Sunday Dad
From one Sunday to the next, I merely drifted through life. Six days of nothingness, then one day that felt real. Even that day was meticulously mapped out by my ex-wife Alison two years ago. Ten until six. No delays. No junk food. No gifts just because. Because in her eyes, Im nothing more than a function. A Sunday dad.
My daughter, Daisy, always met me at the entrance to her block with the stoic expression of someone on duty. Her eyes would silently say, Youre two minutes late, or Weve got the cinema planned today.
We went to the pictures, strolled through the park, or sat in cafés. We talked about school, about the films wed watched, about her friends. Never about Alison. Never about what came after six, when I dropped her home and Daisy, without so much as a glance back, would head for the lift, to her mum and stepdad, Patrick.
Patrick was the proper dad. He lived with them. Helped with her homework. Took her to his parents place in Somerset at weekends. Daisy shared inside jokes with him and appeared with him in various snaps on Facebook. Id scroll through those photos alone at night, feeling like I was sneaking a look at someone elses life.
I tried to cram a weeks worth of fatherly love into my eight allotted hours. Inevitably, it all came out forced and awkward.
Id ask clumsily:
Is there anything you need?
Daisy would shrug:
Ive got everything.
And that Ive got everything hurt more than any direct insult. It meant: I have a home. Youre just extra.
***
Everything changed on an ordinary Tuesday.
Alison rang. Her voicenormally clipped and business-likewas brittle and strained.
Luke Its about Daisy. Theres a possible tumour. They think it might be cancer. She needs a complex operation. Its expensive.
My world shrank to the size of the phone in my hand. After regaining composure, Alison explained about the money. She and Patrick had some savings, not enough. They were selling the car, exploring every option. She wasnt asking for help; she was informing me, as if we were partners in this misery.
I dropped everything and rushed to St Thomass Hospital. There was Daisy, looking so small and frightened in her hospital gown, and my heart shattered.
Patrick sat beside her, holding her hand, whispering something comforting. Daisy looked to him for reassurance.
I hovered in the doorway, surplus to requirement. The Sunday dad suddenly showing up midweek, lost.
Dad Daisy managed a faint smile.
That dad felt like a lifeline. I moved forward, but all I could manage was an awkward stroke on her hair.
Itll be alright, darling.
Empty, half-hearted words.
Alison was in the corridor, staring through the window. She didnt look round.
The money if you can.
I could.
My only true asset was my vintage 72 Gibson Les Paul guitar. The pride of my youth, bought for a small fortune.
I sold it for half its worth, just to get the cash quickly. I transferred the money to Alison anonymously. I didnt want thanks and I didnt want Daisy to feel my love had a price tag. Let her believe Patrick sorted it all. Let him be the hero. Thats his right now. Mine is just duty.
***
The operation was set for Thursday. On Wednesday evening, I couldnt stand another minute at home and went to the hospital.
Alison was there. Patrick had gone to run some errands. Daisy lay still with her eyes closed, not asleep.
Mum, she murmured, ask that doctor from this morning not to tell jokes. Theyre rubbish.
Alright, Alison answered.
And can you ask Dad Patrick not to talk to me about business plans? Its boring.
Ill ask.
I stood behind the curtain, hesitant to come in. Then I heard Daisys voice grow even quieter.
And ask my dad to come and just sit with me. Quietly. And maybe read to me. Like before. The Hobbit.
I froze. My heart thundered.
Like before
***
Before the divorce, I used to read to her every night, putting on funny voices for the dwarves and elves.
Alison came into the hallway, spotted me, and nodded towards the room.
Go in. Just not for longshe needs her rest.
I sat beside Daisys bed. She opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hey, petal. The Hobbit?
Mmm.
I didnt have the book, but I pulled up the text on my phone and began to read.
Softly, flatly, stumbling sometimes, missing words, my voice monotonenot bothering with the old voices. My sight misted over, the words blurring. I could feel her small hand growing limp in mine.
I mightve read for an hour. Maybe two. Until my throat was raw and I noticed shed drifted off. I tried to gently pull my hand away, but even in sleep, Daisy gripped it tighter.
And in that moment, watching her sleeping, so frail and exhausted, I allowed myself to do something Id always resisted. I leaned in and whispered, so only the hospital walls could hear:
Forgive me, love. For everything. I love you so very much. Hold on. Please, hold onfor me. For your Sunday dad.
I didnt know if she heard. I hoped she hadnt.
***
The surgery dragged on for ages. I sat in the corridor across from Alison and Patrick. They had each other.
I was alone.
But this time, the solitude wasnt empty. It was filled with the hush of bedtime stories and the warmth of Daisys hand in mine.
When the doctors emerged and said it had gone wellthe tumour benignAlison broke down, sobbing on Patricks shoulder.
I stood up, walked over to the window. Clenched my fists to stop myself shouting for joy.
***
Daisy improved. After a week, she was transferred to a regular ward.
Patrickthe real dadwas busy running back and forth to doctors, sorting out paperwork.
I came every evening. Read to her. Kept quiet. Sometimes we just watched telly.
One night, as I was leaving, Daisy stopped me.
Dad.
Im here.
I know it was you. The money Mum never said anything, but I overheard her and Patrick arguing. He wanted to sell his share in his business, but she was saying youd already done everything, that youd sold your guitar.
I didnt answer.
Why? she asked. We were not even really together
Youre my family, I interrupted. Thats all there is to it.
Daisy looked at me for a long while. Then she held out her hand. On her palm was a worn, bent old bookmark, the sort kids make at school, with block letters: To Daddy, love Daisy.
Shed made it about seven years ago.
I found it in an old book when I was home at the weekend. Take it. So you dont lose your place anymore
I took the bookmark. It was still warm from her hand.
Dad, she said again, her voice steadier, more grown up. Youre not just for Sundays. Youre always. Understand?
I couldnt reply. I just nodded, clutching the bookmark so tightly my knuckles paled.
Then I hurried out to the corridorbecause fathers, even Sunday dads, dont cry in front of their daughters.
They just fall to bits from happiness and heartache, hiding somewhere, nose buried in a tattered cardboard key from a past that, it turns out, is very much alive.
***
The following Sunday, I showed up not at ten but nine. And I left long after six.
Daisy and I sat by the window, watching the quiet city, saying nothing.
No schedule.
Just because Im her dad.
For always.
I’ve learned that being a dad isn’t about schedules, or even being present all the timeit’s holding on, quietly, through the hardest moments, and loving fiercely, even on the days youre needed the least.
