The Sunday Dad
From one Sunday to the next, Paul simply existed. Six days of emptiness, then one day of life. Even that day was marked out by phone calls and a timetable set by his ex-wife, Helen, two years ago. Ten oclock until six. No being late. No fast food. No spontaneous gifts. Because he, Paul, was just a function. The Sunday Dad.
His daughter, Emily, met him outside the block of flats with the stony face of a drill sergeant. In her eyes was always something firm: Youre two minutes late, or Todays plan is the cinema.
They went to see films, to the park, to the café. They talked about school, about movies, about her friends. Never about Helen. Never about what happened after six oclock, when he took Emily home and she walked, without looking back, to the lift, to her mum and her mums new husband, David.
David was the proper dad. He lived with them. Helped with homework. Took Emily to his cottage in the countryside at weekends. She and David had their own in-jokes, their own photos sprinkled across Facebook. Paul would look at those photos in secret late at night and feel as if he was stealing someone elses life.
He tried to squeeze a weeks worth of fatherly love into those eight hours. It came out awkward. Unnatural.
Hed ask, awkwardly, Do you need anything, Em?
Emily would shrug, Ive got everything.
That Ive got everything cut deeper than any cruel word. It simply meant: I have a home. And you youre just extra.
***
Everything fell apart on a Tuesday.
Helen rang him. Her voice, usually brisk and level, was thin, weary.
Paul Its about Emily. She They suspect a tumour. Malignant. She needs a complex operation. Expensive.
The world narrowed to a single point through the phone. Then Helen, gathering herself, spoke about money. She said she and David had savings, but it wasnt enough. They were selling the car. Looking for options. She wasnt asking. She was informing. A partner in misfortune.
Paul dropped everything. He raced to the hospital. Saw Emily, small, afraid in her hospital pyjamas. His heart broke.
Beside her, David sat on a chair, holding her hand, murmuring softly. Emily looked at him, searching for strength in his eyes.
Paul stood in the doorway, an outsider. The Sunday Dad on a Tuesday didnt belong.
Dad Emily smiled, faintly.
That Dad was a lifeline. He stepped forward, but all he could do was gently stroke her hair.
Everything will be all right, darling.
Empty, rehearsed words…
Helen stood by the window in the corridor, glanced at him, and said, quietly, The money if you can.
He could.
He had one real possession his 1972 Gibson guitar, a dream from his youth, bought for a small fortune.
He sold it for half its value, just to make it quick. Transferred the money to Helen, without signing his name. He didnt want thanks. He didnt want Emily to think his love could be measured in pound notes. Let her believe it was David who sorted everything. David had the right to play the hero. Paul did not. His was only duty.
***
The operation was set for Thursday. On Wednesday evening, unable to sit at home, he returned to the hospital.
Helen was in the ward. David had just popped out. Emily lay with her eyes closed, not sleeping.
Mum, she said softly, can you askthat doctor who came this morning not to tell any more jokes? Theyre dreadful
All right, Helen replied.
Andask Dad David not to read me about business plans. Its boring.
I will.
Paul stood behind the curtain, unable to step in. He heard Emily fall quiet, then say even softer,
And ask my dad ask him to come. Just to sit. Dont talk. And maybe read. Like before. The Hobbit.
Paul froze. His heart thudded in his throat.
Like before
***
That was before the divorce. He used to read her bedtime stories, changing his voice for dwarves and elves.
Helen popped out and, seeing him hovering, nodded towards the ward.
Go on in. Just for a short while. She needs rest.
He walked in, sat on the chair by the bed. Emily opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hello, sweetheart. The Hobbit?
She nodded.
Paul didnt have the book with him. He found it on his phone. And began reading.
Quietly, monotonously, skipping words, stumbling at times. He didnt bother with voices. Just read. His eyes glazed over, the letters blurring, as he felt her small hand weakening in his own.
He read for perhaps an hour. Maybe two. Until his throat went rough. Until he was sure shed fallen asleep. He tried to gently withdraw his hand, but Emily, half-awake, gripped it tighter.
And then, gazing at her pale, sleeping face, Paul allowed himself what he never had he leant down and whispered, a secret for the hospital walls alone:
Forgive me, love. For everything. I love you so much. Stay strong. Stay strong for me. Your Sunday Dad.
He didnt know if she heard him. He hoped not.
***
The operation dragged on. Paul sat in the corridor across from Helen and David. They sat together.
He sat alone.
But this time his loneliness was not empty. It was filled with quiet reading and the soft, heavy weight of his daughters hand in his.
When the doctors finally came and said it was successful, the tumour benign, Helen broke down, sobbing into Davids shoulder.
Paul got up, walked to the window, and clenched his fists to keep from crying out in sheer relief.
***
Emily improved. A week later she was transferred to an ordinary ward.
David, ever the real father, bustled about, talking to doctors, sorting out the little details.
Paul came every evening. He read. He sat quietly. Sometimes he and Emily simply watched series together on her iPad.
One evening, as he was about to leave, Emily 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 in the firm. Mum yelled no, that youd already given everything, sold your guitar.
He said nothing.
Why, Dad? she asked quietly. Its not as if were not really yours anymore
You are my family, he cut in, thats all there is to say.
Emily looked at him for a long moment. Then she held out her hand. In her palm lay a tattered old cardboard bookmark. In childish writing: To my dearest Dad, from Emily.
Shed made it seven years ago
I found it in an old book, when I was home for the weekend. Take it. So you wont lose your place
He took the bookmark. The card felt warm from her hand.
Dad, she said again, her voice firm, grown up. Youre not a Sunday dad. Youre forever. Understand?
He couldnt answer. He just nodded, gripping the bookmark tight.
Then he hurried out to the corridor. Because men, even Sunday men, dont cry in front of their daughters
They just go quietly mad with joy and pain, hidden away, clutching the cardboard key to a past they suddenly realise is still their present.
***
The next Sunday, Paul arrived not at ten, but at nine. And left not at six, but much, much later.
He and Emily sat silently by the window, watching the quiet city at dusk. No schedule. No rush.
Simply because he was her dad.
Forever.
