Sunday Dad
From one Sunday to the next, Peter simply existed. Six days of emptiness, then one day of life. Even that precious day was carved into calls and a timetable his ex-wife Laura had set down two years ago. Ten in the morning till six in the evening. No excuses. No fast food. No gifts just because. Because he, Peter, was only a function. The Sunday Dad.
His daughter Emily would meet him at the front door, her face as emotionless as a boarding school prefect on duty. There was always something in her eyes: Youre two minutes late, or, Today we’re supposed to go to the cinema.
They went to the cinema, to the park, to cafés. They talked about homework, movies, her friends. Never about Laura. Never about what happened after six, when he would drive Emily home, and she would walk to the lift without looking back, into the flat with her mum and her mums new husband, James.
James was the real dad now. He lived with them. Helped with schoolwork. Drove them out to his countryside cottage on weekends. Emily had inside jokes with him, shared photos on social media. Peter would gaze at those pictures, alone at night, feeling as if he were stealing glances at someone elses life.
He tried to squeeze all his fatherly love for the week into those eight hours. It was awkward, strained, unnatural.
Clumsily, hed ask,
Do you need anything?
Emily would shrug,
I’ve got everything.
And that everything hurt more than any accusation. It meant: I have a home. Youre just extra.
***
Everything collapsed on a Tuesday.
Laura rang. Her voice, normally cool and firm, was ragged, thin.
Peter… Its about Emily. Shes… They think she might have a tumour. Malignant. She needs a complicated operation. Expensive.
The world shrank to the pinprick of the phones speaker. Then Laura pulled herself together, started talking money. She and James had savings, but it wasnt enough. They were selling the car. Exploring options. She didnt ask for help. She simply informed him. Partners in misfortune.
Peter dropped everything. Rushed to the hospital. Saw Emily, small and frightened in her hospital pyjamas. His heart broke.
Next to her sat James. Holding her hand, murmuring something gently. Emily looked to him, searching his eyes for comfort.
Peter stood in the doorway, out of place. The Sunday Dad on a weekday was just wrong.
Dad Emily managed a weak smile.
That Dad felt like a lifeline thrown across the space between them. He stepped forward, managed only to awkwardly stroke her hair.
Everythings going to be all right, love.
Empty, rehearsed words
Laura stood at the window in the corridor. She glanced back, said softly:
The money… If you can.
He could.
He had one real treasure a vintage 1972 Gibson guitar.
The dream of his youth, bought for a fortune.
He sold it for half its value, just to do it quickly. Transferred the money to Laura, anonymously. He didnt want thanks. Didnt want Emily to think his love was measured in pounds. Let her believe James made it happen. James had the right to be a hero. Peter didnt; he only had duty.
***
The operation was set for Thursday. Wednesday evening, Peter couldnt bear sitting at home.
Laura was in the ward. James was off sorting paperwork. Emily lay with her eyes closed, not asleep.
Mum, she whispered, please ask that doctorthe one this morningto stop telling jokes. Theyre not funny.
Alright, Laura replied.
Andask Dad James not to read me his business plans. Boring.
Ill ask.
Peter stood behind the curtain, not daring to enter. He heard Emily fall silent, then speak softer still:
And my daddy Ask him to come. Just to sit. Quietly. Andto read. Like before. The Hobbit.
Peter froze. His heartbeat hammered.
Like before
***
That was before the divorce. Hed read to her at bedtime, putting on voices for dwarves and elves.
Laura came into the corridor, saw him, nodded toward the ward:
Go in. But not too long. She needs rest.
He entered, took a seat by her bed. Emily opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hey, sweetheart. The Hobbit?
She nodded.
Peter didnt have the book. He found the text on his phone. Began reading.
Soft, monotone, missing words, forgetting lines. No voices. Just reading. His eyes glazed, the letters blurred. He felt her hand growing weaker in his own.
He read, perhaps an hour. Maybe two. Until his voice was barely audible. Until shed gently drifted to sleep. He tried to pull away, but Emily in her sleep squeezed his hand tighter.
And then, watching her sleeping, exhausted face, he allowed himself something he never had. He leaned in, whisperedjust for the walls to hear:
Forgive me, love. 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 took hours. Peter sat in the corridor facing Laura and James. They were together.
Healone.
But now the loneliness wasnt empty. It was filled with quiet reading and the warm weight of Emilys hand in his.
When the doctors finally said it was successful, that the tumour was benign, Laura broke down, sobbing into James’s shoulder.
Peter rose, stepped to the window. Clenched his fists to stop himself shouting with relief.
***
Emily improved. A week later she was moved to a regular ward.
James, the proper dad, ran about after the doctors, sorted practicalities.
Peter visited every night. Read aloud. Sat in silence. Sometimes, he and Emily just watched TV together.
One evening as he was leaving, Emily stopped him.
Dad.
Im here.
I know it was you. The money Mum didnt say anything, but I overheard her arguing with James. He wanted to sell his share in his company, but Mum was shouting he couldnt, because youd already done everything, sold your guitar.
He said nothing.
Why? she asked softly. Were were not really together
Youre my family, he cut her off, thats not up for debate.
Emily stared at him a long while. Then she reached out. In her palm was an old, battered cardboard bookmark. On it, childishly scrawled: To my beloved Daddy, from Emily.
Shed made it seven years ago
I found it in the old book at home, when I went for the weekend. Take it. So you dont lose your place
He took the bookmark. It was still warm from her hand.
Dad, she said again, her voice firmer, older, Youre not just Sundays. Youre forever. Understood?
He couldnt reply. Just nodded, gripping the bookmark hard.
Then hurried into the corridorbecause men, even Sunday ones, never cry in front of their daughters
They simply go mad with happiness and pain, hidden away, clutching the cardboard key to a past that, it turns out, is the truest present of all.
***
The following Sunday, Peter came not at ten, but at nine. And left not at six, but much, much later.
He and Emily gazed in silence out the window at the quiet city. No schedule. No plan.
Just because he was Emilys Dad.
Forever.
