There is a large package on the kitchen table, addressed to me.
“What’s in it?” my wife asks as I lift its lid.
“Socks,” I say. “Socks in a box.”
“What for?” my wife says.
The youngest walks in. I read the note that came with the socks. “A PR company has sent me some posh socks as a Father’s Day gift,” I say. “Also, some coffee.”
“Why you?” the youngest says.
“Because I am one of Britain’s most beloved fathers,” I say.
“No, really,” he says.
“Father’s Day isn’t even a thing,” my wife says.
I hold up a pair of socks with a monogrammed T on them. “I think you’ll find it is,” I say.
On Sunday morning, I lie in for as long as I can, but my wife proves the more determined sleeper. Eventually, I give up and get up.
“Please bring me a cup of tea,” she says, opening one eye.
“Of course,” I say. “The perfect start to a perfect Mother’s Day. Except it’s Father’s Day.”
“Nobody gives a shit about Father’s Day,” she says. “Anyway, I’m taking you to the cinema.”
“You’re taking the children to the cinema, and you’re making me come.”
“Fine,” she says. “Don’t come.”
I take the dogs to the park, then sit in the garden by myself. The Archers omnibus, blaring from two radios on different floors, echoes through the house as if it were being performed in a cathedral. After a few minutes, the dampness of the bench I’m sitting on drives me back inside. I find my wife in front of the computer, the youngest one by her side.
“Jurassic World, three o’clock,” my wife says. “We can go to lunch before.”
“There won’t be any tickets,” I say. “It’s the most popular movie ever. And it’s Father’s Day.”
“There are plenty of tickets,” my wife says.
“Happy Father’s Day, father,” the youngest says in a plummy voice he normally uses to heap scorn on outmoded formalities.
“Yeah, cheers,” I say.
The oldest one, recently arrived back from university, is the last one out of the house, with wet hair and untied shoes. The last time we all piled into the car as a family, we had a different car. As my wife turns on to the ramp of a parking garage, I involuntarily lurch away from the passenger door.
“What’s wrong with you?” she says.
“You were a bit close on my side,” I say.
“You seem to be under the impression that this car is bigger than it is,” she says. “It’s not a 4X4.”
“It is sort of a 4X4,” I say.
“No, it isn’t,” she says. “It’s smaller than the old car.”
“You just don’t want people to think you’re a 4X4 mum,” I say.
“That’s not what a 4X4 mum is,” she says.
“It has the shape of a 4X4,” I say.
“A 4x4 mum is a woman who has four children by four different fathers,” my wife says. “I have three children, all by the same idiot.” The tyres squeak against the concrete as she pulls into a parking space.
“I think that counts as a zing, Dad,” the youngest says.
“Don’t say zing,” I say. “Say burn.”
In the restaurant where we have lunch, there is a card on the table advertising a Father’s Day special. “Book now” it says. I look up: the place is almost empty. Maybe Father’s Day really isn’t a thing. But still, I think, it’s nice to be here, all together, on a random Sunday.
“Your father is staring into space,” my wife says. “Who’s going to volunteer to talk to him?”
“I will,” the middle one says.
