To the outside world, my stepmother was the picture of kindness—clever, funny, always ready with a warm smile or a helping hand. Neighbours adored her, and even my teachers would comment on how lucky I was to have such a loving, involved woman at home. (short pause) But behind our closed door, she was someone else entirely. The transformation was so complete, it was as if she wore a mask for the world and only took it off for us. I remember watching her chat with Mrs O’Leary from next door, her laughter ringing out, her arm draped around my shoulder. But the moment the door clicked shut, her face would harden, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the flat for anything out of place.
At home, her warmth vanished. She was strict, harsh, and sometimes even monstrous. For me and my two new stepbrothers, the rules were absolute, and the punishments were swift and severe. If you behaved, life was tolerable. But if you slipped up, your backside paid the price. There was a constant tension in the air, a sense that we were always being watched, always one mistake away from her wrath. Even the smallest misstep—a muddy footprint on the carpet, a forgotten chore—could set her off. My stepbrothers and I learned to tiptoe around her moods, communicating with glances and whispers, always on edge.
There was no gentle introduction to her rules or her temper. Just three days after she and FATHER returned from their honeymoon, she decided I’d done a “poor job” tidying my room and needed proper motivation—delivered by her slipper. It was her favourite weapon—a battered old house slipper with a thick, black rubber sole. The kind that slapped down with a heavy, echoing thud, leaving a sting that lingered long after the smack. She always kept it handy, perched by the living room door, ready for the next infraction. I can still picture it, sitting there like a threat, a silent promise of pain. Sometimes, I’d stare at it, willing myself to remember every rule, every expectation, just to avoid feeling its bite.
I remember one time in particular, clearer than any other. I’d left my schoolbooks scattered across the living room floor, too busy playing to tidy up. She spotted them as soon as she walked in. Her face darkened, and she didn’t say a word at first—just marched over, picked up the slipper, and pointed to the middle of the room. (pause) My heart pounded as I shuffled forward, knowing what was coming. She sat down on the settee, pulled me over her knee,. The room felt icy cold, but her voice was colder. “You’ll learn to listen, Peter,” she hissed. Then the slipper came down—hard, again and again, each smack echoing off the walls. I kicked and cried, but she didn’t stop until my backside was burning and my sobs had turned to hiccups. When she finally let me up, she made me stand in the corner, red-faced and sniffling, while she put my books away herself. (pause) That sting stayed with me for days, and so did the lesson. I remember the shame most of all—standing there, nose pressed to the wallpaper, listening to her hum to herself.
That was the first of many encounters with her slipper over the next decade or so. I also saw it used on her own two offspring, and eventually on my twin younger siblings, who were born a year or so after the wedding.
My stepmother never grounded us, never stood us in the corner or sat us on a ‘naughty stool’. There was one consequence in her house, and it was that slipper.
