The Sunday Dad
From one Sunday to the next, Peter was just going through the motions. Six days of emptiness, followed by a single day that felt alive. Even then, that day followed rules and schedules laid out by his ex-wife, Helen, two years ago. Ten in the morning till six in the evening. No being late. No fast food. No gifts just because. Because Peter, well, he was only a functionjust the Sunday dad.
His daughter, Alice, would meet him at the front door of the flats, always with the stony expression of someone on duty. In her eyes, hed read, Youre two minutes late, or Todays cinema day, remember?
They went to the cinema, the park, a little café. They chatted about school, movies, her friends. Never about Helen. Never about what happened after six, when he took Alice home and she headed towards the lift without a backward glance, going up to her mum and her new husband, David.
David was the real dadthe proper one. He lived with them, helped with homework, took Alice to his cottage in the Cotswolds at weekends. Alice shared inside jokes and smiley photos with him on Instagram. Peter would look at those photos late at night, secretly, feeling like he was peeking into someone elses world.
He tried to squeeze all his fatherly love for the week into those single Sunday hours. It always felt awkward and forced.
Hed ask, clumsily, Is there anything you need, Alice?
Shed shrug. Ive got everything.
And that everything cut more than any insult. It meant: Ive got a home. Youre just extra.
***
Then, everything collapsed on a Tuesday.
Helen rang, and her voicenormally brisk and steadysound strained and thin.
Peter Its about Alice. They think they think it might be a tumour. Malignant. Theyll need to operate. Its really complicatedand expensive.
His world narrowed down to the phone in his hand. Then Helen gathered herself and got onto the money side. She and David had been saving, but it wasnt enough. They were selling their car, trying to sort it out. She didnt ask for help; she was just letting him know, like a partner in misfortune.
Peter dropped everything and rushed to the hospital. He saw Alice, small and frightened in her pyjamas, and his heart just broke.
David was there too, sitting beside her, holding her hand and softly talking to her. Alice was looking up at him, searching his eyes for reassurance.
Peter stood in the doorway, feeling like the spare part. The Sunday dad had no place here, midweek.
Dad Alice managed a weak smile.
That Dad felt like a life ring thrown to him. He stepped forward, and all he could do was awkwardly stroke her hair.
Everythings going to be alright, duck, he whispered.
Hollow comfort, just empty words.
Helen stood in the corridor, looking out of the window. Without turning, she spoke: The money if you can.
He could.
Peter had one real treasurehis 1972 Gibson guitar, something hed dreamed of owning since he was a teen. He sold it for half what it was worth, didnt look back, and quickly wired the money to Helen. Anonymously. No thanks wanted. He didnt want Alice thinking his love had a price tag. Let David be the herohed earned that, living with her. Peter only had his duty.
***
The operation was set for Thursday. On Wednesday night, Peter couldn’t stand being at home doing nothing, so he went to the hospital.
Helen was in the room, David had popped out. Alice was lying there eyes shut, not really sleeping.
Mum, she whispered, could you ask that doctor who came this morning not to tell any more jokes? Theyre rubbish.
Alright, Helen replied.
And ask Dad David not to read out business articles. So boring.
Ill ask him, said Helen.
Peter waited behind the curtain, hesitating. Then he heard Alice again, her voice softer now:
And ask my dad if he can just come and sit with me. Not talk. Just read, like before. The Hobbit.
Peter froze. His heart thudded up into his throat.
Like before
***
That was all from before the divorce. When hed read her bedtime stories, putting on dwarf or elf voices.
Helen came out and nodded towards the room. Go on in. Just dont stay too long. She needs her rest.
He sat down on the chair by Alices bed. She opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hi, love. The Hobbit?
She nodded.
He didnt have the book on him but found it on his phone. He started reading.
Quietly, steadily, sometimes muddling the words, struggling not to get choked up. He didnt bother with voices. He just read. And he could feel her hand getting lighter in his, weaker.
He must have sat there reading an hour, maybe two. Till his voice got hoarse and Alice finally drifted off. He tried to gently slip his hand away, but Alice gripped it tightly, even in her sleep.
So, watching her tired, sleeping face, Peter allowed himself something hed never dared manage. He leaned down and whispered, only the walls bearing witness:
Im so sorry, sweetheart. For everything. I love you so much. Hold onfor me. Your Sunday dad.
He didnt know if she heard. He hoped she hadnt.
***
The operation lasted ages. Peter sat in the hall across from Helen and David. They had each other.
He was on his own.
But now, that loneliness wasnt empty. It was filled with the memory of quiet reading, the warmth of his daughters hand in his.
When the doctors finally came out and said all had gone well, the tumour was benign, Helen broke down, sobbing into Davids shoulder.
Peter stood by the window, fists clenched, trying not to shout with relief.
***
Alice soon improved. After a week, she was moved to a regular ward.
David, being the proper dad, rushed around after doctors, sorting out the practicalities.
Peter came every evening. He read. He kept her company. Sometimes they simply watched a TV series in silence.
One night, as he was about to leave, Alice stopped him.
Dad.
Im here.
I know it was youthe money. Mum never said, but I heard her and David arguing. He wanted to sell his share in the business. Mum was shouting that he mustnt, youd already given everything, sold your guitar.
He said nothing.
Why? she asked. Were not I mean were not with you
Youre my family, he cut in, thats all there is to it.
Alice stared at him for a moment, then handed him something smalla battered old cardboard bookmark, letters proudly scrawled across it: To my dearest Daddy from Alice.
She mustve made it seven years ago
I found it in an old book when I was home at the weekend. Hereitll help you keep your place.
He took the bookmark. It was still warm from her hand.
Dad, she said, her voice now firm, grown-up. Youre not just for Sundays. Youre forever, okay?
He couldnt speakjust nodded, gripping the bookmark in his fist.
Then he hurried out to the corridor, because meneven Sunday dadsdont cry in front of their daughters
They just lose their minds in happiness and pain, finding some corner to disappear into, clutching the cardboard key to a past that, surprisingly, is very much the present.
***
The next Sunday, Peter turned up not at ten, but at nine. And he left long after six.
He and Alice sat by the window in silence, looking out over the calm of the city, forgetting all about schedules.
Because he was Alices dad.
Not just on Sundays. Always. Forever.
