(gap: 2s) “I said no!” my mother’s voice rang out, sharp and unwavering, as she yanked my small, curious hand from the depths of her beloved potted plant. The sting of her palm on my skin was swift—a mother’s warning, not just to my fingers, but to my very soul.
(short pause) That day, the air in our modest council flat seemed thick with a tension I could not name. My little sister Sara, with her golden curls and angelic smile, had been the centre of everyone’s world since morning. I, Laura, felt invisible—adrift in a sea of grown-up conversations and Sara’s delighted giggles. My heart, so young and tender, ached for the warmth of my mother’s gaze, for a sign that I, too, was cherished.
(pause) In my childish desperation, I did what so many children do: I acted out. I nudged Sara when no one was looking, hoping for a reaction. I poked and prodded at my mother’s precious things, my small hands digging into the cool, dark earth of her plants, flinging clumps of soil across the faded carpet. Each misdeed was a silent plea—see me, notice me, love me.
(pause) But attention, I soon learned, is not always sweet. When my mother’s patience snapped, I felt a hot flush of anger rise within me. In a fit of childish defiance, I knocked a delicate vase from the plant table. It tumbled, landing with a dull thud on the carpet. The vase, mercifully, did not shatter, but water and flowers spilled in a wild, soggy heap, staining the pristine white carpet—a mark of my rebellion.
(pause) “I have had enough, Stephanie!” my mother declared, her voice trembling with exhaustion and resolve. She marched me to the couch, her grip firm but not cruel, and sat me down with a finality that brooked no argument. As she cleaned the mess, her movements brisk and efficient, she called for my brother Robert to watch over Sara. The house, usually filled with the comforting hum of family life, seemed to hold its breath.
(pause) Upstairs, the familiar walls of my bedroom felt suddenly foreign. My mother sat beside me on the bed, her face grave but not unkind. She knelt to untie my shoes, her hands gentle as she peeled off my socks. “Laura,” she said, her voice softening, “you know this behaviour is not allowed in our home. Actions have consequences, my dear, and today you must be punished.” I nodded, tears pricking my eyes, a storm of shame and regret swirling in my chest.
(pause) With practiced care, Mother placed me over her knee. Her left hand pressed firmly on my back, anchoring me in place, while her right hovered above, poised to deliver the lesson I so sorely needed. I squirmed, my heart pounding, but there was no escape from the reckoning to come.
(pause) “I understand that you might be sorry,” she murmured, “but you must learn that when you misbehave, there are consequences. A proper spanking is what you need to remember this lesson.”
(pause) Smack! The first spank landed, sharp and startling, and I gasped, the pain blooming across my bottom. Tears spilled down my cheeks as I tried to wriggle free, but Mother’s grip was resolute. Smack! Smack! Each spank was a punctuation mark in the story of my mischief, a reminder that love sometimes wears a stern face. Smack, smack!
(pause) After five measured spanks, she paused. My bottom throbbed, and my pride stung even more. “Now,” she said, lifting me to my feet, “you stay here and think about what you’ve done.”
(pause) She left the room, her footsteps echoing down the hallway, only to return moments later with the dreaded hairbrush—the very one she used for Robert’s more serious infractions. The sight of it made my breath hitch, fear and anticipation mingling in my chest.
(pause) “I love you dearly, Laura,” she said, her eyes shining with unshed tears, “but when you misbehave, you must be corrected.” She settled me over her knee once more, the hairbrush cool and heavy as it rested on my tender skin. For a heartbeat, all was still.
(pause) Smack! The hairbrush bit into my bottom
Smack! It hurt like hell but I tried to keep still. I squirmed under her firm grip as I lay there and took the punishment I knew I deserved. Smack! The brush hit my tiny bottom. Smack! “This will teach you that you don’t hit or shove your sister (smack!) or touch things after you have been told not to!”
The brush made contact with my bottom one last time and then mother stood me up.
I certainly learned my lesson that day – and didn’t go near mother’s plants for a while after that.
