Sunday Dad

Sunday Father

From one Sunday to the next, Peter simply existed. Six days of emptiness, then one day that felt alive. Even that day was divided by phone calls and strict timetables, put in place two years prior by his ex-wife, Helen. Ten till six. No delays. No fast food. No gifts without a reason. Because Peter was only a role. A Sunday father.

His daughter, Emily, would meet him outside the block of flats, her face set in stone, like a duty officer on patrol. In her eyes, he could read: “You’re two minutes late,” or, “Todays cinema, as agreed.”

They went to the cinema, wandered through the park, and sometimes ate at a café. Their chats circled around school, movies, her friends. Never about Helen. Never about life after six oclock, when he returned Emily home and, without turning, she marched toward the lift, to her mum and her mum’s new husband, David.

David was the “real” dad. He lived there. Helped with homework. Took Emily to his cottage on weekends. Emily shared jokes with him, snapshots across social media. Peter looked at those pictures in secret, at night, feeling as though he was stealing anothers life.

He tried to cram all the fatherly love built up over the week into his allotted eight hours. It came out strained, unnatural.

He would awkwardly ask,

Do you need anything?

Emily would shrug,

Ive got everything.

That got everything hurt more than any resentment. It meant: I have a home. And you? Youre extra.

***

Everything changed one Tuesday.

Helen called. Her voice, normally clipped and sturdy, was worn and thin.

Peter Its about Emily. She the doctors suspect a tumour. Malignant. It’s a complicated operation. Expensive.

His world shrank to the crackling line. Then Helen, steadying herself, talked money. She and David had savings, not enough. They were selling the car, finding other ways. She didnt ask; she informed him. He was now a partner in grief.

Peter dropped everything. Rushed to the hospital. Found Emilysmall, frightened in her hospital pyjamas. His heart split open.

David sat by her bed, holding her hand, whispering softly. Emily fixed her gaze on him, seeking reassurance.

Peter lingered by the door, unnecessary. Sunday father on a weekday, out of place.

Dad Emily gave him a weak smile.

That dad was a life raft. He moved forward, managed only to awkwardly stroke her head.

Everything will be fine, sweetheart.

Empty words, routine comfort

Helen stood in the corridor, by the window. Without looking, she said,

The money if you can.

He could.

He owned only one true treasurea vintage 1972 Gibson guitar. Dreamed of since youth, purchased for a small fortune.

He sold it for half its worth, just to be quick. Transferred the money to Helen, anonymously. No desire for gratitude. He didnt want Emily to think his love was measured in pounds. Let her believe David arranged it all. David deserved to be the hero. Peterhe only had duty.

***

The operation was set for Thursday. On Wednesday night, Peter couldnt bear sitting at home; he visited the hospital.

Helen was there. David had stepped out. Emily lay with her eyes closed, not asleep.

Mum, she murmured, ask that doctor who visited this morning not to tell any more jokes. They arent funny.

Alright, replied Helen.

And ask Dad, David, not to read business plans to me. Theyre boring.

Ill ask.

Peter hovered behind the curtain, hesitant. He heard Emily go quiet, then whisper even softer:

And ask my dad to come. Just to sit. Quietly. And to read to me. Like before. The Hobbit.

Peter froze. His heart thudded in his throat.

Like before

***

That was before the divorce. Hed read stories at bedtime, swapping the voices of dwarves and elves.

Helen saw him outside, nodded toward the room.

Go in. But not for long. She needs rest.

He entered and sat beside the bed. Emily opened her eyes.

Hi, Dad.

Hi, love. The Hobbit?

Mm-hm.

Peter hadnt brought the book. He found the text on his phone and began to read.

Softly, monotonously, muddling words, missing lines. No voices this timejust his voice. His eyes misted, blurring the letters. He felt her hand grow weaker in his.

He read for an hour, maybe two, until his voice faded to a croak and her breathing settled into sleep. He tried to slip free, but Emily, sleeping, grasped tighter.

Then, gazing at her weary, sleeping face, he allowed himself what hed never dared. Leaned in and, only the room could hear, whispered:

Forgive me, darling. For everything. I love you so much. Stay strongstay strong for me. Your Sunday father.

He didnt know if she heard. He hoped she hadnt.

***

The operation dragged on. Peter waited in the corridor, seated opposite Helen and David. They were together.

He was alone.

But now his loneliness wasnt empty. It held quiet reading and the warm weight of Emilys hand in his.

When the doctors finally emerged and announced the operations success, the tumour benign, Helen broke down, sobbing into Davids shoulder.

Peter stepped aside, gripping the window ledge to keep from shouting with relief.

***

Emily improved. Within a week, she moved to a normal ward.

David, fulfilling the proper dad role, darted between doctors, handled the practicalities.

Peter visited each evening. He read. Sat quietly. Sometimes watched a show with Emily.

One night, as he was leaving, she stopped him.

Dad.

Im here.

I know it was you. The money Mum says nothing, but I overheard her and David arguing. He wanted to sell his stake in his company, and Mum was shouting he couldnt, said youd already sorted itthat you sold your guitar.

He said nothing.

Why? she asked. Were were not with you

You are my family, he replied, cutting her off. Thats not up for discussion.

Emily studied him for a long time. Then held out her hand. In her palm lay a battered old cardboard bookmark. Scrawled in childish handwriting: To my dearest Dad, from Emily.

Shed made it about seven years ago

I found it in an old book, when I went home for the weekend. Here. So you dont lose your place

He took the bookmark. The card was still warm from her hand.

Dad, she said again, her voice grown firm and mature, Youre not just Sundays. Youre forever. Understand?

He couldnt reply. Only nodded, squeezing the bookmark tight.

Then hurried into the corridor. Because meneven Sunday fathersdont cry in front of their daughters

They simply go mad from joy and pain, tucked away somewhere, clutching a cardboard key to the pastwhich, as it turns out, is the truest present.

***

Next Sunday, Peter arrived not at ten, but at nine. And left not at six, but much later.

He and Emily watched the quiet city through the window. No schedule.

Because he was Emilys dad.

Forever.

Sometimes the greatest love doesnt fit into schedules; it simply exists, always and everywhere, waiting to be recognised.