Sunday Dad
From one Sunday to the next, I just got by. Six days of emptiness, then one day that felt like living. Even that one day was divided up by calls and schedules, drawn up by my ex-wife, Claire, two years back. From ten to six. No being late. No fast food. No gifts for no reason. Because, as far as she was concerned, I was nothing more than a functionSunday Dad.
My daughter, Sophie, would wait for me outside her block of flats, her face set, eyes silently judging: Youre two minutes late, or Were supposed to see a film today, remember?
Wed go to the cinema, walk in the park, have tea at a café. Wed talk about school, movies, her friends. Never about Claire. Never about what happened after six in the eveningwhen I dropped her home, and Sophie, without so much as a backward glance, went up in the lift to her mum and her new husband, Michael.
Michael was the proper dad. He lived with them, helped with homework, took Sophie to his cottage in Kent on weekends. They had inside jokes; shared photos, smiling together, posted on Instagram. Id look at those photos in the quiet of night, feeling the sting of living someone elses life.
I tried cramming a weeks worth of fatherly love into my eight hours. Never really workedalways awkward, a little forced.
Clumsily, Id ask, Do you need anything?
Sophie would shrug, I have everything.
That everything hurt more than any slight. It meant: I have a home. Youre extra.
***
Everything fell apart on a Tuesday.
Claire phoned. Her voice, normally steady and tough, sounded thin, exhausted.
Tom Its about Sophie. She they think shes got a tumour. Malignant. She needs a complex operation. Its expensive.
The world narrowed down to that point in my phone. Then Claire, steadied herself, started talking about money. She and Michael had some savings, but not enough. They were selling their car. Looking for options. She didnt ask. She told. Like a partner in grief.
I dropped everything and rushed to the hospital. Found Sophie, small and frightened in her pyjamas. My heart cracked.
Michael was beside her, holding her hand, whispering something soothing. Sophie looked at him, searching his eyes for reassurance.
I stood in the doorway, unnecessary. The Sunday Dad in a weekday, out of place.
Dad Sophie managed a faint smile.
That Dad felt like a lifeline. I stepped forward, all I could do was gently stroke her hair.
Youll be alright, darling.
Empty, automatic words
Claire stood by the window, glanced out, then said, The money, Tom if you can.
I could.
My only real treasurea vintage Gibson guitar, 1972. My dream from youth, bought with a small fortune.
I sold it for half its worth, just to get quick cash. Sent the money to Claire, anonymously. I didnt want gratitude. Didnt want Sophie believing my love could be counted in pounds. Let her think Michael sorted it all out. He deserved the heros mantle. Me? I had only duty.
***
The surgery was set for Thursday. On Wednesday evening, I went to the hospitalcouldnt bear to sit at home.
Claire was in the room. Michael had stepped out. Sophie lay there, eyes closed, not quite asleep.
Mum, she murmured, ask that doctorthe one from this morningnot to tell jokes. Theyre not funny.
Alright, Claire replied.
And ask Dad Mike not to read anything about business plans. Theyre boring.
Ill ask.
I stood behind the curtain, unable to come in. I listened as Sophie grew quiet, then whispered, barely audible:
And my dad ask him to come. Just to sit. Not talk. Maybe read to me. Like before. The Hobbit.
I froze. Heart thudding in my throat.
Like before
***
That was before the divorce. I used to read her bedtime stories, changing the voices for dwarves and elves.
Claire came into the corridor, spotted me, nodded towards the room.
Go on. Not for too long, though. She needs rest.
I entered, sat on a chair beside her bed. Sophie opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hi, pet. The Hobbit?
She nodded.
I didnt have the book, so I found the text on my phone. Started reading.
Quietly, evenly, skipping words, muddling sentences. Didnt change voices. Just read. My eyes blurred, letters danced. I felt the weak grip of her hand on mine.
I read, maybe for an hour. Maybe two. My voice grew hoarse. Until I sensed shed fallen asleep. I moved to slip my hand away, but Sophie held it tighter in her sleep.
And then, looking at her worn, pale face, I did what I had never done before. I bent close and, in a whisper only the walls would hear, said:
Im sorry, love. For everything. I do love you. Hang in there. Hang on for me. Your Sunday Dad.
I didnt know if she heard. I hoped not.
***
The operation dragged on. I waited in the corridor, opposite Claire and Michael. They sat together.
I sat alone.
But now, that loneliness wasnt hollow. It was filled with memoriessoft reading, the warmth of Sophies hand in mine.
When the doctors finally came out, saying everything had gone well, the tumour benign, Claire broke down, crying into Michaels shoulder.
I got up, moved to the window, balled my fists to keep from shouting with relief.
***
Sophie improved. A week later, she was moved to a regular ward.
Michael, as the real dad, ran errands, talked to doctors, sorted the paperwork.
I visited every evening. Read. Sat in silence. Sometimes, Sophie and I just watched TV.
One evening, as I was leaving, she stopped me.
Dad.
Im here.
I know it was you. The money Mum didnt say, but I heard her and Mike arguing. He wanted to sell his share in the business, and Mum shouted he couldnt, because youd already given everything, sold your guitar.
I said nothing.
Why? she asked. Were not were not together
Youre my family, I cut in, End of discussion.
Sophie stared for a long moment, then reached out. In her palm was an old, battered cardboard bookmark. On it, in childish scrawl: For my beloved Dad, from Sophie.
Shed made it seven years ago
I found it in an old book when I went home for the weekend. Here. So you dont lose your place
I took the bookmark. It was warm from her hand.
Dad, she said again, voice steady, grown-up. Youre not just my Sunday dad. Youre forever. Understand?
I couldnt respond. Just nodded, holding the bookmark in my fist.
Then I hurried into the corridor. Because menSunday dads or notdont cry in front of their daughters.
We just lose it from joy and pain, hidden away, holding tight to a cardboard key to the past, which turns out to be the truest kind of present.
***
Next Sunday, I turned up not at ten, but at nine. Left not at six, but much later.
Sophie and I gazed out the window at the quiet city. No schedules. No routine.
Simply because I am Sophies dad.
Always.
