Sunday Dad
From Sunday to Sunday, I merely existed. Six long days of emptiness, then one day when I truly felt alive. Even that single precious day was mapped out by calls and a rigid schedule, carefully designed by my ex-wife Jane two years ago. Ten to six. No being late. No fast food. No gifts just because. Because me, Thomas, I was only a fixture. A Sunday Dad.
My daughter, Emily, would wait for me by the flat entrance with the stern look of a head girl on duty. Her eyes always seemed to say, Youre two minutes late, or Were going to the cinema today; thats the plan.
Wed go to the pictures, to Hyde Park, sometimes grab a tea at a local café. We talked about school, the latest films, her friends. Never about Jane. Never about what came after six oclock, when Id drop her off and Emily, without glancing back, would head towards the lift, towards her mum and her new husband, Simon.
Simon was the proper dad. He lived with them. Helped her with her homework. Took her on weekends to his little cottage in the Cotswolds. Emily and Simon had their own inside jokes, their own photos on her social media. I used to look at those photos in secret, late at night, feeling like I was peering into a life that wasnt mine.
I tried to pack all my fatherly love into those precious eight hours. It never really worked; it felt forced, unnatural.
Id stumble through the same old question:
Do you need anything?
Emily would shrug:
Ive got everything.
And that Ive got everything stung more than any harsh word. It meant: I have a home. Youre justextra.
***
It all fell apart on a Tuesday.
Jane rang. Her voice, usually so composed and firm, was thin, worn out.
Tom Its about Emily. Shes they suspect she has a tumour. Malignant. Shell need a complicated operation. Its expensive.
The world shrank to the size of that phone speaker. After a moment, Jane pulled herself together and spoke about money. She said she and Simon had savings, but not enough. They were selling the car. Looking for options. She wasnt asking. She was simply letting me knowas a fellow traveller through this nightmare.
I dropped everything and rushed to the hospital as fast as I could. When I saw Emily, so small and frightened in her hospital pyjamas, my heart nearly split in two.
Simon was sitting beside her, holding her hand, whispering something softly. Emilys eyes searched his face for comfort.
I stood in the doorway, feeling extraneous. A Sunday Dad trying to fit into a Tuesday.
Dad Emily smiled weakly at me.
That Dad, for a second, was a lifeline. I stepped forward, but all I managed was to awkwardly stroke her hair.
Itll be alright, love.
Empty, overused words…
Jane was by the window in the corridor, staring out. She muttered:
The money if you can.
I could.
My only real treasure was a 1972 Gibson Les Paul. The dream of my youth, paid for at great cost.
I sold it for half its worth, just to do it quickly. Transferred the money to Jane, anonymously. I didnt want gratitude, or for Emily to think my love could be weighed in pounds. Let her believe it was all Simons doing. He deserved the right to be the hero. I, TomI had no such right. Only duty.
***
The operation was booked for Thursday. I couldnt bear sitting at home on Wednesday evening, so I went to the hospital.
Jane was in the room. Simon was off sorting something. Emily was lying there, eyes closed, not asleep.
Mum, she said quietly, please ask that doctor who came this morning not to tell jokes Theyre not funny.
Alright love, Jane replied.
And tell Dad Simon not to read about business plans. Hes boring.
Ill tell him.
I stood behind the curtain, unsure whether to go in. I heard Emily fall silent. Then, even softer:
Ask my dad… to come. Just to sit with me. Not talking. And… read to me. Like before. The Hobbit.
My heart thudded in my chest.
Like before
***
That was before the divorce. I used to read to her every night, putting on voices for dwarves and elves.
Jane came out, saw me, nodded towards the room.
Go ahead. Just not for too long. She needs rest.
I sat on a chair beside the bed. Emily opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hello, sweetheart. The Hobbit?
Mm-hmm.
I didnt have the book on me, so I found it on my phone and started reading.
Quietly, a bit flat, skipping words, getting mixed up. I didnt even attempt the voices this timejust read. Tears blurred my vision, the words ran together. I could feel her grip growing weaker in mine.
I read for what felt like an hour, maybe two, until my voice turned hoarse, and she drifted to sleep. When I tried to gently slip away, she squeezed my hand tighter, even in her sleep.
And then, looking at that tired, sleeping face, I let myself do what I never had before. I bent down and whispered into the room, for only the walls to hear:
Forgive me, darling. For everything. I love you so much. Keep going. For me. Your Sunday Dad.
I didnt know if she heard. I hoped she hadnt.
***
The operation lasted for ages. I sat in the hallway across from Jane and Simon. They were side by side. I was alone.
But this loneliness no longer felt empty. It was filled now with gentle reading and the warm weight of my daughters hand in mine.
When the doctor finally came out and said it had gone well and the tumour was benign, Jane broke down in tears, burying her face in Simons shoulder.
I got up, walked to the window, clenching my fists so I wouldnt shout with relief.
***
Emily was better. A week later they moved her to a regular ward.
Simon, the real dad, zipped about after doctors and sorted out practicalities.
I came every evening. Sometimes I read, sometimes we were just quiet together, watching telly.
One night, 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 Simon arguing. He wanted to sell his share in the business, but Mum was shouting that he mustnt, that youd already given everything, that you sold your guitar.
I was silent.
Why? she asked. Were… not really
You are my family, I said, cutting her off. Thats all there is to it.
She looked at me for a long time. Then she reached out her hand. On her palm sat an old, battered cardboard bookmark. Her childish handwriting: To my dearest Daddy, from Emily.
She must have made it seven years ago.
I found it in an old book on a visit home. Here. So you never lose your place again…
I took the bookmark. It was still warm from her hand.
Dad, she said again, her voice suddenly steady, grown up. Youre not just there for Sundays. Youre there for always. Understand?
I couldnt say a word. Just nodded, clutching the bookmark in my fist.
Then I hurried from the room. Because men even Sunday ones shouldnt cry in front of their daughters…
We simply go half-mad from happiness and pain, hiding somewhere, clutching a bit of cardboard that turns out to be a key to the present, not just the past.
***
Next Sunday, I showed up not at ten, but at nine. And I stayed far later than six.
We sat together, Emily and I, watching the quiet city out the window, no schedule needed.
Just because I am Emilys dad.
Forever.
Lesson learned: Fatherhood isnt measured in hours or gifts or even proximity, but in the quiet, stubborn endurance of loveevery day, and always.
