Sunday Father
From Sunday to Sunday, I was merely existing. Six days of emptiness, followed by a single day where I felt alive. Even that day was mapped out by calls and a schedule approved by my ex-wife, Helen, two years ago. Ten till six. No being late. No fast food. No gifts just because. Because, for her, I was nothing more than a functiona Sunday father.
My daughter, Emily, greeted me at the front door with the stern face of someone on duty. In her eyes, I could read: Youre two minutes late or Were going to the cinema today, according to schedule.
We went to films, parks, cafés. We talked about school, movies, her friends. Never about Helen. Never about what happened after six, when Id drop her home and Emily, without looking back, would head to the lift, up to her mum and her new husband, Richard.
Richard was the proper dad. He lived with them. Helped her with homework. Took her to his cottage at weekends. Emily shared jokes with him, photos on social media. I looked at those photos in secret, late at night, feeling as though I were stealing someone elses life.
I attempted, every Sunday, to squeeze all the fatherly love Id saved up through the week into those eight hours. It never worked quite rightforced, unnatural.
Awkwardly, Id ask:
Is there anything you need?
Emily would shrug.
I have everything.
And those wordsI have everythinghurt deeper than any insult. They meant: I have a home. Youre just extra.
***
Everything collapsed on a Tuesday.
Helen rang. Her voice, usually calm and clipped, was strained, thin.
John Its about Emily. Shes suspected to have a tumour. Malignant. A complicated operations needed. Expensive.
My world shrunk to the tight sound of her voice on the phone. Next, Helen, steadying herself, talked about money. She and Richard had savings, but not enough. Theyre selling the car. Searching for options. She wasnt asking; she was informing me, as a partner in misfortune.
I dropped everything. Rushed to the hospital. Saw Emily, small and scared in hospital pyjamas. My heart broke.
Richard sat beside her, holding her hand, saying something softly. Emily looked at him, searching for comfort.
I stood in the doorway, out of place. The Sunday father on a weekday, not needed.
Dad Emily smiled weakly at me.
That dad was a lifeline. I stepped forward, managing only to awkwardly stroke her hair.
Everything will be alright, sweetheart.
Empty, perfunctory words.
Helen was in the corridor by the window. She turned and said:
Money if youre able.
I could.
My only prized possessiona 1972 Gibson guitar.
My teenage dream, bought for a fortune.
I sold it cheap, just to be quick. Transferred the money to Helen, anonymously. I didnt want thanks. I didnt want Emily to think my love was measured in pounds. Let her believe Richard sorted it all. He had the right to be the hero. I didnt. I only had duty.
***
The surgery was set for Thursday. On Wednesday evening, I found myself at the hospital, unable to stay at home.
Helen was in the ward. Richard was off dealing with something. Emily lay with her eyes closed, not sleeping.
Mum, she murmured, ask that doctor from this morning not to tell any more jokes. Theyre not funny.
Alright, Helen replied.
And ask Dad Richard not to read me about business plans. Its boring.
Ill ask.
I stood behind the curtain, unsure whether to go in. I heard Emily fall silent, then whisper:
Ask my dad to come. Just sit. Quietly. And read to me. Like before. The Hobbit.
I froze. My heart pounded in my throat.
Like before
***
That was before the divorce. Id read to her at bedtime, changing the voices for the dwarves and elves.
Helen came out into the corridor and nodded towards the ward.
Go on. Not for long, though. She needs her rest.
I entered, sitting at her bedside. Emily opened her eyes.
Hello, Dad.
Hello, bunny. The Hobbit?
Mm.
I didnt have a book on me. I found the text on my phone and began reading.
Quietly, monotonously, skipping words, stumbling. I didnt change the voices. Just read. My eyes felt misty, the letters blurring. I felt her hand weaken in mine.
I read for perhaps an hour. Or two. Until my voice had grown hoarse. Until she was asleep. I intended to gently withdraw my hand, but, asleep, Emily squeezed it tighter.
Then, watching her exhausted face, I did what I hadnt allowed myself to do. Leaned in, whispered, so only the walls could hear:
Forgive me, Emily. For everything. I love you so much. Please hang on. Hang on for me. Your Sunday father.
I didnt know if she heard. I hoped she hadnt.
***
The operation took ages. I sat in the corridor opposite Helen and Richard. They were together.
Mealone.
But now my solitude wasnt empty. It was filled with quiet reading and the warm weight of Emilys hand in mine.
When the surgeons finally emerged to say it went well, and the tumour was benign, Helen broke down, sobbing into Richards shoulder.
I got up, moved to the window. Clenched my fists so I wouldnt scream in relief.
***
Emily improved. A week later she was moved to a regular ward.
Richard, as a real dad should, bustled about doctors, dealt with errands.
I came every evening. Read to her. Sat silently. Sometimes we simply watched a series together.
One night, as I was leaving, Emily called out.
Dad.
Im here.
I know it was you. The money Mum didnt say, but I overheard her and Richard arguing. He wanted to sell his share in the business, but Mum yelled not to, that youd already given everything, sold your guitar.
I didnt reply.
Why? she asked. Were not together
Youre my family, I cut in, its not up for discussion.
Emily gazed at me for a long time, then handed over something. In her palm lay an old, battered cardboard bookmark, scrawled in childish letters: For my beloved Dad, from Emily.
Shed made it seven years ago
I found it in an old book when I was home for the weekend. Here. So you wont lose your place
I took the bookmark. It was still warm from her hand.
Dad, she said again, her voice strong, grown-up. You arent just for Sundays. Youre forever. Do you understand?
I couldnt reply. Only nodded, clutching the bookmark.
Then hurried out to the hallway. Because menSunday men, toodont cry in front of their daughters
They simply go mad from happiness and pain, hidden somewhere, staring into a cardboard key to the past, which, it turns out, is the most real part of all.
***
The next Sunday, I arrived not at ten, but at nine. And I left much later than six.
Emily and I sat quietly together, watching the city outside, with no schedule at all.
Because I am Emilys Dad.
Forever.
