Japan and the Paper Round
June 08, 2025
At twelve years old, I flew to Japan to visit my best friend’s family. But the story behind that trip says everything about who my father really was.
I was twelve or thirteen years old when I flew to Japan by myself.
My best friend’s family had moved back there after we’d grown up together through primary school. His parents didn’t speak much English, and mine didn’t speak Japanese—but the connection between our families was deep. Real. Loving. When they moved, they gave me an open invitation: they’d pay for everything. All I had to do was get myself there.
So I got three paper rounds.
Worked every day.
Saved £600.
And I flew across the world.
What strikes me now is not just what I did—but why.
That family made me feel deeply loved. Seen. Accepted. I wanted to see them again, not for adventure, but because they felt like home. And the only reason that relationship was even possible… was because of my dad.
He cultivated that connection. Encouraged it. Nurtured it.
Even with cultural barriers. Even when communication was hard.
Because he recognised love when he saw it. And he made space for it.
It’s a testament to the kind of man he was. The kind who didn’t need words to connect. The kind who valued sincerity over polish. The kind who loved quietly, but completely.
I still have the books they made for me—full of photos, drawings, little mementos from my time there. I still remember the feeling of arriving at that airport and seeing them waiting for me. The safety. The warmth. The awe of being in Japan at that age.
My mum and dad trusted me to go. They knew how good this family was. That speaks volumes.
I haven’t spoken to them in ten years.
Maybe because I felt abandoned when they left.
Or maybe because I forgot that part of myself existed.
But I’ve reached out to the old email addresses they gave me in 2015. All six or seven of them. I don’t know if any will still work—but I hope one does.
Because now, I’d love to reconnect.
Not just for me.
But to bring my son.
To show him a piece of the world that my father helped cultivate—a place of friendship, respect, and real human connection across difference.
It wasn’t just a trip.
It was love, in motion.
And it all started with a paper round.
