The Sunday Dad
From one Sunday to the next, David simply floated through life. Six hollow days, thenjust one day that felt real. Even that day was pencilled in by calls and a timetable, a regimen set by his ex-wife, Anne, two years back. Ten to six. No being late. No chips or burgers. No presents just because. Because David was only a service. The Sunday dad.
His daughter, Grace, always greeted him at the front gate with the stony stare of a warden on duty. In her eyes: Youre two minutes late or, Cinema today, as planned.
They went to the pictures, strolled in Hyde Park, or sat in cafés. Talked about school, the latest films, her friendsnever about Anne. Never about what came after six, when he dropped her home and Grace, without a word, headed off to the lift, to her mum and her new husband, Richard.
Richard was the real dad. He lived with them. He helped with homework. He took Grace to his allotment on weekends. They shared inside jokes, shared photos of themselves online. David sometimes looked at those snapshots in the middle of the night, alone, as though he were pinching someone elses life.
He tried to pack all the fathers love hed built up over a week into those eight hours. Inevitably, it came out awkward, strained.
He would ask, stumbling:
Do you need anything?
Grace would shrug:
Got everything.
That got everything stung more than any slight. It meant: I have a home. Youre just extra.
***
Everything unravelled on a rainy Tuesday.
Anne rang. Her voice, normally level and brisk, sounded stretched and paper-thin.
David Im calling about Grace. They think it might be a tumour. Malignant, they say. She needs a complicated operation. Expensive.
The world shrank to a pinprick in the phone. Then Anne, steeling herself, talked of money. She and Richard had savings, but not enoughthey were selling the car, chasing options. She did not plead. She updated him. As a fellow soldier in misery.
David dropped everything. Sped to the hospital. Saw Grace, timid and tiny in her NHS pyjamas. His heart broke clean in two.
At her side, in a plastic chair, sat Richard. He held her hand, muttering something softly. Grace watched Richard, searching out hope in his eyes.
David loitered in the doorway, the spare part on a Tuesday. The Sunday dad in the wrong day and place.
Dad Grace managed a weak smile.
That Dad landed like a lifebelt. He shuffled forward, managed only to stroke her head, clumsy:
Youll be alright, love.
Empty, textbook words…
Anne lingered by the window in the corridor. Through the glass, she tossed back:
The money if you can.
He could.
He owned only one real treasure: a 72 Gibson Les Paul guitar. A faded dream, dearly bought.
He sold it off for half what it was worth, desperate for time. Sent the money to Anne, anonymously. He didnt want thanks. Didnt want Grace to think his love came in banknotes. Let Grace believe Richard had fixed it. Let Richard be the hero; that was his role. All David had left was duty.
***
The operation was set for Thursday. That Wednesday night, unable to settle at home, he came back to the hospital.
Anne was there. Richard had stepped out for some paperwork. Grace lay with closed eyes, but not asleep.
Mum, she whispered, could you ask that doctor the one in this morningplease dont tell jokes. Theyre not funny.
Ill ask him.
And ask Dad Richard not to read business articles to me. Boring.
Ill ask.
David hovered behind the curtain, paralysed. He heard Grace go quiet, then murmur even softer:
And my dad ask him to come. Just sit. No talking. And maybe read. Like before. The Hobbit.
David froze. His heart climbed up behind his ears.
Like before
***
That was before the divorce. He used to read her to sleep, putting on silly voices for dwarves and elves.
Anne came out, saw him, nodded towards the ward:
In you go. Not for long. She needs rest.
He went in, lowered himself into a chair by the bed. Grace opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hello, sweetheart. The Hobbit, is it?
Mmm.
He didnt have the book. He found the text on his phone. Started to read.
Gently, dully, skipping words, getting lost in lines. The voices stayed the same. He just read. Letters blurred; his eyes felt misted over. He could feel her hand slacken in his palm.
He read for an hourmaybe two. Until his voice rasped. Until Grace was sleeping, breath faint. He tried to withdraw his hand, but Grace gripped it, even in her dreams, tighter still.
And there, looking at her drained, dreaming face, he finally did something hed never let himself do before. He bent close, and in a whisper the pale hospital walls alone could hear, he said:
Forgive me, darling. For everything. I love you so much. Hold on, please. For me. For your Sunday dad.
He would never know if she heard. He hoped she hadnt.
***
The operation dragged on for hours. David sat outside across from Anne and Richard. They were together.
He was alone.
This time, though, the loneliness was less empty. It was filled with quiet reading, and the memory of Graces warm hand around his.
When the doctors finally emerged to say all had gone wellthe tumour benignAnne burst into tears on Richards shoulder.
David stood, walked to the window, fist tighta silent, strangled relief.
***
Soon Grace improved, moved to a regular ward.
Richard, the proper dad, was everywherecorralling doctors, sorting daily needs.
David visited every evening. Reading. Silent company. Sometimes he and Grace just watched an episode of some series side by side, saying nothing.
One night, as he stood to go, Grace stopped him.
Dad.
Im here.
I know it was you. The money Mum never told me, but I overheard her rowing with Richard. He wanted to sell his part of the business, and she shouted not tosaid youd already given everything, sold your guitar.
He was silent.
Why? she asked. Were not not together, are we?
You are my family, he cut her off, thats not up for debate.
Grace looked at him for a long time. Then held out her hand. On it rested a battered cardboard bookmark. Lettered with wobbly writing: To my dearest Daddy, from Gracie.
She must have made it seven years before
I found it in an old book, when I went home for the weekend. Here. So you dont lose your place
He took it. The card was still warm from her fingers.
Dad, she said again, her voice firm, adult. Youre not just for Sundays. Youre forever. Do you understand?
He couldnt reply. Only nodded, squeezing the bookmark as if it were a heartbeat.
Then he hurried to the corridor. Because men, even Sunday dads, dont cry in front of their daughters
No, they go quietly mad with joy and pain, clutching a cardboard portal to a past that turns out to be more present than ever.
***
The following Sunday, David turned up not at ten, but at nine. He left well after six.
He and Grace stared out the window at the hushed city sprawled below. No plans.
Just being. Just because he was Graces dad.
Forever.
