Sunday Father
From one Sunday to the next, Paul merely existed. Six days of emptiness, then a single day of life. Even that day was neatly divided by calls and a timetable set by his ex-wife, Helen, two years ago. Ten till six. No being late. No fast food. No gifts just because. Because he, Paul, was little more than a function. The Sunday father.
His daughter, Emily, would greet him at the flat entrance, her face as blank as a duty officers. In her eyes, he could read: Youre two minutes late, or We have the cinema in our schedule today.
They went to the cinema, to the park, to cafés. Their conversations were about school, films, her friends. Never about Helen. Never about the hours after six oclock, when hed take her home and Emily, without so much as a backward glance, would head to the lift, to her mum and her new husband, David.
David was the real dad. He lived with them. Helped with homework. Took them to his cottage on weekends. Emily shared inside jokes with him, and their photos flooded social media. Paul studied those pictures late at night, as if stealing moments from another mans life.
He tried, with little success, to squeeze a weeks worth of fatherly love into his eight hours. It always felt forced, unnatural.
Clumsily hed ask,
Do you need anything?
Emily would simply shrug.
I have everything.
And that everything hurt more than any grudge. It meant: I have a home. Youre just extra.
***
Everything collapsed one Tuesday.
Helen called. Her voice, usually crisp and steady, sounded exhausted and strained.
Paul… Its about Emily. Shes suspected to have a tumour. Malignant, possibly. Shell need a complicated operation. Expensive.
The world narrowed to a single point in the phone speaker. Then Helen gathered herself and talked money. She and David had savings, but it wasnt enough. They were selling their car, looking for options. She wasnt asking. Just informing, as a partner in misfortune.
Paul dropped everything. He rushed to the hospital. Saw Emily, small and frightened in her hospital pyjamas. His heart broke.
Next to her, David was sitting. He held her hand, murmured something gently. Emily looked at him, searching his eyes for comfort.
Paul stood at the doorway, an outsider. Sunday father out of place on a weekday.
Dad Emily managed a weak smile.
That dad sounded like a lifeline. He stepped forward, but all he could do was awkwardly stroke her head:
Itll be alright, sweetheart.
Empty, routine words…
Helen stood at the window in the corridor. Glancing out, she remarked:
Money if you can.
He could.
He owned just one thing of real wortha vintage Gibson guitar, a 1972 model.
His youths dream, bought for a pretty penny.
He sold it for half its value, just to get money quickly. He sent Helen the money anonymously. He didnt want thanks. Didnt want Emily to think his love was counted in banknotes. Let her believe David handled everything. David deserved to be the hero. Paul Paul had no such right. Just duty.
***
The operation was scheduled for Thursday. On Wednesday evening, he came to the hospital, unable to stay at home.
Helen was in the ward. David had gone out for some errands. Emily lay with her eyes closed, but she wasnt asleep.
Mum, she whispered, please ask that doctor who visited this morning not to tell any jokes. Theyre not funny.
Okay, Helen replied.
And please ask Dad David not to read about business plans. Its boring.
Will do.
Paul stood behind the curtain, hesitant to enter. He heard Emily fall silent, then, even softer:
And please ask my dad to come. Just sit with me. In silence. Maybe read. Like before. “The Hobbit.”
Paul froze. His heart hammered in his throat.
Like before
***
That was before the divorce, when hed read stories to her at bedtime, changing the voices of dwarves and elves.
Helen came out to the corridor, saw him, nodded toward the ward:
Go on. But not for long. She needs rest.
He entered, sat on the chair beside her bed. Emily opened her eyes.
Hi, Dad.
Hello, darling. “The Hobbit”?
Mmm.
Paul didnt have the book. He found the text on his phone, and started to read.
Softly, monotonously, skipping words, muddling lines. No funny voices. Just reading. His eyes blurred, letters swimming. He felt her hand grow weaker in his.
He read for maybe an hour, maybe two. Until his voice grew hoarse. Until she fell asleep. He tried to gently release her hand, but Emily gripped it tighter in her sleep.
And then, gazing at her sleeping, fragile face, he allowed himself something hed never dared. He leaned in and whispered to the silent walls:
Forgive me, my girl. For everything. I love you so much. Please keep going. Keep fighting, for me. Your Sunday dad.
He didnt know if she heard. He hoped she didnt.
***
The surgery took ages. Paul sat in the corridor across from Helen and David. Together.
He alone.
But the loneliness was no longer empty. It was filled with quiet reading and the tender weight of his daughters hand.
When the doctors emerged and said it had gone well, the tumour benign, Helen broke down, sobbing into Davids shoulder.
Paul stepped to the window. He clenched his fists to keep from shouting for joy.
***
Emily improved. A week later she moved to an ordinary ward.
David, as the real dad, bustled aboutspeaking to doctors, managing everything.
Paul came in every evening. He read. He sat silently. Sometimes he and Emily simply watched a show together.
One night, as he got up 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 business, and Mum yelled thats impossible, that you already gave everything, sold your guitar.
He said nothing.
Why? she asked. We we arent together
Youre my family, he interrupted. Thats not up for discussion.
Emily stared at him for a long moment. Then she held out her hand. In her palm lay an old, tattered cardboard bookmark, the words scrawled in childish handwriting: To Daddy, from Emily.
Shed made it seven years ago
I found it in an old book when I went home last weekend. Here. So you dont lose your place
He took the bookmark. It was still warm from her hand.
Dad, she said again, her voice sure and grown up. Youre not just Sunday. Youre forever. Okay?
He couldnt speak. Only nodded, gripping the bookmark tightly.
He rushed into the corridor. Because men, even Sunday ones, dont cry in front of their daughters
Instead, they go quietly madalone, clutching a cardboard key to a past that, it turns out, is really the present.
***
The next Sunday, Paul arrived not at ten, but at nine. And stayed well past six.
He and Emily sat quietly by the window, watching the tranquil city below. The schedule forgotten.
Because he was her dad.
Forever.
Reflecting on all of this, Ive learnt that love isnt measured out in time slots or banknotes. Its in those moments, quiet but steadfast, when you choose to be thereno matter what.
