My mother was the very picture of discipline—her hair always pulled back in a severe bun, her shirtwaist dresses pressed and spotless, and her eyes sharp behind her glasses. She moved through our home with a quiet authority, her footsteps measured and deliberate, her presence alone enough to hush even the rowdiest of us. There was a kind of gravity to her, a sense that she carried the weight of order and routine on her shoulders, and that she expected us to do the same. (short pause)
The day I remember most vividly, the memory etched in the softest and sharpest corners of my mind, was the day I slipped away with a friend down to the river. The air was thick with the scent of summer grass and the distant hum of cicadas, and the river’s cool promise was too much to resist. But I knew, even as we crept along the path, that we were breaking one of Mother’s most sacred rules. She had always warned us about the river—its hidden currents, its slippery banks, the dangers lurking beneath its calm surface. We were never, ever to go there alone, or without her permission. (short pause)
When she found out, the world seemed to shrink around me. I could feel the tension in the air, the way her silence pressed in on me, heavier than any words. Regular spankings—what she called ‘smacked bottoms’—were a part of our lives, a ritual of discipline that took place in the privacy of my bedroom. I can still remember the ritual: lying across the bed, feet dangling, the anticipation almost worse than the punishment itself.
But this time was different. This time, Mother’s anger was quiet and cold, and she decided to punish me right there in the bathroom. I had just finished my bath, the steam still curling in the air, my skin warm and clean, my pyjamas soft against me. The bathroom felt small and close, the scent of soap and talcum powder hanging in the air. My heart pounded so loudly I thought she must hear it. When she entered, her face was unreadable, her lips pressed into a thin line. She closed the door behind her, and the click of the latch sounded final, echoing off the tiled walls. (pause)
She told me to bend over, and I obeyed, my knees pressing into the cold, hard edge of the bathtub. The silence was thick, broken only by the slow drip of the tap and the faint rustle of my pyjamas as I shifted nervously. Then, suddenly, her hand came down—sharp, unyielding, each smack ringing out in the small room, bouncing off the tiles and filling my ears. The sting was immediate, blooming hot across my skin, each blow building on the last until my bottom burned and my eyes filled with tears. I tried to hold my breath, to be brave, but the pain forced out little gasps and whimpers, my cheeks burning with shame and humiliation as much as with the sting. (pause)
The bathroom seemed to close in around me, the walls pressing closer, the scent of soap now tinged with the sharp tang of my own fear and regret. My mother’s voice, when it came, was calm but unyielding, each word landing with the same weight as her hand. There was no anger in her tone, only a cold certainty, a sense that this was necessary, that I had to learn. (pause)
Then, without a word, she led me to my bedroom.
“I haven’t finished with you yet,” she said, her voice low and steady, and I felt a fresh wave of dread wash over me. I climbed onto the bed, the familiar creak of the mattress and the scratchy bedspread beneath my hands grounding me in the moment. The spanking resumed, her hand landing again and again, the pain sharp and insistent, each smack a lesson written into my skin. This time, the tears came freely—hot, silent, unstoppable—as I lay there, the lesson sinking in as deeply as the ache. Even now, all these years later, I can feel the sting, the shame, and the strange, aching love that lived in those moments of discipline.
