I hated Sundays as a child and especially as a teenager.
Sundays were entirely driven by my mother's idea of how to Sunday properly - we had to be up and dressed with pet related chores done by 8am for breakfast together before walking together to 9:30 church, where we had to stand by the door handing out the hymn books.
After church we had to "help" cook Sunday lunch, which my mother micro managed and got incredibly stressed about, and inevitably served much later than she'd announced it would be, despite it only being our household - woe betide any child / teen lazing around while she was cooking as we should be helping and were given a dressing down for our ungratefulness (once when I was 12 I used the Mrs Beaton cookbook and cooked the roast chicken, roast potatoes and vegetables by myself perfectly successfully and on time, and although my mother proported to be impressed, she wouldn't let me do ot again because I'd used the experiment as a way to stay home and avoid church...).
After lunch we children washed up while my parents "had a rest with a cup of coffee" - despite the fact my father was not involved in the cooking circus and it was unclear what he was resting from. Then we were all packed into the car and driven to a "scenic" location a good hour's drive away (not always the same place) feeling slightly sick due to full stomach plus bendy roads and being squashed together in the back of the car (less nauseating for my parents in the front presumably...). We'd then spend two hours "blowing the cobwebs away" (this phrase was always used, at least three times by a parent) walking at a very slow pace before being packed back into the car and driven the hour home for the sacred ritual of "Sunday tea" which was the only meal of the week eaten in the living room in front of the TV - it was compulsory to watch the family series shown at teatime (The Borrowers, The Railway Children, that kind of thing) before being sent in reverse age order up for a bath, down for hair drying and then to bed - as the oldest I got cold, grey water in return for the latest bedtime.
The only time I got to myself on a Sunday was while my sisters were in the bath, when I could read but wasn't allowed to turn the TV over or off until 'Songs of Praise' finished.
I remember Sundays as always being overcast and semi dark, though they can't always have been. My mother thought this was how to be a good parent/ woman on a Sunday and put a lot of effort in and got herself very stressed when we weren't grateful, but honestly it was quite shit.
On Saturdays however we children were completely ignored unless we were making noise or mess in the house, and I mainly remember being outside. This was infinitely preferable as long as I could scoot out before being made responsible for my younger siblings 😝