The Sunday Dad: A Story “Where’s my daughter?” Olesya repeated, her teeth chattering from cold or fear—she wasn’t sure which. She’d left Zlata at a birthday party in the shopping centre’s playroom. She barely knew the parents of the birthday girl, but it was normal to leave Zlata at these sorts of children’s parties, and she’d done so many times before. Only today, she’d been late—the bus hadn’t come. The shopping centre was awkwardly located and most arrived by car, but Olesya had none. So she’d taken her daughter by bus, rushed home for her scheduled lessons—and she could never cancel client lessons—and only then went back. Fifteen minutes late, running over the icy car park, her breath coming short. Now, the birthday girl’s mum—a petite woman with round blue eyes—was looking at her with mild confusion and repeated: “Her dad picked her up.” But Zlata didn’t have a dad. Well, technically she did, but he’d never even met her. Olesya met Andrew through chance—out with a girlfriend along the Thames embankment; her friend twisted her ankle, two lads offered help… Like something out of a classic film, they claimed they were students at Oxford, one’s dad a general, the other’s a professor. Why they lied was anyone’s guess—young and daft. When Olesya fell pregnant and Andrew realised she was studying at a teachers’ college and her own dad was a bus driver, he slipped her money for an abortion and disappeared. She didn’t have the abortion—never regretted it for a second. Zlata was her clever, reliable companion; together, they made do—Zlata quietly playing with dolls while Olesya taught lessons, then joining her in the kitchen for milky soup or a poached egg and tea with buttery biscuits. There was never much money—all went toward rent—but they never complained. “How could you hand my daughter to a stranger?” Olesya’s voice shook, tears stinging her eyes. The blue-eyed woman bristled. “Hardly a stranger—it was her father!” She could have said there was no dad, but what good would it do? She needed to find security, demand the CCTV… “When was this?” “Just ten minutes ago…” Olesya spun and ran. How many times had she told Zlata not to go anywhere with strangers? Her legs felt numb, everything blurred; she collided with people and didn’t stop running. On sheer instinct, she shouted: “Zlata! Zlata!” The food court was busy and few looked up, but a few faces turned. Gasping, Olesya scanned madly—was she too late? “Mummy!” She could hardly believe it—her daughter, jacket flapping, face sticky with ice cream, running to her. Olesya grabbed her so tightly it felt like she’d collapse if she let go. She stared at the man—a respectable-looking fellow with cropped hair, a silly jumper with a snowman, clutching ice cream. Judging by his expression, he could see what she was about to say, and babbled: “I’m so sorry! I should’ve waited with her, but those little monsters were teasing her—said her dad never comes, never will, because she’s ugly! I wanted to show them! Said, ‘Come on, love, let’s get ice cream while we wait for mum.’ I didn’t mean to scare you—just wanted to teach them a lesson…” Olesya shook, unwilling to trust him. But had Zlata really been teased? She met her daughter’s eyes—Zlata understood, sniffled, chin up. “So what? Now I’ve got a dad too!” The man shrugged apologetically; Olesya still couldn’t speak. “Let’s go,” she finally breathed. “We’ll miss the bus.” “Wait!” The man stepped forward, tentative. “Can I give you a lift? Since…you know. No, don’t worry, I’m not a nutter! I’m Artem. I promise—I’m nice! My mum’s right over there; she’ll vouch for me!” He nodded toward a woman with purple curls reading at a table. “If you like, let’s ask her—she’ll give me a glowing reference!” “I’m sure she would,” Olesya muttered, still tempted to smack him. “Thanks, but we’ll walk.” “Mum…” Zlata tugged her coat. “Let him drive us—show them I’ve got a dad!” Still outside the playroom, the birthday girl and her mum lingered. Zlata’s eyes pleaded; it was icy and Olesya barely had the strength to argue. She relented. “All right,” she said curtly. “Brilliant! Just a second—I’ll tell mum!” “Mummy’s boy,” Olesya thought acidly. The purple-haired woman waved—they hurried away. What a ridiculous situation! She avoided Artem’s gaze on the ride, but couldn’t help noticing how gently he spoke with Zlata—she sang like a bird, never had Olesya seen her so animated. At their building, Zlata wilted. “So we’re not seeing you again?” she whispered, looking from Artem to her mum. Olesya felt his eyes on her—asking permission. She meant to say no, to remind Zlata it wasn’t polite, but her daughter’s face crumbled. She caught Artem’s look—nodded. “If your mum agrees,” Artem said, “I could take you to the pictures at the weekend. Ever been?” “Really? No! Mum, can I go with dad to the cinema?” Olesya flushed, flustered. “OK, Zlata, but two conditions. First, you call him Uncle Artem, not dad; it’s rude to call someone you don’t know that. Second—I’m coming with you! Remember what I said—never ever go anywhere with strangers, no matter how nice they seem.” “I told her that too,” Artem chimed in. “So may I?” “I said yes.” “Yay!” Olesya knew she ought to put an end to the nonsense, but couldn’t. She had nobody in the world but Zlata. If only she had someone to confide in! Her own mother died when Olesya was five—the same age Zlata was now. Her mum had jumped in to save a drowning boy when no one else dared; the boy survived, but she developed pneumonia. With diabetes and poor health, she didn’t make it. Now Zlata too had diabetes—a fact that haunted Olesya, genes passed down. By the next weekend, nerves had been for nothing—things went unexpectedly, because Artem brought his own mum to the cinema. “If you’re worried I’m dodgy, mum’s here to vouch for me!” he grinned. “Oh he’s definitely dodgy,” his mum teased, clearly besotted. While Artem escorted Zlata, his mum confided in Olesya: “He grew up without a dad too. I’ve been married four times—the last was perfect! Artem’s just like him, but he died before holding Artem…heart attack. My earlier husbands helped—first, still loves me; second didn’t like women; third loved them a bit too much. They tried to fill the role, but you know, a real dad is something else. Artem bonded with Zlata—he was teased at school too. Poor lad, always trying to prove something, one time almost got himself killed…” She was fascinating—slender, lively, purple hair with a Chanel suit and a Donzova novel. Olesya found herself charmed. “He’s just a big-hearted boy,” she winked. “And I think he likes you.” Olesya blushed—just what she didn’t need! She tried to dismiss it, but felt sorry for Zlata… After the film she tried to give Artem money for their tickets—he refused. “When I invite girls out, I pay!” Olesya disliked that—she’d always paid her way, relied on no one. As for him being interested—not possible. When Artem dropped them home, Zlata asked: “Dad, where do we go next?” “Zlata!” Olesya scolded. Her daughter giggled, hands over mouth. “We could visit the Natural History Museum,” Artem suggested, ignoring the slip. “What do you think?” “Perfect! Mum, can we go?” “You two go—bring Mrs. Catherine. She loves butterflies,” Olesya replied coolly, hurrying out. She heard Artem whisper to Zlata: “When mum’s not listening, you can call me dad.” So Zlata got herself a Sunday Dad. Sometimes Olesya joined their outings; sometimes she let Zlata go if Catherine came too. She still saw Artem as a stranger, suspect—yet Zlata always returned delighted, raving about Artem’s fun and kindness. Olesya couldn’t help absorbing her joy, but refused to let herself hope—happy endings didn’t exist in real life, not as if some prince would ride in. And Artem’s mum praised him so fiercely, Olesya couldn’t help wonder—was something wrong with him? Why else would his mother push him at a plain girl like her? But Olesya’s heart, little by little, melted. Artem’s kindness was subtle—chocolates left for her, always seeking her opinion before inviting Zlata, catching her eyes during drives. She especially liked Catherine—if not for Artem, Olesya would have made friends with her. One day Artem called—about the cinema. Zlata guessed immediately, whispered, “Is it Artem?” and settled in happily. “Of course, Zlata will be delighted,” Olesya replied, out of habit. “Wait…I meant, well, for you and me. A date?” Catherine chimed in, “Finally!” “Mum, quit eavesdropping! Oh—sorry, Olesya…” Zlata whispered, “Did he ask you out?” Olesya laughed, “My ears are sharp too. Listen, Artem…” “Please give me a chance! I promise, I’ll be a true gentleman!” “Tell her about the eyes, Toma—her mum’s eyes…” Catherine urged. It was like cold water—nothing made sense. What did her mum have to do with anything? Artem snapped at his mum, then told Olesya: “Olesya, I’ll come round to explain—can I?” Some clarity wouldn’t hurt… Olesya paced until he arrived; Zlata went to her desk to draw. “I should have said from the start,” Artem blurted out, nervous. “I wanted to, but… I really liked you—and didn’t want you to think it was only because of your mum. I mean, I was scared you’d hate me. You see, she died because of me…” He rambled, skipping from one thought to the next, desperate. Olesya trembled, speechless, just like the day she feared Zlata was gone. “Will you ever forgive me?” Olesya barely managed: “I need to think.” “Mum, forgive dad…” Zlata pleaded. Artem gave her a look, reminding Zlata of their agreement. He turned to Olesya; she repeated: “I need time—please?” She had a million questions but couldn’t speak them. Then Catherine called—and everything came pouring out. “He didn’t know she died—I was protecting him. Later it came out, and Toma wanted to find you. That night he only meant to help, but then Zlata… And then you… He fell head over heels! He was afraid you’d misinterpret it. It was all about proving he was brave, when the boy fell in. The others wouldn’t go on the ice, but he did…” Catherine didn’t pressure her, but shielded her son. Zlata, however, pressed hard. “Mum, he’s a good man! And he loves you—he said so! He could be my real dad, can’t you see?” And Olesya did see. But…wasn’t it wrong? Nearly a month passed; still she couldn’t talk to him, dodged his calls, didn’t read his messages. The more she delayed, the more she wanted to ring—but it only got harder. Zlata woke her crying one night, stomach in agony. She’d complained the night before, but Olesya thought it might be sour yoghurt. Now she was burning up. Hands shaking, Olesya called the ambulance. Then—without knowing why—she called Artem. He arrived with the paramedics—half asleep, tousled. Went to the hospital with them, soothing her, promising it’d all be OK, though his own voice shook. “Peritonitis isn’t that scary,” he repeated. “Everything will be fine!” Olesya grabbed his hand—maybe to comfort him, maybe herself. The waiting room was chilly; they sat shoulder to shoulder, sharing warmth. He dashed to the doctors for news; Olesya sat frozen with fear. If something happened to Zlata, she wouldn’t survive it. But Zlata was all right. The surgeons did a brilliant job; Zlata was brave, fought hard—though the case had been critical. “It’s like a kind angel was watching over her,” the doctor said. Olesya whispered, “Thank you, mum…” Artem thanked the staff profusely; the doctor told them to go home—Zlata was in ICU, parents would need rest. He dropped her off; Olesya expected him to ask to come in, but he hesitated. So she invited: “It’s almost morning. Come in for coffee?” And realised, she truly wanted him to. Wanted him to stay. Forever. Zlata made a swift recovery—everyone at the hospital noticed. “That’s because I’ve got a mum and a dad,” she’d say. And only Olesya and Artem understood just how much that meant to their little girl…

Sunday Dad. Diary Entry.

Wheres my daughter? I kept asking, hardly able to stop my teeth chattering whether from fear or the biting March wind, I couldnt tell.

Id left Clara at the childrens party, in the playroom at Ashbrook Shopping Centre. I didnt know the birthday girls parents particularly well, but it wasnt the first time Clara had gone to such a party, so I didnt worry. Usually, it was easy enough. But today, I was late the bus was delayed as usual, and the shopping centre was inconveniently placed, really designed only for those with cars. Of course, I had no car. So, I took Clara on the bus, went back home for my tutoring lesson (couldnt cancel we need the money), and then returned for her. It was only fifteen minutes late, and Id run across the freezing car park so fast Id lost my breath. And now, the birthday girls mum, a small woman with round blue eyes, was gazing at me, puzzled and repeating,

“Her father took her.”

But Clara doesnt have a father. Well, she does, technically but hes never so much as seen his daughter.

Id met Andrew by chance, years ago. My friend and I were strolling down the riverside in Cambridge when she twisted her ankle; two lads came over, all charm, offering us help. Just like in the films, they told us they were at Oxford, their dads were a general and a professor. Why do we all do this when were young? Silly little lies. But when I fell pregnant and Andrew discovered I was only studying teaching at the local college and my dad was just a bus driver, he shoved some money at me for an abortion and vanished.

I never had the abortion, never regretted it for a second. Claras been my little companion ever since: wise beyond her years, thoughtful and reliable. We had fun, just the two of us. Shed sit quietly playing with her dolls while I taught lessons, and afterwards, wed go into our tiny kitchen to cook milk pudding or poached eggs and have tea with buttery biscuits. Money was always tight, what with rent and bills, but neither of us complained.

How could you hand my daughter over to a stranger?

My voice shook and tears prickled at my eyes.

But hes not a stranger, protested the blue-eyed woman, slightly irritated. Hes her father!

I could have explained, but it was pointless. I needed to find security, get the CCTV

When did you last see her?

Just ten minutes ago

I turned and ran. How many times had I warned Clara: Never leave with anyone you dont know! Fear made my legs clumsy, the world blurred, and I crashed into people without even stopping to apologise, just sprinted on. Guided by pure panic, I called out:

Clara! Clara!

The food court was noisy, few people paid any mind to my cries, but a couple looked over. I gulped air, trying to think where would she be taken? Maybe she was still here

Mummy!

I almost didnt believe it there was Clara, coat flung open, face streaked with ice cream, dashing towards me. I gripped her so tightly, it felt shed slip away unless held fast (maybe thats how it was). I stared at the man beside her smart haircut, ridiculous jumper with a snowman, holding ice cream. He must have seen the fury in my eyes because he started babbling:

“So sorry! Its my fault. I should have waited here, but the kids were teasing her! Saying she had no dad, that hed never come for her. I wanted to show them so I said to Clara, Lets grab some ice cream until mum gets here. Didnt think youd be so frightened”

I was shaking. Trust wasnt something I offered easily to strangers. But had Clara really been teased? I sought her gaze; she instantly understood the question, sniffed and lifted her chin.

“Well, Ive got a dad now, havent I!”

The man shrugged awkwardly. I couldnt say a word.

“Lets go,” I managed. “Well miss the bus if we dont hurry.”

“Hang on!” He stepped forward, then hesitated. “Would you like a lift? Since all this happened… No, dont worry, Im not some weirdo! Im Tom. Honestly! My mums over there, shell vouch for me!”

He gestured to a lady with purple curls, reading at a table nearby.

“If you like, well go to her. Shell give me a glowing reference!”

“Im sure she will,” I muttered, still simmering. “Really, were fine!”

“Mum…” Clara tugged at my sleeve. “Let him drive us. Let them see the dad takes us home.”

Back by the playroom stood the birthday girl, her mum, and another child whose name escaped me. Claras eyes begged. The idea of walking back over the icy pavement, so shaken, felt overwhelming. So I relented.

“All right,” I said.

“Brilliant! Ill just tell Mum Im off.”

Mummys boy, I thought sourly. The woman waved a cheery hello, and I turned away, embarrassed by the whole muddle.

Tom was polite to Clara all the way home, and she sang like a lark Id never seen her so chatty. When we reached our street, though, she drooped.

“Will we ever see you again?” she whispered, glancing at me and then at him.

Tom looked at me was that permission he was after? I wanted to lecture Clara about manners, but her sad little face stopped me. I nodded.

“If your mum allows, maybe I could take you to the cinema. Have you been before?”

“Really? Never! Mum, can I go to the cinema with Dad?”

Now, I felt my cheeks flame, so I rushed my words:

“Clara, you can, but on two conditions. First, calling someone you just met Dad isnt polite stick with Uncle Tom, all right? Second, Ill come too. What have I always said? Never go anywhere with strangers, even if they seem nice!”

“I said that too,” Tom cut in. “Honestly, I did.”

“So, can I go?”

“I said yes!”

“Hooray!”

Part of me wanted to stamp out this nonsense immediately, but I couldnt. Clara was my whole world, and its not like I had anyone to advise me. Not even my mum I only vaguely remember her; she died when I was five, the same age Clara is now. A boy fell through the ice, no one dared help, except for my mum. She saved him, but got ill after pneumonia, then complications because of her diabetes. Gone in a week. Claras got diabetes too; it frightens me, blaming myself for passing it on.

All week, I spun every scenario in my mind, dreading the cinema outing. But it turned out totally unexpectedly: Tom brought his mum.

“So you know Im not some lunatic, Ive brought Mum! Shell give you my best reference,” he joked.

“Well, you are a lunatic,” she retorted, smiling in a way that showed she utterly adored her son.

While Tom led Clara for popcorn, his mother leaned in to chat.

“Can we drop the formality? He never had a father either. I married four times the fourth was perfection, Toms just like him. But fate decided otherwise he died before holding Tom. Heart attack, and Id just delivered Tom prematurely. No idea how I survived. The first husbands helped Oh, dont look so shocked! Im on great terms with all of them the first still loves me, the second prefers men, the third loves women too much to settle. However, Tom missed having a dad, so hes taken to Clara. Kids teased him mercilessly, too. Poor boy! Hed do such silly dares at school, just to prove himself nearly died once”

She was fascinating: petite, sharp-featured, purple hair, Chanel suit, reading Agatha Christie. I instantly liked her.

“Dont worry, Toms just got a generous heart,” she winked at me. “Besides, he does seem keen on you…”

I blushed furiously just what I need But poor Clara.

After the film, I tried to hand Tom the money for our tickets. He refused.

“If I invite ladies to the cinema, I pay!”

I disliked that, too. Im used to looking after myself, never depending on anyone. As for any feelings for me nonsense!

When he drove us home, Clara piped up:

“Dad, where are we going next?”

“Clara!” I scolded.

She covered her mouth.

“We could go to the Natural History Museum,” Tom offered, ignoring her slip. “How about that?”

“Great! Mum, can we go?”

“You lot go without me,” I replied, frosty. “Take Mrs Catherine, she mentioned loving butterflies.”

I hopped out first, eager to end this awkwardness. I overheard Tom whisper to Clara:

“When Mums not listening, you can call me Dad.”

So, Clara got her Sunday dad. Sometimes, I joined them; sometimes Clara went alone as long as Mrs Catherine tagged along. I still saw Tom as a stranger, despite Claras gushing praise for his fun spirit, even as her enthusiasm started to rub off on me but I wouldnt let it grow. Life doesnt offer white-knight rescues, I reminded myself. And Toms mum sang his praises so much I wondered, is he really that ideal or is she matchmaking her son with a scruffy single mum like me?

Gradually though, my heart softened. Tom was consistently considerate: hed leave a little chocolate for me on the shelf, always checked with me before inviting Clara out, caught my eye in the car. And Mrs Catherine turned out to be an incredible conversationalist; if Tom werent her son, Id have trusted her with all my worries.

One evening, Tom rang about another cinema trip. Clara immediately appeared, whispering:

“Is it Tom?”

She perched beside me, grinning.

“Yes, Clara would love to come,” I replied.

“Wait its not just Clara, I mean you too. The two of us, together.”

From the background, Mrs Catherine piped up:

“At last!”

“Mother, stop eavesdropping! Oh sorry, Lucy… Sorry. Shes always got her ear to the wall.”

Clara nudged me: “Did he ask you out?”

I laughed.

“Even Ive got ears. Listen, Tom I”

“Please, dont say no! Just one chance, I swear Ill be a proper gentleman!”

“Tell her about her eyes, Tom tell her what you said to me, how shes got her mums eyes!”

It was like icy water in the face what did my mum have to do with it?

He shouted something at Mrs Catherine, then turned to me:

“Lucy, Ill come round and explain everything, may I?”

I could use an explanation… I paced until he arrived, Clara sat drawing at her desk, knowing something was up.

“I shouldve told you straight away,” Tom began shakily. “I meant to, but I like you so much I didnt want you to think it was just about your mum. And I was scared youd hate me. She died because of me”

His story tumbled out in fragments, his eyes pleading. I shook as I had when I thought Clara was missing.

“Do you forgive me?”

I managed only, “I need to think.”

“Mum, please forgive Dad”

Tom widened his eyes at Clara, reminding her of the deal. Watched me intently.

“I need time. I have to think, please understand.”

I had a thousand questions but my mouth wouldnt move. Yet when Mrs Catherine called, I learned the whole tale.

“He didnt know shed died I kept that from him as a child. When he found out later, he vowed to find you. That night, he meant to introduce himself, offer help, but it all snowballed with Clara, and then you He fell for you instantly! He was afraid youd misunderstand. Dont blame him he was just trying to prove to bullies that he was enough, even without a dad. No one else dared step on the ice, but he did and”

Mrs Catherine didnt pressure me, but she made excuses for her son. Clara, though, was relentless:

“Mum, hes lovely! And he loves you, he told me himself! Hell be my real dad youll see!”

I understood, but it just felt wrong?

Nearly a month passed; I still couldnt bring myself to talk to Tom. I ignored his calls, his messages. The longer I waited, the more I realised how much I wished Id pick up yet the harder it became.

One night, Clara woke me in pain, sobbing about her tummy. Shed complained yesterday, but Id blamed sour milk. Now, she was burning up.

With shaking hands, I rang for an ambulance, then heaven knows why called Tom.

He arrived with the paramedics, half asleep, hair wild. He came to hospital, calming both Clara and me, promising itd be fine, though his voice trembled.

“Peritonitis, its not so bad shell be all right, she will!”

I caught his hand perhaps to comfort him, perhaps myself. In the cool waiting room, void of warm clothes, we sat pressed close, sharing what little warmth we could.

Tom rushed to the doctor before me, desperate for news. I could barely breathe. If anything happened to Clara, I wouldnt survive.

But she pulled through. The doctors did a wonderful job, and Clara showed true grit, fighting with all she had. The surgeon muttered,

“Its as though shes got a guardian angel,” and I whispered, “Thank you, Mum.”

Tom thanked the doctors over and over. They told us to go home and rest Clara was in ICU, we couldnt visit, and we needed sleep.

At my block, I half expected Tom to ask to come up, but he was silent. So I said:

“Its nearly morning. Would you like some coffee?”

And realised I wanted him to come in. I wanted him to stay. For good.

Clara recovered astoundingly quickly all the doctors and nurses noticed.

“Thats because Ive got a mum and a dad,” she declared.

And no one except Tom and me really understood why she was quite so pleasedThat spring, pink blossom feathered the bus stop next to our flat. Clara stood on tiptoe, tracing petals swirling through the air. Tom held her hand while I watched from our front step, mug warming my fingers.

“I still think the ice cream at Ashbrook was better,” Clara declared, scrunching her nose. “But this coffee smells nicest.”

Tom grinned. “Your mum makes magic coffee. Didnt you know?”

I rolled my eyes. “Its instant. Hardly magic.”

He winked at me, and for the first time, I didnt flinch from the warmth in his eyes. It made something bright settle quietly inside my chest.

Mrs Catherine appeared, all purple curls and detective novels, waving a picnic basket. “The rule is Sundays are for families, darlings. And now I expect to be spoiled.”

I laughed and beckoned them inside. Clara darted ahead, arranging her dolls on the sofa as if for a tea party. Tom set the basket on the table, nudged me lightly, and whispered, “May I call it home yet?”

I nodded, the world suddenly still and soft.

We ate buttery biscuits, swapped stories, and argued over a crossword clue. Toms mum guessed every answer, Clara giggled, and Tom mispronounced the French. My heart felt stitched whole, a patchwork from past loss, present courage, future hope.

Outside, rain threatened, but Clara shouted, “Lets take our umbrellas! I want to show Dad the blossom after the rain it looks just like snow.”

And as we stepped out, all together, I felt my mums gentle courage echoing in the laughter that trailed behind us.

Clara tugged my sleeve. “Mum,” she said softly, “This is the best Sunday ever.”

And for the first time in forever, I believed her.