When I was a little girl, our next-door neighbours were my mother’s sister, Aunt Linda, and her daughter, Susan. Aunt Linda had bravely managed on her own ever since dear Uncle Bob had passed away in a road accident, when Susan was but a small child. My mother, Mrs. Carol, always looked out for them, and our families were as close as two peas in a pod. (short pause) Our houses were exactly alike, separated only by a neat white picket fence and a narrow strip of grass that was always bathed in sunlight.
Aunt Linda worked at the village bakery, her hands always dusted with flour and her hair tied back in a tidy bun. She never had much, but she managed with a cheerful spirit and a clever way of making do. Sometimes, the delicious smell of fresh bread would drift over from her kitchen, mixing with the scent of roses from our garden. Mother would help whenever she could, but Aunt Linda was determined to stand on her own two feet, living simply and making every penny count. I admired her for that, even if I did not quite understand it at the time.
One bright afternoon, with sunlight streaming through the lace curtains, Susan and I found ourselves lying on her living room rug, feeling rather bored. The air was filled with the gentle hum of bees outside and the distant sound of a delivery van. After a little thought, we decided to try our hand at cooking. “Let us make something special!” Susan whispered, her eyes shining with excitement. I smiled, feeling a flutter of anticipation in my chest.
We tiptoed into the kitchen, the linoleum cool beneath our bare feet. Looking into the refrigerator, we saw the remains of a roast chicken—leftovers from Aunt Linda and Susan’s supper the night before. The golden skin glistened in the light, and my stomach gave a hopeful rumble. “We could fry it!” I suggested, already imagining the sizzle in the pan. With a sense of adventure, we prepared a fried chicken dish, giggling as we splattered oil and scattered crumbs everywhere. The kitchen soon filled with the delicious aroma of crisping chicken, and we ate it all up, feeling very pleased with ourselves.
But when Aunt Linda returned home later that day, the mood changed at once. The front door creaked open, and her footsteps echoed down the hallway. Her face became very serious when she saw the untidy kitchen. “Girls!” she exclaimed, her voice full of surprise and disappointment. “Whatever has happened in here?” I felt my cheeks grow hot as I glanced at Susan, who was already hiding behind me. Aunt Linda was upset that we had left the kitchen in such a mess, but even more so that we had eaten the chicken she had planned to make last for the next two nights. Her disappointment hung in the air, heavy and cold.
Without another word, Aunt Linda took Susan gently but firmly by the arm. “You know better than this, Susan,” she said, her voice trembling with both anger and worry. Then, with a swift motion, she sat down on a kitchen chair, placed Susan across her lap, and raised her hand. Aunt Linda gave Susan twelve firm smacks, each one landing with a sharp sound. Susan’s legs jerked in surprise, and her white shorts did little to protect her from the punishment. Aunt Linda’s hand did not hesitate, and the lesson was clear: one must not waste food or make a mess. Susan’s eyes filled with tears, but she bravely tried not to cry out. The air was filled with the sound of the smacks, and I could almost feel the sting myself. When the twelve smacks were finished, Susan’s eyes were wet, and her legs trembled, but she knew she had been punished fairly.
Then Aunt Linda turned to me, her gaze very serious. “You too,” she said, her voice calm but firm. My heart beat quickly as she led us both next door to my house. I tried to explain, “It was not my idea to use the chicken!” but I knew my mother was strict and would not be pleased. Susan sniffled beside me, holding my hand tightly, her legs still sore from her spanking.
Once inside, Aunt Linda explained everything to my mother, her words coming quickly. Mother gave me a look that made me feel very small indeed. “You know better, young lady,” she said, her voice cold and stern. Susan and I began to argue about whose fault it was. “You said to fry it!” I insisted. “You took it out first!” Susan replied. In our family, Mother was the one who kept everyone in order—even Aunt Linda listened to her. Mother fetched the ‘spanking chair’ and sat down, calling me over first. My stomach twisted with dread as I walked forward, my legs heavy. Over her knee I went, my face burning with shame. Mother gave me twelve firm smacks on my bottom, each one stinging more than the last. I cried out, but Mother held me tightly, determined that I should learn my lesson. When the twelve smacks were finished, she announced that I would receive six more across the backs of my thighs, just as Susan had from her own mother. The six extra smacks landed with a sharp sting, and I could not help but sob. By the end, my skin was hot and sore, and I knew I would remember this lesson for a long time.
Afterwards, I was sent to stand by the wall, my cheeks wet with tears and my legs burning, while Susan received the same twelve smacks on her bottom and six on her thighs from my mother. I could hear the sharp sounds of the smacks, mixed with Susan’s cries and sniffles. The punishment was fair and thorough—Mother made sure Susan’s bottom and thighs were just as red and sore as mine. Then, with our pants down, we both had to sit on the hard wooden chairs at the kitchen table until dinner was finished. The seat felt very uncomfortable against my sore skin, and I shifted uneasily, every movement reminding me of my punishment. Mother spoke to us sternly about being thoughtful and respectful to others. I could hardly eat my food, the throbbing ache a constant reminder of what we had done.
Aunt Linda and Susan went home after that, with strict instructions that Susan was to go straight to bed with her own sore bottom, too. As the sun set and the house grew quiet, I lay in bed, the sting still fresh, promising myself never to touch someone else’s food again. But even through the pain, I knew we were loved—firmly, kindly, and always with the hope that we would learn to do better next time.
