The Sunday Dad

The Sunday Dad

From one Sunday to the next, Peter simply existed. Six days of nothing, and then one day of life. Even that day was neatly divided by phone calls and a timetable set by his ex-wife, Linda, two years prior. Ten to six. No lateness. No fast food. No just because presents. Because he, Peter, was merely a function. The Sunday Dad.

His daughter, Grace, would meet him at the flats entrance with the stern expression of a prefect. Her eyes said, Youre two minutes late, or Todays cinema, remember?

They went to the pictures, strolled the park, sat in little cafés. They chatted about school, films, her friends. Never about Linda. Never about what happened after six oclock, when hed drive her home and Grace, without looking back, would head for the lift, to her mum and her new stepdad, David.

David was the proper dad. He lived with them. Helped with homework. Took her to his house in Kent on weekends. Grace and David had their own jokes, inside references, selfies on social media. Peter would scroll through the photos at night, secretly, feeling as though he was peeking into someone elses life.

He tried to fit a weeks worth of fatherly love into those eight precious hours, but it always came out awkward and forced.

Awkwardly, hed ask:

Do you need anything?

Grace would just shrug, Ive got everything.

And that everything stung more than any harsh word. It meant: I have a home. Youre just extra.

***

Everything crashed down on a Tuesday.

Linda phoned. Her voice, usually brisk and matter-of-fact, was frayed and thin.

Peter Its about Grace. They suspect a tumour. Malignant. She needs a complicated operation. Expensive.

The world shrank to a pinprick at the end of the phone. Then, Linda, gathering herself, spoke about money. She and David had savings, but not enough. They’re selling the car. Looking into options. She wasnt asking. She was informing him, as a partner in misfortune.

Peter dropped everything. Rushed to the hospital. Saw Grace, small and frightened in her hospital pyjamas. His heart smashed to bits.

David sat next to her, holding her hand, speaking quietly. Grace looked up at him, searching for strength in his eyes.

Peter stood awkwardly in the doorway a Sunday Dad on a weekday, sticking out like a sore thumb.

Dad Grace gave him a weak smile.

That Dad was like a life-ring. He stepped forward, but all he managed was an ungainly pat on her head:

Dont worry, love, itll all be alright.

Empty, stock phrases

Linda stood by the window in the corridor. Without turning, she said:

The money if you can help.

He could.

He had one real treasure his vintage 1972 Gibson guitar.

Youths dream, bought for a kings ransom.

He sold it for half its value, just to get cash quickly. Transferred the money to Linda, anonymously. He didnt want thanks. He didnt want Grace to think love was counted in pound notes. Let her think David saved the day. David could be the hero. Peter didnt have that right. He simply had a duty.

***

The operation was scheduled for Thursday. On Wednesday evening, he turned up at the hospital. Couldnt sit at home.

Linda was in the ward. David had nipped out. Grace lay with eyes closed, not sleeping.

Mum, she whispered, ask that doctor who came in the morning not to tell jokes. They arent funny.

Alright, said Linda.

And ask Dad David not to read me about business plans. Im bored stiff.

Ill ask him.

Peter stood behind the curtain, dithering. He heard Grace fall quiet, then, even softer:

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

Peter went rigid. His heart was hammering in his throat.

Like before

***

That was before the divorce. He used to read to her at night, switching voices for the dwarves and elves.

Linda glanced at him in the corridor, nodded at the door:

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

He slipped inside, perched on the edge of the bed. Grace opened her eyes.

Hi, Dad.

Hi, sweetheart. The Hobbit?

Mmm.

Peter didnt have the book with him. He found it on his phone. Started reading.

Softly, ploddingly, skipping words, losing his place. No silly voices this time, just reading. Tears stinging his eyes, the words blurring. He felt her small hand grow weaker in his.

He read for an hour, maybe two. Until his voice cracked. Until shed finally drifted off. He tried to slip his hand free, but in her sleep Grace clutched it tighter.

And then, gazing at her pale sleeping face, he allowed himself what he never had before. He leaned close and whispered, just for the hospital walls to hear:

Forgive me, darling. For everything. I love you. Stay strong. For me. Your Sunday dad.

He didnt know if she heard. He hoped not.

***

The surgery dragged on for hours. Peter sat in the corridor opposite Linda and David. The two of them, together.

He alone.

But now, his solitude wasnt empty. It was filled with quiet reading and the fading warmth of his daughters hand in his.

When the doctors finally appeared and said everything had gone well, the tumour benign, Linda burst into tears on Davids shoulder.

Peter stood, went to the window. Clenched his fists so the relief wouldnt explode out of him.

***

Grace recovered. A week later, they moved her to a regular ward.

David, faithful proper dad, dashed about after doctors and handled paperwork.

Peter came every evening. Read. Sat in silence. Sometimes he and Grace just watched telly.

One night, as he was about to leave, his daughter stopped him.

Dad.

Im here.

I know it was you. The money Mum didnt say, but I overheard her and David arguing. He wanted to sell his share in the business, she yelled he couldnt, youd already covered it, that youd sold your guitar.

He said nothing.

Why? she asked. We were not really with you

Youre my family, he broke in, and thats final.

Grace stared at him a long time. Then she held out her hand. In her palm was an old, battered cardboard bookmark. On it, in childish block letters: To my dearest Dad, from Gracie.

She must have made it seven years ago

Found it in an old book when I went home for the weekend. Here. So you dont lose your page

He took the bookmark. It was still warm from her hand.

Dad, she said again, her voice suddenly clear, grown-up. Youre not a Sunday Dad. Youre for always. Alright?

He couldnt reply. Just nodded, squeezing the little bookmark in his fist.

Then made a swift getaway into the corridor. Because men, even Sunday ones, dont cry in front of their daughters

They just go quietly bonkers with happiness and heartbreak, hidden away somewhere, clutching a cardboard key to a past that, it turns out, is really the present.

***

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

He and Grace sat and stared at the peaceful city outside the window, no schedules, no clocks.

Just because he was Graces dad.

Forever.