Sunday Dad
Looking back, Robert barely lived from one Sunday to the next. Six days of emptiness followed by just one day of life. Even that single day was meticulously divided into calls and a timetable, drawn up by his ex-wife, Margaret, two years before. From ten to six, strictly. No delays. No fast food. No gifts “just because”. Because Robert was merely a function. The Sunday Dad.
His daughter, Emily, would meet him at the door with a stone-faced look reminiscent of a school prefect. Her eyes always seemed to say: “Youre two minutes late” or “Were meant to see a film today”.
They went to the cinema, strolled in the park, visited cafés. Their conversations circled around school, movies, her friends. Never about Margaret. Never about what happened after six o’clock, when Robert drove Emily home and she, without looking back, strode towards the lift, her mother, and Margaret’s new husband, Peter.
Peter was “the real dad”. He lived with them, helped with homework, took Emily to his cottage on weekends. They shared inside jokes, snapped photos for social media. Robert would browse those photos in secret, late at night, feeling as though he was stealing glimpses of someone elses life.
He tried to squeeze a whole weeks worth of fatherly love into his eight hours, but it always felt forced, unnatural.
Hed ask awkwardly:
Do you need anything?
Emily would shrug:
I have everything.
And that “I have everything” hurt more than any insult. It meant: I have a home. And you, youre extra.
***
Everything collapsed one Tuesday.
Margaret called. Her usually steady voice sounded worn and thin.
Robert… Its about Emily. Shes… They suspect a tumour. Malignant. She needs a complicated operation. An expensive one.
The world narrowed to a single point on the phone. Then Margaret, steadying herself, spoke about money. She and Peter had savings, but they werent enough. They were selling the car. Looking for options. She didnt ask. She informed, like a partner in misfortune.
Robert dropped everything. He rushed to the hospital and saw Emily small and frightened in her hospital pyjamas. His heart shattered.
Peter sat beside her, holding her hand and whispering quietly. Emily looked at him, seeking comfort in his eyes.
Robert stood in the doorway, feeling like an intruder. The Sunday Dad, out on a weekday, seemed painfully out of place.
Dad… Emily managed a weak smile.
That “dad” sounded like a lifeline. He stepped forward, managing only to awkwardly stroke her head:
Everythings going to be alright, sweetheart.
Empty, routine words…
Margaret stood at the window in the corridor, glancing out and throwing over her shoulder:
Money… if you can.
He could.
His only treasure was a 1972 Gibson guitar, a dream from his youth, bought for a fortune.
He sold it for half its value, desperate to help quickly. Transferred the money to Margaret, anonymously. He didnt want thanks. He didnt want Emily to think his love was measured in pounds. Let her believe Peter arranged everything. Peter had the right to be the hero. Robert didnt. He had only duty.
***
The operation was scheduled for Thursday. On Wednesday evening, Robert came to the hospital, unable to sit at home.
Margaret was there. Peter had gone out on errands. Emily lay with her eyes closed, not sleeping.
Mum, she said softly, ask that… doctor who came in this morning not to tell jokes. Theyre not funny.
Alright, Margaret replied.
And… ask Dad Peter not to read to me about business plans. Its boring.
Ill ask.
Robert stood behind the curtain, hesitant to enter. He heard Emily fall silent, then say, even quieter:
And my dad… ask him to come. Just sit. Quietly. And… to read. Like before. “The Hobbit”.
Robert froze. His heart pounded in his throat.
“Like before”…
***
That was before the divorce. Hed read her bedtime stories, changing voices for dwarves and elves.
Margaret found him in the corridor and nodded towards the ward:
Go in. Just for a short while. She needs rest.
He entered, sitting by the bedside. Emily opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hi, pet. “The Hobbit”?
Mm-hm.
Robert hadnt brought the book. He found the text on his phone and began reading.
Softly, monotonously, skipping words, fumbling. He didnt change voices this time. Just read. His eyes blurred, the letters dancing. He felt her hand go limp in his.
He read for maybe an hour, perhaps two. Until his voice was nearly gone. Until he felt shed fallen asleep. He tried to gently withdraw his hand, but Emily gripped it tighter in her sleep.
Then, gazing at her sleeping, exhausted face, he let himself do what he never allowed. He leaned forward and whispered so only the walls could 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 hours. Robert sat in the corridor, facing Margaret and Peter. They were together.
He was alone.
But that solitude wasnt empty now. It was filled with quiet reading and the warm heaviness of his daughters hand in his own.
When the doctors finally came out and announced all had gone well and the tumour was benign, Margaret wept, burying her face in Peters shoulder.
Robert stepped to the window, clenched his fists to keep from shouting with relief.
***
Emily improved. Within a week, she moved to a regular ward.
Peter, like a “proper” dad, bustled about with doctors, dealing with practical matters.
Robert visited every evening. Read aloud. Sat in silence. Sometimes they simply watched a show together.
One evening, as he was leaving, Emily stopped him.
Dad.
Im here.
I know it was you. The money… Mum didnt tell me, but I overheard her and Peter arguing. He wanted to sell his share in the firm, but Mum was yelling that he couldnt, that youd already given all, sold your guitar.
He said nothing.
Why? she asked. Were… we arent really together…
Youre my family, he interrupted, and thats not up for debate.
Emily watched him for a long moment. Then she extended her hand. In her palm lay a worn cardboard bookmark, with childlike writing: “To my beloved Dad from Emily”.
Shed made it seven years before…
I found it in an old book when I went home for the weekend. Here. So you wont lose your place…
He took the bookmark. The card was still warm from her hand.
Dad, she said again, her voice clear and grown-up. Youre not just for Sundays. Youre here forever. Do you understand?
He couldnt reply. Just nodded, squeezing the bookmark in his fist.
He hurried out to the corridor. Because English men, even Sunday dads, dont cry in front of their daughters…
They simply go mad with happiness and pain in secret, clutching an old cardboard token from the past, which turns out to be the most real thing there is.
***
The following Sunday, Robert arrived not at ten, but at nine. And left long after six.
He and Emily silently watched the quiet city through the window. No schedule.
Simply because he was Emilys father.
Forever…
