The Sunday Dad

The Sunday Dad

From one Sunday to the next, Peter was just getting by. Six days of empty routine followed by a single day that felt real. Even that one day was dictated by calls and a timetable his ex-wife, Helen, had laid out two years ago. Ten am until six pm. No being late. No fast food. No gifts just because. Because to everyone else, Peter was merely a function the Sunday Dad.

His daughter, Emily, always met him at the block entrance with the stern face of someone enforcing the rules. In her eyes he could read: Youre two minutes late, or Were supposed to go to the cinema today.

They went to the pictures, to the park, sometimes to a café. They chatted about school, films, her friends. Never about Helen. Never about what happened after six, when he took her home and Emily, not looking back, walked over to the lift, up to her mum and her new husband, Michael.

Michael was the proper dad. He lived with them. Helped with homework. Took Emily to his familys cottage on weekends. They had shared jokes, shared photos on social media. Peter looked at these pictures late at night, in secret, and felt as if he was stealing glimpses into someone elses life.

Hed try, in those precious eight hours, to cram in a weeks worth of bottled-up fatherly affection. It always came out awkward, forced.

Hed ask, awkwardly,

Do you need anything?

Emily would shrug,

Ive got everything.

And that everything stabbed deeper than any accusation. It meant: I have a home. Youre just extra.

***

It all collapsed one Tuesday.

Helen rang him. Her voice, usually brisk and even, was stringy and worn out.

Peter Its about Emily. Shes The doctors think she might have a tumour. Malignant. She needs a difficult operation. Expensive.

His world shrank to the size of the phone in his hand. Helen pulled herself together and started talking about money. That she and Michael had some savings, but it wasnt enough. They were selling the car. Looking into options. She wasnt asking. She was just telling him as a partner in misfortune.

Peter dropped everything. Rushed to the hospital. Saw Emily, small and scared in her hospital pyjamas. His heart shattered.

Beside her, on a battered chair, sat Michael. He was holding her hand, murmuring something quietly. Emily looked to him for comfort.

Peter stood in the doorway, surplus to requirements. A Sunday Dad on a weekday.

Dad Emily managed a weak smile.

That Dad sounded like a lifeline. He stepped in, but all he managed was an awkward stroke of her hair.

Itll be alright, sweetheart.

Empty, placeholder words.

Helen waited out in the corridor, by the window. Without turning, she said,

The money if you can.

He could.

His only real asset was a rare guitar, a 1972 Gibson.

His teenage dream, bought for a fortune.

He sold it for half its worth, just to get things moving. He transferred the money to Helen, anonymously. He wanted no thanks. He didnt want Emily thinking love was measured in pounds. Let her believe Michael sorted everything. Michael had the right to be the hero. Peter didnt. He only had a duty.

***

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

Helen was there in the ward. Michael had popped out on an errand. Emily was lying with her eyes shut, but she wasnt asleep.

Mum, she murmured, could you ask that doctor who came this morning not to tell jokes? Theyre terrible.

Alright, Helen replied.

And could you ask Dad Mike not to read to me about business plans? So boring.

I will.

Peter stood behind the curtain, hesitating. He heard Emily go quiet, then she whispered even more softly,

And could you ask my dad to come. Just to sit. Silently. And maybe read. Like before. The Hobbit.

Peter froze. His heart thudded in his throat.

Like before

***

That was before the divorce. He used to read her to sleep at night, shifting his voice for dwarves and elves.

Helen came out into the corridor, saw him and nodded towards the ward.

Go on. Not for long, though. She needs peace.

He went in, sat by the bed. Emily opened her eyes.

Hello, Dad.

Hi, duck. The Hobbit?

Mhm.

Peter didnt have the book. He searched it up on his phone. And started reading.

Softly, monotonously, skipping words, sometimes losing his place. He didnt bother with voices. Just read. His eyes kept misting over, letters blurring. He felt her grip loosen in his hand as she drifted off.

He read for perhaps an hour. Or two. Until his voice turned rough. Until she was asleep. He tried to gently draw his hand away, but Emily, still dreaming, clung on even tighter.

And then, looking at her powerless sleeping face, he allowed himself something he never had before. He leaned in and, so only the ward walls would hear, whispered,

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

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

***

The operation took ages. Peter waited in the corridor, opposite Helen and Michael. They had each other.

He was alone.

But now the loneliness didnt feel empty. It was full of quiet reading and the warmth of his daughters hand in his.

When the doctors finally came out and said the tumour was benign and everything had gone well, Helen broke down, sobbing into Michaels shoulder.

Peter got up and walked to the window. He clenched his fists so he wouldnt cry out loud from relief.

***

Emily improved. Within a week, she was moved to a regular ward.

Michael, as every real dad should, was racing between doctors and sorting out practicalities.

Peter came every evening. He read. Sat quietly. Sometimes he and Emily just watched a series together.

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

Dad.

Im here.

I know it was you. The money Mum didnt say, but I overheard her arguing with Michael. He wanted to sell his business share, and Mum was shouting that he couldnt, that youd already given everything, that youd sold your guitar.

He said nothing.

Why? she asked. We… were not really yours

Youre my family, he interrupted. Thats not up for discussion.

Emily studied him for a long time. Then she reached out. Resting on her palm was a shabby, dog-eared cardboard bookmark. On it, in childish writing, it said: To my favourite 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 clear, grown up. You arent just for Sundays. Youre always. Do you understand?

He couldnt reply. He just nodded, gripping the bookmark tight.

Then he hurried out into the corridor. Because men, even Sunday ones, dont cry in front of their daughters.

They just go quietly mad with happiness and pain, hiding away, buried in a cardboard key to the past which, it turns out, is the most important present there is.

***

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

He and Emily sat silently, staring out at the quiet city. With no schedule binding them.

Simply because he was Emilys dad.

Forever.