The State of Modern Society and Families
Today, Japan faces the social problem of a declining birthrate. When I was in elementary and junior high school—through the 1960s and 1970s—few of my friends attended cram school. Now, it seems that everyone, whether from Shinto or Buddhist families, sends their children to cram school. It is common to see mothers driving their children there in their own cars. Even entrance into kindergarten has become a competitive "entrance exam." Don't you think this is a strange trend? From prestigious private kindergartens, children advance seamlessly through the same school system up to university—the energy parents devote to their children is immense. Higher education leads to higher income. Fewer children are born, and all parental resources are concentrated on the one child they do have.
Most children are pushed from an early age into endless studying and the grueling competition of exams. Naturally, they are busy. In the limited free time they have, they immerse themselves in video games. It seems that both in study and in play, they are absorbed in their own worlds. There are more children who cannot get along well with others, or who lose their temper over the slightest thing. Some relieve their stress by bullying those weaker than themselves. Whether due to strict control from their parents or the opposite—being overprotected—children's inner worlds are now in a state of crisis.
We now live in an age overflowing with every kind of information. While enjoying freedom in such a society may be fine, the price to be paid is enormous. And in people's hearts, it is "money, money, money." You need money to be happy; those who earn money are admirable—this belief runs deep. For example, a boy might simply love baseball or soccer and dream of becoming a professional player; this has not changed from the past. Yet sadly, even in the world of sports, money has seeped into every corner.
From the postwar chaos, society settled, then entered the era of high economic growth. The hard work of "worker bees" supported the Japanese economy and brought about remarkable recovery. Then the economic bubble burst, and before we knew it, the "middle-class consciousness" shared by the Japanese people had given way to widening economic disparity. The rich grow ever richer, while the gap with those who have less widens still further. I believe Japan is becoming a nation increasingly controlled by money. Of course, the same is true of other countries. That is why various crimes occur, and why incidents and accidents that instill fear and anxiety in people's hearts happen as a matter of daily routine.
Even in such social conditions, parents still wish for their children's happiness and hope they grow up healthy. But what is that happiness? What are the limitless dreams and visions for the future entrusted to children? On what standards are parents basing their ideas of happiness, dreams, and the future? What answers can they offer?
Of course, hardly anyone considers such things when deciding to marry. People marry because they are in love, or because they feel it was a fated encounter, setting out on a new life together in the heat of youthful passion. Forming a family with a good partner is natural. I was no exception. However, my motive for marriage was, in many ways, impure.
Surely, no one marries someone they do not like. Encounters and beginnings vary, but at the very least, both must see something good in each other—or, more fervently, feel "it has to be this person"—for marriage to happen. Yet, even with such a start, the feelings of that time soon fade, buried under the busy routine of daily life, with small quarrels gradually accumulating. When a child is born, a mother's heart, in particular, becomes centered on the child. The child takes precedence over the husband. I am not saying that husbands cease to matter, but for many wives, as long as the husband works hard and brings home money for herself and the child, that is enough. A husband who does not provide financially may even be branded as worthless—like a piece of bulky garbage. Even short of that, some men find themselves quietly shunned by wife and children, until one day they realize they no longer have a place in their own home. And so, they look outside the family for a sense of self-worth—seeking places, people, or things that will recognize them. For some, that is their workplace; for others, it is women, alcohol, or gambling. What kind of children are raised in such a household, in such a marital relationship?
There are mothers who push their children into competitive school entrance exams, placing excessive expectations upon them; children who, under that maternal pressure, struggle desperately to break free; and fathers who pretend not to see. Families that seem peaceful on the surface may, when you look into their hearts, be in turmoil. Perhaps the family is not truly bound together at all. What, in the end, holds a family together?
Motives for Marriage and Escape from Home
Now, to return to my own story.
I have already said that my motive for marriage was impure—and yes, that is exactly how it was. I wanted to get away from the environment of my father's illness. And then, as if a ship had come just when I needed to cross, there appeared a man who was fond of me. He was not particularly handsome, nor was he blessed with exceptional intelligence, and his family background was quite ordinary. Yet, pressed by his fervent proposal, I found myself boarding that ship. That means, of course, that I wanted to open up a new world for myself—and I must admit that I was drawn to the kind of person he was. But my motives were impure, and at the age of twenty-three I carried in my mind the idea that in marriage, the balance of power was what really mattered. I believed it was better to marry someone who loved me than to marry someone I loved. I thought that, if a man loved me this much, surely he would make me happy.
It was far from a union born of pure passion; I had made my own calculations. Looking back now, I realize I was already caught up in a game of bargaining and maneuvering—my character, in truth, was already corrupted.
But my calculations were completely mistaken. There was my husband's mother and his younger sister—in other words, my mother-in-law and my sister-in-law. The three of them—my husband, his mother, and his sister—formed a solid alliance. I remained an outsider through and through.
To my mother-in-law, her eldest son—my husband—was more dependable than her other two children and was the one she cherished most. For this son, who had always been so devoted to her and so partial toward her, to suddenly put his wife first—this must have been an intolerable change in her heart.
For my part, I thought, "Before we married, you always put me first in everything," and I resented the way my husband now brought his mother into our conversations and decisions. "Put me first. Treat me as number one." I poured that thought toward him again and again.
At times, my feelings were so strong that I felt like seizing him by the collar and demanding, "Which will you choose—your mother or me?" I was ready to challenge him in that way. It was, in spirit, the same as the fierce clashes between wives and mothers-in-law that so often happen in the world. Outwardly, we never fought in such an open and heated manner, but in my heart that is exactly what was going on.
Later, when I learned to look into my own heart, I confirmed this for myself. The same was true in my dealings with my sister-in-law.
The family I had married into placed great emphasis on educational background. My mother-in-law, born in the early Shōwa era, had graduated from a girls' high school; her daughter had graduated from a prestigious national university in Osaka; and both her sons had at least graduated from private universities in Kansai. The bride they brought in—me—had only completed high school.
I heard, indirectly, that my mother-in-law had said she wished the woman marrying into the family had at least graduated from a junior college. I seized on that remark and held it tightly. It was not something I could just let pass. I felt I had been looked down on.
"Just you wait. I'll show you. Damn it!" That thought surged up within me. And that energy transformed into energy for study—study aimed at acquiring qualifications. I had already been studying since before my marriage, but now my desire was to get even, to make them acknowledge me.
Academic Inferiority and the Path to Qualifications
The high school I attended was a college-preparatory school where most students went on to university. I too set my sights on university entrance and studied as hard as I could, but the barrier was high. I failed the entrance exams twice—once in my final year of high school, and again after a year of studying as a rōnin.
Even though my parents allowed me to attend a cram school during my gap year, I must have been studying in the wrong way. In any case, the result was failure, and what remained in me was the heavy sense of defeat and the sting of inferiority.
After my second failure, I felt I had reached the limit of my academic ability. The will to try a third time simply wasn't there, and the idea of going to university itself faded into the distance. Now, looking back, I realize that I hadn't even had a clear goal for going to university in the first place. It was just that "everyone else is going, so I will too." Once I realized that, my desire quickly evaporated.
What remained was only the bitter aftertaste of failure. And then came the pressing question: what to do next?
Coming from a college-preparatory high school and having failed the university entrance exams twice, I had no clear path to employment. I had no skill with an abacus, no special talents. But I couldn't simply do nothing, so I decided to start with bookkeeping.
I went to a bookkeeping school during the day and took the Chamber of Commerce's certification exams. This routine continued for about a year after I failed the entrance exams.
Then, through connections from my family's business, I was offered a job. The idea of working in a place where I knew someone felt more secure than entering an entirely unfamiliar environment. So, in June—about a year after that bitter exam season—I entered a financial institution as a midyear hire.
It was there that I met the man who would become my husband. He joined the bank the year after I did, fresh from university. My first impression of him was of a man wearing thick glasses like the bottoms of milk bottles; I never dreamed I would marry him. Yet, about two years after we met, and to the surprise of my parents as well as myself, we were married.
In the spring of my third year at the bank, he was twenty-nine and I was twenty-four.
At that point, I changed jobs to one where I could make use of the bookkeeping skills I had acquired. And from then on, spurred on by that "damn it" energy, I set my sights on becoming a licensed tax accountant—balancing work, basic household duties, and study for the qualification.
If I had passed the university entrance exams, I would never have entered that bank, never have met him, and likely never have married at all.
I had little desire for marriage to begin with. Having watched my mother, worn down and resentful over my father's illness, I had resolved never to live a life like hers.
The Reality of Married Life and Inner Conflict
When I married, I became not only a wife but also a daughter-in-law in a household with firmly established relationships. My husband's mother and younger sister were already closely bound to him, and it was as if the three of them formed a tight circle with no room for me to enter. I was on the outside from the very start.
From my mother-in-law's point of view, her eldest son—my husband—was the most reliable of her children and the one she cherished most. To have that son, who had always been so devoted to her, suddenly turn his attention toward his wife must have been deeply unsettling for her.
As for me, I could not help thinking, Before we were married, you always put me first. I resented the way my husband, who used to put me at the center of everything, now included his mother in our decisions. Again and again I poured my thoughts toward him: Put me first. Treat me as number one.
The feelings in my heart sometimes became so intense that I wanted to grab him by the collar and shout, "Which will you choose—your mother or me?" I was ready to force that confrontation if it came to it. In truth, the emotional battle within me was no different from the open clashes that wives and mothers-in-law are famous for. Outwardly, there were no loud fights, but in my heart, that was exactly what was happening.
When I later learned to look into my own heart, I realized just how much resentment I had been holding—not only toward my mother-in-law, but toward my sister-in-law as well.
The family I had married into valued educational background above all else. My mother-in-law, born in the early Shōwa era, had graduated from a girls' high school. Her daughter had graduated from a top national university in Osaka. Both her sons had graduated from private universities in Kansai. And then there was me—the bride they had brought in—whose education had ended with high school.
I heard indirectly that my mother-in-law had once said she wished the woman marrying into the family had at least graduated from a junior college. I seized on that remark and held it in my heart like a thorn. It was not something I could simply brush aside. I felt I had been looked down upon.
"Just you wait. I'll show you. Damn it!" Those words surged up inside me. The energy of that indignation turned into the energy to study—study aimed at gaining qualifications that would force them to acknowledge me. I had already been studying since before my marriage, but now my desire was no longer simply to learn. It was to win.
Daily life, however, was far from easy. I worked outside the home just as my husband did, yet I was expected to do most of the housework. At first, he helped with chores, but gradually he began to say, "I'm tired from work," or, "You can do it better than I can," until helping became the exception rather than the rule.
I felt my frustration rising, but I kept silent. Speaking up would only create arguments, and with my mother-in-law and sister-in-law nearby, I knew I would be outnumbered. I told myself to endure, to adapt, to make the best of it.
Still, at night when the house was quiet, I sometimes lay awake and thought, Why did I marry into this family? Why did I choose this life? The answers never came. All I could do was remind myself that this was my own choice, that I could not simply blame others.
Yet the feeling of being an outsider in my own home never left me. My heart longed for a place where I could breathe freely, where I could be entirely myself without having to measure every word and action. That longing lay quietly within me, waiting for the day it would push me to act.
My Husband's Betrayal and the Ache in My Heart
Not long after we married, I began to sense subtle changes in my husband. At first, I told myself it was just my imagination, or perhaps the natural shift that comes once the early days of marriage have passed. But small signs accumulated—an evasive look, unexplained absences, a sudden change in the way he dressed.
One day, quite by chance, I learned the truth. There was another woman. The discovery hit me like a blow to the chest, leaving me unable to breathe for a moment.
In that instant, my mind was flooded with thoughts: How could he do this? After everything, after choosing me? Was all his love a lie? At the same time, another voice whispered inside: You married for impure reasons. You calculated. Perhaps this is the price you pay.
I could not bring myself to confront him directly at first. My feelings were too tangled—anger, humiliation, sorrow, and a strange, bitter resignation. I carried the knowledge in silence, testing him in small ways, watching his reactions, and each time feeling the wound inside me grow deeper.
When I finally did speak to him, it was not with shouting or tears, but with a cold, measured voice. I told him what I knew. He denied it at first, then gave vague answers, then tried to shift the blame onto me—saying that I had changed, that I was too focused on my studies and work, that I had neglected him.
Those words cut deeper than the betrayal itself. It was as if he had taken my very effort to improve myself—to gain qualifications, to stand on my own two feet—and turned it into a weapon against me.
From that point on, our marriage was never the same. Outwardly, we continued as before. We still ate at the same table, still exchanged the expected words in front of others. But inside, I built walls around my heart.
And yet, despite the hurt, I could not entirely erase the bond we had once shared. Late at night, I sometimes found myself remembering the early days—how he had looked at me before we married, the warmth of his voice when he first proposed. Those memories ached like an old wound that flares up in cold weather—no longer bleeding, but never truly healed.
I told myself I would not let this define me. I would keep walking my own path, no matter how rocky. But somewhere deep inside, the ache remained—a reminder of the tangled web of love, pride, and calculation that had brought me here.