son.
In a family, there are many moments when big decisions must be made.
With two daughters, the financial burden alone is doubled.
And yet, despite having to constantly make one decision after another, I’ve never once seen my parents clash or grow distant from each other.

Two years ago, my father made a clean decision to close his company during the economic downturn caused by COVID.
Now, he enjoys gardening, photography, and mountain climbing—fully embracing his hobbies.
My mother lets him do as he pleases and leads a laid-back life.

They’ve become a pair that can weather anything.

Someday, when I find someone I truly want to marry, I want to show him to my mother first and really listen to what she has to say.
I want to learn her secret—how to keep the cart moving forward, no matter the road, no matter the storm.

It came like a shock.

“Mom, from today on, can you wait for me behind the next utility pole—not right in front of the cram school?”
“Huh? Why?”
“Just… please.”
At the time, my son was in fifth grade. I had been picking him up and dropping him off at cram school. In fact, I’d even gone so far as to buy a compact European car—a two-seater “S”—specifically for that purpose. The narrow alley in front of the cram school was crowded with children, and I thought my husband’s large RV was far too bulky and dangerous to navigate there. In contrast, the small but sturdy “S” seemed perfect for the job.

But then, one day, my son emerged from the school and practically dove into the car, crouching low as he said, “Hurry, let’s go.”

When I asked, “What’s wrong with the car?” he replied:

“It’s weird. And the fact that you come pick me up… that’s what’s wrong.”
Apparently, some of his friends had teased him.

From that day on, he stopped walking with me. Even when we went shopping for clothes, he insisted on “meet there, leave there” arrangements.

“Let’s meet at that shop on the second floor of Aeon at 10:30,” he’d say.
And once the shopping was done, he’d casually part with:

“Thanks. I’ll go from here,” before heading back to the same home we shared.
“Is this rebellion? Puberty? What even is this?”
I sighed and asked my fellow mom friends.

“Oh, that’s nothing. Mine says I’m ‘annoying’ and ‘gross,’” one laughed.
“What should I do?”
“Just leave him be. If a boy stays clingy to his mom forever, that’s more of a concern.”
Fair point.

From then on, even when my son cold-shouldered me, I kept telling myself: “It’s a sign of growth. Just a sign of growth.”
So, when he was in high school and one day said, “Can you drive me to the outlet mall?”
I was so shocked I blurted out in a goofy voice: “Wh-why, yes, of course!”
He looked a bit embarrassed and said: “Yeah… please.”
Now, my son—who made it through his rebellious phase and grew into a fine young man—is getting married this October. He’s found a wonderful partner, and he’s absolutely glowing with happiness.

They’re about to begin their own family story.

Congratulations, my dear.

I used to think the two fathers in my life couldn’t be more different.

I was raised by a man who could have stepped straight out of a textbook on stern, old-school Japanese fatherhood. He was strict, yes—but he gave me everything I needed and never let me feel deprived. He never missed cheering at my club games and drove me to and from high school every day. Most of my memories with him are centered around sports—playing catch, going for runs. Every summer, during the high school baseball tournaments, the two of us would sit side by side in front of the big TV in the living room and watch the games together.

It wasn’t just a good balance of closeness and distance—if anything, I was doted on.

Then came the other “father”—my father-in-law, whom I met after getting married.
He’s a great cook, loves to clean, never forgets to take out the trash, and gets along easily with my son’s friends. He’s the total opposite of my own father: gentle, soft-spoken, and warm. When his first grandchild was born, he beamed with pride and happily helped take care of the baby. He takes walks every day with his grandchild and his beloved dog. He’s the epitome of the kind, peaceful countryside grandpa.

At first glance, they seem completely opposite—but in truth, they’re surprisingly alike.

To put it kindly, they both live with conviction, following their own path with unwavering love for themselves. Less kindly, they’re incredibly stubborn and a little self-centered.

My father spends his days off practicing softball with his local team and drinks as much as he pleases every day. He pours his time and money into the things he loves.
My father-in-law? Fishing. The shoreline isn’t enough for him—he boards boats and heads out to sea. He, too, spares no time or money for his passion.

Watching the backs of these two men, I couldn’t help but feel a bit envious. Part of me wants them to change, and another part wants them to stay exactly as they are.

They’re like boys who just happened to grow old.

Strange and endearing, these two fathers of mine.
My husband is steadily growing into the image of them both.
And I wonder—will our child one day follow in their footsteps too?

Whatever the case, I’m proud to call them both my fathers.

As a working mom, the walk home from daycare is the most exciting time of my day.
Once we get home, it’s a whirlwind of dinner prep, bath time, and bedtime—leaving little space for a relaxed conversation with my son.
That’s why this walk home is so precious to me.

The walk would only take ten minutes at an adult’s pace, but with my three-year-old, it becomes a leisurely 15 to 20-minute stroll. During that time, I get to experience a whole spectrum of emotions from him—cute, funny, and sometimes, let’s be honest, exhausting.

My car-loving son watches the traffic and excitedly points out, “That one’s cool!” or “That car’s pretty rare!”
If a firetruck or police car passes by, we both exclaim, “Lucky!” and cheer together.
In summer, we search for cicadas; in winter, we admire holiday lights and snap selfies together like we’re on a date.
During his “stair phase” (every kid has one, right?), I would just stand by and watch as he climbed up and down the steps on our route over and over.

When he had just turned two, he suddenly said one day, “Shall we go shopping at the milkman’s?” as we walked our usual path.
The milkman? I followed his gaze and saw the familiar blue sign of a certain convenience store.
Sure enough, there was a little milk can logo on the sign, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

But then I wondered—how did a Reiwa-era child even know what a milk can was?
I asked him, “How do you know that’s milk?” but, as expected, got no clear answer. He was two, after all.
Since then, that store has forever been “the milkman’s” to us.

In just a few more years, he’ll be in elementary school, and we probably won’t walk hand-in-hand like this anymore.
That thought makes this time feel even more precious.
Sure, there are evenings when I’d love nothing more than to plop him into the bike seat and speed home.

But for now, I want to savor this fleeting, irreplaceable time with him just a little longer.

Lately, my 92-year-old grandma’s forgetfulness has gotten much worse. She remembers her wartime experiences and youth with astonishing clarity.
Her long-term memory is still sharp, but her short-term memory has become incredibly fragile. Watching her decline day by day is heartbreaking.

She often says to my mom, “What was it again? I just can’t remember anymore,” when trying to recall how she spent her day or whether she took her medicine properly.
I’m short-tempered, and I sometimes find myself getting irritated with her.
But my mom gently reassures her: “Yes, you took your medicine—I saw you,” or “The helper came today, remember? How was that?”

I once vented to my mom, “You’re amazing. I don’t mind dealing with dementia patients at work, but spending the whole day with Grandma on my day off drives me crazy.”
She replied, “It’s not like I don’t feel anything either. I get frustrated too. But Grandma doesn’t forget things on purpose. It would be cruel to blame her for that.”

Maybe it’s the difference between a daughter and a granddaughter—the way we perceive things, the way we feel.

Lately, though, my mom has started saying things like “What should I do? I don’t know,” or “I’ve forgotten again…”
And I think to myself—Ah, the time has come for Mom too.

Being together can be frustrating at times.
But it also brings joy—going on trips, sharing delicious meals even though her appetite is fading.

It’s okay to forget. It’s okay not to understand.
Let’s just stay together.
Because you are someone I love.

“You’re a good child. Stay well today, too.”
This was part of my mother’s daily routine—stopping her walker on her way home from her morning walk
to greet the Jizō statue that stood at the entrance of the elementary school in front of our house.

Whenever she encountered a Jizō statue during her travels, she would gently pat its head and speak to it as if reuniting with a long-lost child.
She would wash the weather-worn statues, faded from rain and sunlight, and carefully dress them with red caps and bibs that she had sewn stitch by stitch.
She prayed for the health and safety of her children living far away—something she only recently told me.

I now realize that, by entrusting her children’s well-being to these statues as they left her side, she was also filling the emptiness in her own heart.

The many photos I have of my mother standing next to Jizō statues across Japan vividly bring back memories of our travels together.
As the years passed, my mother’s expression grew gentler, more serene—just like the Jizō statues beside her—and even more beautiful.
It was as if the hardships she had endured throughout her life had nourished her soul and deepened her grace.

Today, my 92-year-old mother lives in a care facility and the Jizō statues are no longer part of her daily life.
While I wondered what might fill that void, she once surprised me during a visit:
“Look at this!” she said, unbuttoning the chest of her blouse to reveal a small, rolled-up piece of thick white paper that she had made herself from hand-wiping tissue.

I was in sixth grade when my father—who had left our family—sent me a VHS tape of a movie.

At the time, I was obsessed with Jackie Chan and Dragon Ball, and had never watched a Western film. I couldn’t understand why he had chosen to send me that tape,
but it became the first foreign movie I ever saw—with subtitles.

Later, when I was in junior high, my father said to me, “Let’s go to America together during summer break.”

He took me not once, but twice—once during summer vacation and once during winter break.

It’s not like he had money. After leaving the family, he started from nothing.
He worked the assembly line at a car factory, tightening hundreds of bolts a day—so many his finger joints bent from the strain. He worked night shifts,
lived in a dorm, and saved every yen to be able to take me on those trips.

Of all the places we went, New York left the deepest impression on me.

He handed me $20 and simply said, “Be back at the hotel before sundown.”
Then I explored the city by myself on $1 buses.

Intersections.
Traffic lights.
Graffiti.
Homeless people.
Yellow cabs.
The Statue of Liberty, barely visible in the distance, no bigger than my pinky finger.

It felt like I had wandered into the world of a movie.

In New York, everyone you see breathing the same air—including me—is undeniably a New Yorker.
Not Japanese, not Asian, not white, not Black—just people, with no borders between them.
That spirit of openness is what New York gave me.

Back when I was still single, before I got married, I once went on a day trip with my father. We were trying out a method for boosting our luck that a
fortune-teller had told me about: take a trip in a lucky direction. Coincidentally, my father had the same lucky direction, so we decided to go together.

Our destination was Katsuura, in Chiba Prefecture. After enjoying a meal at a seafood restaurant near the fishing port, we visited Tanjō-ji, the temple
where the monk Nichiren was born. As we stood looking at the map by the entrance, I noticed a small building labeled Ota-dō—Ota Hall—tucked in the
corner. My maiden name is Ota, so I couldn’t help exclaiming, “It’s Ota Hall!”

My father pointed to the little illustration of the building and said, “That’s where our ancestors are.”
He added, “A relative who lives nearby takes care of it.”

I was surprised, of course, but we didn’t actually visit the hall—we just headed home.

Years later, after I got engaged, the memory of Ota Hall came back to me. “I need to tell my ancestors I’m getting married,”
I thought. Normally you’d visit your family grave, but for some reason, Ota Hall was the only place that came to mind.

So this time, I invited my fiancé (now my husband), and the two of us made the trip to Katsuura.

Seeing Ota Hall for the first time, I was taken aback by how small and—if I’m honest—worn down it was. The structure was very old,
with a single small bell hanging in front. We had arrived late in the day, and the sun was already setting. It felt like the kind of place where a ghost might appear.

Still, we bowed respectfully and made our greeting:
“To our ancestors, I wanted to share the news—I’m getting married. This is my fiancé.”
Since we were there, we rang the bell—gong—and snapped a photo in front of the hall, flashing peace signs.

But when the photo was developed, it came out so dark and eerie it looked like something straight out of a collection of ghost stories.

Later, back at home, I told my dad all about our visit while he was reading the newspaper in the living room.
“I went to Ota Hall today,” I said.
He replied, “Huh? Why would you go there?”
“You said our ancestors were there, so I went to report my engagement!”

He slowly put the newspaper down, looked up at me, and said:

“Oh… that? That was a joke.”

I practically fell backward.
Apparently, not everything parents say is to be taken as gospel.
Maybe this was a belated first step toward true independence.
Or maybe—just don’t make weird jokes that don’t make sense.

It’s one of those memories of my father: expressionless like a statue, making dry, unfunny jokes.

In January of this year, my father passed away. He was 81.

I had long regretted that I hadn’t done anything for him while he was alive. He was always so close… and yet…
Now, my memories are filled with one regret after another.
But about six months after his passing, I gradually began to come to terms with those feelings.

Then July arrived.
We began preparing for hatsubon—the first Bon Festival after someone’s death. Since it’s customary in our area for many people to visit your home during hatsubon,
I decided to tidy up my father’s bookshelf—something that had remained untouched since the funeral.

I stepped into his study. It still carried his scent—one I had loved since childhood and from that study, many nostalgic items began to surface.

First were the photographs—so many photos he had taken over the years. My father loved photography. With his trusty Konica camera, he had filled old, faded albums
with snapshots of memories. There were pictures from company trips, family gatherings, everyday moments. Each one labeled in his neat, precise handwriting, noting
when and where they were taken. Those careful notes made the memories even more vivid—and all the more piercing. I found myself saying “How nostalgic…” aloud
again and again.

Next, I uncovered pamphlets, flyers, and newspaper clippings. Ticket stubs from movies we saw as a family. Articles about my father’s achievements. Essays he had written.
These were precious pieces of his life—proof of the way he had lived. It struck me: He must have truly enjoyed his life. All these pieces of his story were thoughtfully stored
together, beautifully organized in boxes.

Finally, I opened a drawer in his desk. Inside, I found the diary he had written in every day. I had known he kept a diary, but I had never once looked inside. Now, curiosity got
the better of me. I opened it and the moment I did, the tears came—and wouldn’t stop.

The pages were filled with entries about me, his eldest son. The day I got married. The day my children—his grandchildren—were born. The outings we took together as a family.
He had carefully recorded all those everyday moments with us. Each entry ended the same way: “Today was another happy day.”

In that moment, I realized how deeply he had loved me—even though I had often felt I was a disappointing son. He had worried about me. And still, he gave me his unwavering love.
The final entry was dated May 15th—the day before he collapsed, on May 16th.

May 15th: “Worked in the garden in the morning. It was hot today. Had dinner with Hiroaki and his family in the evening. Today was another happy day.” It took six months after
his passing for me to truly understand—Just how deeply he loved me, how much care he put into raising me.

Soon, it will be his first Bon Festival. For his sake, I want to show him I’ve become a reliable eldest son.
Now that his study is finally cleaned and organized, I can say it with confidence:

Thank you, Dad.