Sunday Dad

Sunday Dad

From Sunday to Sunday, Peter simply existed. Six days of emptiness, then a single day of life. Even that day was precisely mapped out with calls and a schedule his ex-wife, Helen, had set up two years ago: ten till six. No being late. No fast food. No gifts just because. Because he, Peter, was just a function. Sunday Dad.

His daughter, Emily, would meet him at the door with a face as stone-like as a hall monitor’s. In her eyes, he could read: Youre two minutes late, or Were supposed to go to the cinema today.

They went to see films, walked by the river, sat in cafés. Talked about school, movies, her friends. Never about Helen. Never about what happened after six oclock when he took her home and Emily, without turning, headed straight for the lift, to her mum and her new husband, David.

David was a proper dad. He lived with them. Helped with homework. Took Emily to his country cottage on weekends. She and David shared inside jokes, shared photos on social media. Peter would look at those photos in secret, late at night, feeling like he was stealing someone elses life.

He tried to squeeze a weeks worth of fatherly love into his eight hours. It never really worked: strained, unnatural.

Hed ask awkwardly,

Do you need anything?

Emily would shrug,

Ive got everything.

And those words Ive got everything cut deeper than any resentment. It meant: I have a home. And you, well, youre just extra.

***

Everything fell apart one Tuesday.

Helen called. Her voice, usually firm, was worn and thin.

Peter… Its about Emily. She… They think it might be a tumour. Malignant. Shell need a complicated operation. Its expensive.

His world shrank to a tiny point in the phone. Then Helen pulled herself together and started talking about money. She and David had savings, but it wasnt enough. They were selling the car. Looking for options. She didnt ask. She informed. Like a fellow sufferer.

Peter dropped everything. He rushed to the hospital and saw Emily small, frightened, in her hospital pyjamas. His heart broke.

Beside her, on a chair, sat David. He held her hand, speaking quietly. Emily looked to him for comfort.

Peter stood in the doorway, surplus. Sunday Dad, out of place on a weekday.

Dad… Emily smiled weakly.

That Dad felt like a lifeline. He moved forward, but all he managed was to gently stroke her hair:

Everythings going to be alright, love.

Empty, routine words…

Helen stood by the window in the corridor. She glanced out, said,

Money… if you can.

He could.

He had one precious thing a vintage 1972 Gibson guitar.

His youthful dream, bought for a hefty sum.

He sold it for half the price, just to be fast. Sent the money to Helen anonymously. He didnt want thanks. He didnt want Emily to think his love came in pound notes. Let her believe it was David who made it happen. David had the right to be a hero. Peter did not. He only had duty.

***

The operation was scheduled for Thursday. On Wednesday evening, he came to the hospital, unable to sit at home.

Helen was in the ward. David had gone off somewhere. Emily lay with her eyes closed, but she wasnt asleep.

Mum, she said quietly, tell that doctor who came this morning not to tell jokes. Theyre not funny.

Alright, Helen replied.

And… ask Dad David not to talk about business plans. Its boring.

Ill ask.

Peter stood behind the curtain, unsure whether to come in. He heard Emily fall silent and then, even softer:

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

Peter froze. His heart thudded in his throat.

Like before…

***

That was before the divorce. Hed read to her at bedtime, switching the dwarves and elves voices.

Helen stepped into the corridor, saw him, nodded toward the ward:

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

He came in, sat at the bedside. Emily opened her eyes.

Hi, Dad.

Hi, sweetheart. The Hobbit?

Yeah.

Peter didnt have the book with him. He found the text on his phone and began to read.

Slowly, calmly, skipping words, muddling passages. He didnt change voices. He just read. His eyes blurred, letters fuzzed. He felt Emilys hand weakening in his own.

He kept reading, maybe an hour, maybe two. Until his voice turned rough. Until he sensed shed fallen asleep. He tried to gently pull his hand away, but Emily, asleep, squeezed tight.

So, looking at her tired, sleeping face, he allowed himself something hed never done before. He bent and whispered, so only the walls cared to hear:

Forgive me, my darling. For everything. I love you so much. Hold on. Hold on for me. Your Sunday Dad.

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

***

The operation lasted for hours. Peter sat in the corridor, facing Helen and David. They were together.

He was alone.

But now this loneliness wasnt empty. It was filled with the quiet reading and the warm weight of his daughters hand in his.

When the doctors came out and said it was successful, benign, Helen burst into tears, her head on Davids shoulder.

Peter stood and moved to the window. He clenched his fists not to shout with relief.

***

Emily got better. Within a week, she was transferred to a regular ward.

David, as a real dad, ran back and forth taking care of everything.

Peter came every evening. Read to her. Sat silently. Sometimes, he and Emily just watched television.

One evening, as he was about to leave, Emily stopped him.

Dad.

Im here.

I know it was you. The money Mum didnt say, but I heard her and David arguing. He wanted to sell his share in the company, and Mum shouted he couldnt, that youd already given everything, that youd sold your guitar.

He said nothing.

Why? she asked. Were not… were not really with you…

You are my family, he cut in, thats not in question.

Emily looked at him for a long moment. Then held out her hand. In her palm was an old, battered cardboard bookmark. On it, in childish writing: To my beloved Dad from Emily.

Shed made it seven years ago…

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

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

Dad, she said again, her voice firm now, grown-up. Youre not just Sundays. Youre forever. Got it?

He couldnt answer. Just nodded, clutching the bookmark tight.

Then hurried out to the corridor. Because men, even Sunday men, dont cry in front of their daughters…

They just go quietly mad with joy and pain somewhere hidden, pressing an old cardboard key to the past which turns out to be the most real thing.

***

The next Sunday, Peter showed up not at ten, but at nine. And he left long after six.

He and Emily looked out the window at the quiet streets, no schedule ruling them.

Just because he was Emilys dad.

Always.