(gap: 1s) Several summers ago, when the world seemed brighter and the days stretched endlessly, my siblings and I found ourselves at the heart of our little Scottish council estate, splashing and shrieking with delight in the cool blue waters of the subdivision pool. The air was thick with the scent of chlorine and the distant tang of the North Sea, and the sun, though shy, peered through the clouds just enough to warm our backs as we played.
(short pause) Mother, ever the keeper of time and order, had given us a clear command that morning: “Be home by four o’clock sharp, or there will be consequences.” But the laughter of our friends, the thrill of underwater handstands, and the wild, unbridled joy of childhood swept us away. Minutes slipped into hours, and before we knew it, the pool clock’s hands pointed accusingly to a quarter to five.
(pause) Suddenly, there she was—Mother, standing at the pool’s edge, her silhouette framed by the late afternoon sun. Her lips were pressed into a thin, determined line, and her eyes, usually so gentle, flashed with a steely resolve. We froze mid-cannonball, our hearts thudding in our chests. This was the third time that summer we had ignored her curfew, and we all knew what that meant. Mother had promised, in no uncertain terms, that the next infraction would be met with the belt.
(short pause) “Out of the pool. Now,” she commanded, her voice as crisp as the Scottish wind. We scrambled from the water, shivering not from cold but from dread. Each of us tried, in our own desperate way, to explain—“We lost track of time!” “It was only a little while!”—but Mother would not be swayed. “You’d best get moving,” she said, “because when we get home, you all will be getting the belt.”
(pause) The walk home was a silent procession, our wet hair dripping and our towels clutched tightly around us like shields. The familiar streets, usually alive with the sounds of children’s games and the clatter of milk bottles, seemed suddenly ominous. Our house, with its thistle-patterned wallpaper and the comforting glow of the coal fire, now felt like the lair of a waiting dragon.
(short pause) Once inside, Mother’s discipline was swift and methodical. She sent each of us to our rooms, her footsteps echoing down the narrow hallway. My sisters were first. From my room, I could hear the low, measured tone of Mother’s lecture—her words clear and unwavering, reminding them of the importance of trust, obedience, and respect. Then came the unmistakable sound: the sharp snap of leather as Mother drew her belt from its hook, the buckle clinking softly.
(pause) My eldest sister was called first. She stood, trembling, before Mother, who instructed her to bend over the end of the bed. The belt was doubled in Mother’s hand, and with a steady arm, she delivered six firm strokes across my sister’s skirted bottom. Each smack landed with a crisp, echoing report, and my sister gasped at the first, then whimpered through the next, her knuckles white as she gripped the bedspread. By the sixth, tears streamed down her cheeks, her face flushed with both pain and shame. Mother’s voice was gentle but resolute: “You must learn to keep your word, my girl.”
(short pause) My younger sister followed, her eyes wide and fearful. She, too, bent over, and received her six with the same measured force. The belt left bright, stinging stripes, and she sobbed openly, her shoulders shaking. Mother paused only to remind her, “Discipline is never easy, but it is necessary.” The sound of the belt, the sharp sting, and the lesson behind it were all inescapable.
(pause) When my sisters had been sent to stand in the corner, faces pressed to the wall to reflect on their actions, it was my brother’s turn. He tried to be brave, but as the first lash struck, he yelped, and by the third, he was crying out, his voice echoing down the hallway. Mother gave him six as well, each one a lesson in consequence, each one a reminder that rules, once broken, must be answered for. His tears were hot and honest, and when it was over, he stood sniffling, rubbing at his eyes.
(short pause) At last, it was my turn. My heart pounded so fiercely I thought it might leap from my chest. Mother’s face was grave but not unkind as she repeated her lecture, her words sinking in like stones dropped into a still pond. I bent over, feeling the cool air on my skin, and braced myself.
