(gap: 2s) In the gentle drizzle of a Sunday, when the air was thick with the scent of coal smoke and the distant laughter of children, my world changed. My Father, a tall man with a quiet voice, remarried, and our little home was filled with the click-clack of my new stepmother’s heels and the rustle of her paisley skirts. Both Father and my new stepmother worked long hours, and it was decided—quite sensibly, I thought—that I was old enough to be left alone after school, a young man trusted with the keys to the kingdom.
Each afternoon, as the clock chimed three, I would trudge home beneath the grey Belfast sky, my satchel heavy with books and my mind already wandering to the list that awaited me. There, on the kitchen table, in my stepmother’s neat, looping hand, would be my chores: “Sweep the hallway, dust the mantel, polish the brass, and don’t forget to feed the cat.” The house, with its bold wallpaper and the comforting hum of the kettle, became my domain—a place where I could prove myself responsible and worthy of trust.
Sometimes, I would dawdle, watching the other children play outside, their laughter echoing through the estate. But duty called, and I would set about my tasks, broom in hand, determined to make every corner shine. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, there always seemed to be a smudge left on the mirror, or a patch of dust beneath the sideboard. My heart would flutter with worry as dusk fell and the sound of my parents’ footsteps echoed in the stairwell.
By the time they returned, the house would be quiet, and I would be tucked up in bed, the soft glow of my lava lamp casting shadows on the wall. But sleep did not always come easily, for I knew my stepmother would inspect my work with eagle eyes. If she found a fault, she would enter my room, her face stern but not unkind, and wake me gently. “Up you get, young man,” she would say, her voice firm. “We must have a word about your chores.”
(pause) There was a certain ritual to it, as old as the ticking of the clock in the hallway. My stepmother would sigh, her expression grave but never cruel, and declare, “You need your bottom tore up, young man!” With a gentle but unyielding hand, she would take me by the arm and lead me down the narrow corridor, the worn carpet muffling our footsteps. The air would be thick with anticipation, my heart thumping like a drum, my palms clammy with dread and a strange sense of order.
(pause) In her bedroom, the light from the bedside lamp would cast a golden pool across the floor. She would open her dresser drawer with a soft creak, and there, nestled among her scarves, lay the hairbrush—its wooden back smooth and cool, its bristles worn from years of use. She would draw it out with a sense of ceremony, her face set in a look of solemn duty. The chair would be placed at the foot of the bed, and I would be told, in a voice that brooked no argument, to bend over. The world would shrink to the hush of the room, the faint tick of the clock, and the sound of my own breath, quick and shallow.
(pause) The first swat would land with a sharp, echoing crack, the sting blooming across my skin like a lesson written in fire. Each stroke of the hairbrush was firm, measured, and never given in anger—just the steady rhythm of right and wrong, of care and correction. The sound filled the room: a crisp, wooden report, followed by the involuntary gasp that escaped my lips. Tears would prick at my eyes, hot and insistent, and I would clutch the bedspread, my resolve wavering with each swat. My stepmother’s voice, calm and unwavering, would remind me, “A tidy home is a sign of a tidy mind, and every good deed builds character.”
(pause) When the lesson was done, she would set the hairbrush aside and smooth my hair with a gentle hand, her sternness melting into a quiet kindness. The sting would linger, a warm ache that faded slowly, but the words she spoke would remain, echoing in my mind long after the tears had dried. Alone again in my room, I would reflect on the day’s events, the pain giving way to a sense of resolve. For in every swat, every tear, and every gentle scolding, there was a lesson—a lesson in love, in duty, and in the making of a good and honest heart. And so, with each new day, I tried a little harder, determined to grow into the kind of person my family could be proud of.
