(gap: 2s) There’s one spanking from my childhood that’s burned into my memory, more vivid than any other. I was seven years old, living in the late 1960s on a Surrey council estate where every house looked the same and every secret was shared. Back then, divorce was almost unthinkable—especially in our neighbourhood, where families clung together through thick and thin, and the idea of a broken home was whispered about like a curse. When my Mother and Father separated, it was as if a heavy, suffocating fog had settled over our house. The air felt different, thick with tension and the unspoken knowledge that we were now “other.” Neighbours would pause their gossip as we walked by, their eyes darting away, but their voices always seemed to follow us, murmuring about the scandal that had landed on our doorstep. My sisters and I felt exposed, as if we were living behind glass, every move watched and judged.
The house itself seemed to shrink after Father left. His absence echoed in every room—his battered work boots no longer by the door, his laughter gone from the kitchen. Mother was left to hold everything together, but the strain showed. She moved through the days with a brittle determination, her smile stretched thin and her patience worn raw. Sometimes she would try to make things feel normal—pouring tea, humming along to the Bay City Rollers on the radio—but there was always a tremor in her voice, a shadow in her eyes. The warmth that once filled our home had faded, replaced by a chill that seeped into the walls and into us. We tiptoed around her moods, never sure if we’d find her cheerful or on the verge of tears. The world outside seemed to press in, reminding her—and us—of how different we’d become.
One grey afternoon, the phone rang. I remember the way Mother’s hand shook as she answered, her knuckles white around the receiver. The school was calling. They told her that my sisters and I weren’t handing in our homework, weren’t listening in class, and were generally being a nuisance. I can only imagine how those words must have landed—another reminder that she was failing, that the world was watching and waiting for her to slip. The shame and loneliness must have been crushing, and I saw it in the way her shoulders sagged as she hung up the phone. She stood in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the faded wallpaper, before calling us down with a voice that trembled between anger and despair.
We gathered in the lounge, the air thick with dread. Mother’s face was pale, her jaw clenched tight, her eyes wild with a mix of frustration and exhaustion. She looked at us as if she barely recognised us, as if we were the source of all her pain. Her words came out sharp and stinging, each one landing like a slap: “You are all getting a spanking!” The declaration hung in the air, heavy and final. My sisters burst into tears, their sobs filling the room, pleading with her not to do it. I stood frozen, my heart pounding, not fully understanding but sensing that something had broken inside her.
Mother grabbed my eldest sister first, pulling her over her lap with a force that startled us all. The sound of the first slap was loud and shocking, echoing off the faded floral cushions and net curtains. She spanked my sister over her skirt, then, with a suddenness that made us all gasp, pulled it up and delivered a few sharp smacks to her bare thighs. My other sister was next, and the scene repeated—pleading, tears, the sharp crack of her hand. I watched, numb and terrified, my stomach twisting with dread as my turn approached.
When Mother reached for me, something inside me rebelled. Maybe it was fear, maybe pride, or maybe just the desperate need to feel some control in a world that had spun off its axis. I tried to wriggle away, my small hands pushing against her, but she was determined. My sisters’ cries echoed in my ears, a reminder of how much it hurt, but I couldn’t bring myself to submit. Mother’s patience snapped. She hauled me across her knee, her grip iron-tight, and delivered a dozen sharp, stinging smacks. The pain was immediate and shocking, burning through my confusion and fear. I cried out, tears streaming down my face, but still I struggled, desperate to escape.
After sending my sisters to their room, Mother turned back to me. Her face was set, her movements brisk and almost mechanical, as if she was trying to exorcise her own pain through the ritual of punishment. She pinned me down on the couch, her knee pressing into my back, and gave me another half-dozen hard spanks. Each one landed with a force that seemed to carry all her heartbreak, all her anger at the world, all the judgment she felt pressing in from every side. In that moment, I saw her not just as my mother, but as a woman battered by life, struggling to hold herself—and us—together in a world that had no mercy for women like her. The spanking hurt, but what lingered was the sense of loss, the knowledge that the world’s judgment and her own heartbreak had changed her, made her unpredictable, volatile, and sometimes frightening, even to her own children. The memory of that day has never left me—the sting of her hand, the sound of my sisters’ sobs, and the cold, heavy silence that settled over our house when it was done.
