(gap: 2s) The following incident took place during a handful of nights I spent with my best friend Hannah and her family, a memory that has lingered in my mind for decades—etched with both the sting of discipline and the warmth of belonging.
Hannah’s parents were close friends of my own, their bond forged in the pews of our local church and strengthened over countless cups of tea and shared Sunday roasts. Whenever my parents needed a helping hand—especially during special occasions like their wedding anniversary—Hannah’s family would welcome me into their modest flat as if I were one of their own. That particular week, my parents had gone away to celebrate, and I was to stay with Hannah for several days, right in the middle of the school term.
The days felt like a secret holiday, a break from routine. Hannah and I, both eight years old and inseparable, treated every afternoon as a sleepover. The moment we returned from school, we’d kick off our scuffed shoes, change into our softest pyjamas, and sprawl on the living room carpet to tackle our homework. The flat was always warm, the air tinged with the scent of coal and the faint hum of the radio, and the sound of laughter—ours and Hannah’s little brother’s—echoed through the narrow hallways.
For most of the week, we were on our best behaviour, eager to please Hannah’s mother, who was strict but fair, and always quick with a gentle smile or a word of encouragement. We helped set the table, tidied our things, and even remembered to brush our teeth without being asked. It felt good to be trusted, to be treated as responsible girls.
But Thursday night was different. The air outside was sharp and cold, the kind that made the windows rattle and the radiators clang. After finishing our homework, we let our excitement get the better of us. We played silly games, giggling and shrieking, our voices bouncing off the walls. Hannah’s mother had to remind us—more than once—to settle down, her voice carrying that unmistakable note of warning. “Girls, play nicely. It’s nearly bedtime. I don’t want to have to come in here again.”
As bedtime approached, I went to the bathroom to put on my night-time diaper—a routine I’d grown used to, though it always made me feel a little self-conscious. When I returned, Hannah eyed the diaper with curiosity and, after a moment’s hesitation, asked if she could try one too. We both burst into laughter at the sight of her, a little older than me, wriggling into the crinkly padding. It felt like a secret joke, a bit of mischief shared between friends. Soon, Hannah’s mother came in, kissed us both on the forehead, and wished us goodnight, her eyes soft with affection. But sleep was the last thing on our minds.
The moment the door closed, we started whispering, then giggling, then playing music on Hannah’s little radio. We danced around the room, pillows in hand, inventing silly routines and collapsing onto the beds in fits of laughter. Each time Hannah’s mother came in, her patience wore a little thinner. “Girls, enough now. I mean it. If I have to come in again, there will be consequences.” But the thrill of rebellion was too strong, and we convinced ourselves she wouldn’t really follow through.
Finally, after one last warning, we heard her footsteps in the hallway. The music was still playing, and we were caught mid-dance, pillows clutched to our chests. Hannah’s mother strode in, her face set in a mask of stern disappointment. She flicked off the radio, the sudden silence making my heart race. “You are both very naughty girls!” she declared, her voice low and unwavering. The room seemed to shrink, the shadows growing longer as we stood frozen in place.
She turned to Hannah first, her eyes narrowing. “Hannah, what did I say would happen if you didn’t go to sleep?” Hannah’s lower lip trembled, and tears welled in her eyes. “A spanking, Mother,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “That’s right,” her mother replied, her tone brooking no argument. I felt a cold wave of dread wash over me, my stomach twisting with guilt and fear.
“Sarah, you go and stand in the corner while I give Hannah her spanking. Then it will be your turn.” My legs felt heavy as I shuffled to the corner, the faded wallpaper swimming before my eyes. I pressed my nose to the wall, trying not to look back, but curiosity and worry got the better of me.
She sat on the edge of the bed, pulled Hannah across her lap.
The room was so quiet I could hear the ticking of the clock in the hallway. Hannah’s quiet sniffling filled the silence, her small hands clutching the bedspread. Then, with a measured firmness, her mother raised her hand and delivered the first smack. The sound was sharp, echoing off the walls. Hannah gasped, her body tensing with the shock. The smacks came in steady succession—one, two, three, four, five—each one punctuated by a fresh sob. By the sixth and seventh, Hannah was openly crying, her legs kicking with each sting. Her mother paused, her hand resting gently on Hannah’s back, and then delivered three more crisp smacks, making it ten in all. Hannah’s cries grew louder, her face buried in the bedspread, her shoulders shaking.
Through it all, her mother’s voice remained gentle but resolute: “This is to remind you, Hannah, that rules are there for a reason. You must learn to listen and respect bedtime.” There was no anger in her words, only a deep sense of responsibility—a desire to teach, not to hurt.
With my nose pressed to the corner, I listened to every sound—the sharp smacks, Hannah’s escalating cries, the soft murmur of comfort that followed. My own nerves were frayed, my heart pounding so loudly I thought it might burst. I felt a strange mix of dread and guilt, wishing I could take Hannah’s place, or at least make it easier for her. When her mother finished, she helped Hannah up, wrapping her in a brief but comforting hug as she sobbed into her shoulder.
Then it was my turn. My legs felt like jelly as I walked across the room, my cheeks wet with tears I hadn’t realized were falling. Hannah’s mother looked at me with a mixture of sternness and sympathy. She guided me gently but firmly over her lap, lowering my own pyjama bottoms. The cool air prickled my skin, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself for what was to come.
The first smack landed—sharp, stinging, impossible to ignore. I tried to be brave, to hold back my tears, but by the third smack, they were streaming down my face. She continued, steady and fair—four, five, six, seven—each one burning more than the last. By the eighth, I was sobbing, my hands gripping the bedspread, my body shaking with each blow. She paused, her hand resting on my back, and then gave me two final, firm smacks, making it ten in all. My bottom throbbed, and my heart ached with shame and regret, but also with a strange sense of relief—the ordeal was over.
As I cried, Hannah’s mother spoke softly but clearly: “Sarah, I hope you understand this is not just about being naughty. It’s about learning to respect others and to follow the rules. I want you to remember this lesson.” Her words, though stern, were laced with care, and I knew she meant them for my good.
After the spankings, she gathered us both into her arms, holding us close. Her embrace was perfunctory but comforting, her hands warm and steady. Our sobs slowly quieted, the sting lingering on our skin and in our memories. She tucked us into bed, pulling the blankets up to our chins, her touch gentle as she smoothed our hair. That night, we lay side by side, our sore bottoms a constant reminder of the lesson we’d learned. We cried ourselves to sleep—chastened, but loved, and forever changed by the experience.
(long pause) In the years since, I’ve often thought back to that night. The pain faded quickly, but the lesson endured. I learned that discipline, when given with love, can shape us in ways we don’t always understand at the time. And I learned that even in moments of shame and sorrow, there can be comfort in knowing you are cared for—truly, deeply, and unconditionally.
