The Sunday Father
From one Sunday to the next, Paul merely drifted through life. Six days of emptiness, then a single day of living. Even that day was neatly divided into calls and schedules decided by his ex-wife, Ellen, two years prior. Ten oclock sharp, until six. No lateness. No fast food. No gifts just because. Because Paul was just a functionSundays father.
His daughter, Phoebe, waited at the flats entrance, face set like the stony mask of a school monitor. In her eyes he could read: Youre two minutes late, or The cinemas on the plan today.
They went to the cinema, strolled through the park, had tea and scones at cafes. They talked of school, films, her mates. Never of Ellen. Never of life after six in the evening, when he dropped her home and Phoebe, not looking back, headed for the lifttowards her mum and her mums new husband, David.
David ticked every box of a proper dad. He lived with them. Helped with homework. Drove to his cottage on weekends. There were inside jokes with him, shared photos on Instagram. Paul would look at those pictures late at night, alone, a trespasser peering at anothers life, feeling as though he were stealing something that wasnt his.
He tried to squeeze a weeks worth of a fathers love into just eight hours. It always came out awkward, forced.
Clumsily, he would ask, Need anything, Phoebs?
Shed shrug. Ive got everything.
And that everything cut deeper than any bitterness. It meant: I have a home. Youre just extra.
***
Everything shattered one Tuesday.
Ellen rang, her voice paper-thin and worn instead of its usual clipped brightness.
Paul Its about Phoebe. Shes they suspect a tumour. Malignant, most likely. Shell need a complicated operation. Very expensive.
His world shrank to a pinprick trembling in the phone speaker. Then Ellen, collecting herself, spoke of money. They had savings, she and David, but not enough. Selling the car. Looking for options. She didnt begshe informed. Like a fellow victim of disaster.
Paul dropped everything. He rushed to the hospital. He saw Phoebesmall, scared, drowned in her NHS pyjamas. His heart broke.
David was perched beside her, holding her hand, murmuring softly. Phoebe gazed at him, searching for steadiness in his eyes.
Paul paused in the doorway, superfluous. Apparently, Sundays Father was out of place on a weekday.
Dad Phoebe smiled weakly.
That Dad was a lifeline. He stepped closer, managed only to clumsily stroke her hair.
Itll be all right, love.
Empty, routine words.
Ellen stood at the corridor window. Without turning, she muttered, The money if you can.
He could.
His only treasure: a 1972 Gibson guitar, a teenage dream bought for a small fortune.
He sold it for half its value, urgently. Wired Ellen the money, anonymously. He didnt want thanks. He didnt want Phoebe to think love could be tallied in pounds. Let her think David sorted it all out. He had the right to play the hero. For Paul, only duty remained.
***
The operation was booked for Thursday. Wednesday evening, unable to stay home, he returned to the hospital.
Ellen was there. David had gone to take care of something. Phoebe lay with eyes shut, feigning sleep.
Mum she murmured, that doctor from this morning could you ask him to skip the jokes? Theyre rubbish.
Alright, Ellen replied.
And tell Dad David not to read about start-ups. Its boring.
Ill tell him.
Paul stood by the curtain, afraid to enter. He heard silence; then Phoebe spoke even more quietly.
And my dad ask him to come. Just to sit. Quiet, like before. And maybe read. The Hobbit.
Paul froze, heart hammering in his throat.
Like before
***
That was before the divorce. He used to read her bedtime stories, changing his voice for each dwarf and elf.
Ellen stepped out, glanced at him, nodded towards the room.
Go in. Not too long. She needs rest.
He went in, sat by the bed. Phoebe opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hi, love. The Hobbit?
Mmhmm.
He didnt have the book. He found the text on his phone. Began to read.
Softly, flatly, skipping words and stumbling. No voices, just reading. His eyes fogged, the letters blurring. He felt her grip on his hand weaken, then flutter.
He read for maybe an hour, maybe two, until his voice was hoarse and Phoebe was asleep. He tried to slip his hand free, but she clutched it tighter in her sleep.
And then, gazing at her drained, sleeping face, he allowed himself what he never had before. He bent down and whisperedonly the walls could hear.
Im sorry, darling. For all of it. I love you so much. Hold on. For me. Your Sunday Dad.
He didnt know if she heard. He hoped not.
***
The operation took ages. Paul sat in the corridor opposite Ellen and David. They were together.
He was alone.
But it wasnt empty anymore. It was filled with quiet words and the warmth of his daughter holding his hand.
When the doctors emerged and said it went well, the tumour benign, Ellen collapsed into Davids shoulder in tears.
Paul stood and stepped to the window. He clenched his fists to keep from crying out in relief.
***
Phoebe improved. In a week she moved to a regular room.
David, ever the real dad, rushed about the doctors and sorted everything else.
Paul visited each evening. He read. Sat in silence. Sometimes they just watched episodes of a show.
Once, as he was about to leave, she stopped him.
Dad.
Im here.
I know it was you. The money Mum didnt say, but I heard her and David arguing. He wanted to sell his share of the firm, but Mum was adamant. Said youd already given it all, sold your guitar.
He said nothing.
Why? she asked. Were not evenwere not really
Youre my family, he cut in. Thats not up for debate.
Phoebe looked at him a long time. Then stretched out her hand, showing a battered old bookmark. In childish handwriting: To my dearest Daddy from Phoebe.
Shed made it years ago.
I found it in an old book when I went home for the weekend. Here. So you dont lose your page
He took it. The card was still warm from her palm.
Dad, she said again, voice suddenly strong, grown. Youre not just for Sundays. Youre forever. Understand?
He couldnt answer. He just nodded, gripping the bookmark tight.
Then hurried out to the corridor. For even Sunday fathers dont cry in front of their daughters
They just go quietly mad with joy and pain, hiding somewhere, clutching a cardboard key to a past that, it turns out, is the truest present.
***
The next Sunday Paul arrived not at ten, but at nine. He left not at six, but much later.
He and Phoebe sat in silence, gazing through the window at the city grown hushed. No plan, no schedule.
Simply because he was Phoebes dad.
Always.
