(gap: 2s) The summer before my second year at university was a time of uncertainty and quiet anxiety. I remember the air in my small town feeling thick with the scent of cut grass and distant rain, the kind of weather that makes you nostalgic for things you haven’t even lost yet. I was adrift, searching for a place to live after my planned house share had collapsed at the last minute. The halls of residence were full, and every other option seemed impossibly far from campus—a real problem for a music student who needed daily access to the practice rooms. Each day, I wandered the streets, scanning noticeboards and newsagents’ windows, my heart sinking a little further with every “Room Let” sign already marked “Taken.”
(short pause) Then, one muggy afternoon, I spotted a small, handwritten ad in the window of the corner shop. The paper was curling at the edges, the ink slightly smudged, but the words were clear: “Room to Let. Two minutes from campus. Female preferred.” I hesitated, feeling the weight of my own expectations—visions of smoky student flats, late-night jam sessions, and the freedom of living on my own. The idea of moving into a family home felt like a step backward, a return to childhood rules and curfews. But desperation has a way of stripping away pride, and I found myself dialing the number, my fingers trembling slightly as I pressed each button.
(pause) The woman who answered sounded surprised, her voice warm but cautious. “Oh! I wasn’t expecting a call about the room,” she said, her accent lilting with the gentle cadence of the West Indies. Her name was Grace, and as we spoke, I could hear the distant laughter of children in the background, a reminder that this would be no ordinary student house. She explained the rules—no loud music after 8pm, no overnight guests, shared bathroom, and a general expectation of tidiness. I could almost feel my independence slipping away with each new regulation, but the thought of being so close to the rehearsal rooms was too tempting to ignore.
(short pause) Grace was a single mother, raising two daughters on her own. Shawna, the elder, was seven—quick-witted and always ready with a mischievous grin. Candy, just five, was a bundle of restless energy, her laughter ringing through the house like wind chimes in a summer breeze. Their father, I learned later, had left them for another woman, vanishing from their lives without a trace. The girls were mixed race, their skin a beautiful blend of their parents, and their eyes sparkled with the kind of curiosity that only children possess. Grace kept them on a tight leash, her love fierce and her discipline unwavering.
(pause) The room itself was larger than I’d expected, with a wide window that let in the golden afternoon light. There was a sturdy desk for my studies, and the walls were painted a soft, calming blue. But there was no en suite, and I would have to share the family bathroom—a small but significant reminder that I was a guest in someone else’s world. I took the room, not out of excitement, but out of necessity, the voice in my head reminding me that sometimes you have to accept what life offers, even if it isn’t what you’d hoped for.
(short pause) My first weeks in Grace’s house were a lesson in adaptation. The girls were friendly, if a little shy at first, and I soon found myself drawn into their routines—helping with homework, listening to their stories, and sharing quiet moments in the kitchen as the sun set outside. Grace was a force of nature, her presence filling every room. She worked long hours, but always made time for her daughters, her laughter echoing through the house even on the most exhausting days. I admired her strength, even as I chafed against the rules that governed our lives.
(pause) It was only a few weeks after I’d moved in that I witnessed the first real test of Grace’s authority. We had just finished dinner—a simple meal of rice and peas, the air fragrant with spices—when Candy, tired and irritable, began to push her mother’s patience to the limit. She whined about bedtime, refused to eat her vegetables, and finally, in a fit of defiance, threw her fork onto the floor. The room fell silent, the tension crackling like static in the air.
(dramatic pause) Grace’s reaction was swift and uncompromising. She stood, her chair scraping against the linoleum with a sharp, jarring sound that seemed to echo in the small kitchen. The overhead light cast a golden glow, illuminating the determined set of her jaw as she fixed Candy with a look that could have frozen water. “Enough,” she said, her voice low and steady, each syllable carrying the weight of finality. The air was thick with anticipation, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant patter of rain against the window.
(pause) Grace drew her daughter close, kneeling so their eyes were level. For a moment, I thought the scolding would end with a stern word and an early bedtime. But then, with practiced hands, Grace lifted the hem of Candy’s dress and slipped her knickers down, revealing a small, coffee-coloured bottom. The sight was startling in its vulnerability—a faint skid mark on the fabric, a detail that made the moment feel all the more real, all the more human. Candy’s lower lip trembled, her eyes wide and glistening with the threat of tears, as she clung to her mother’s sleeve in silent protest.
(short pause) Without hesitation, Grace guided Candy across her knee, turning up her dress to expose her fully. The kitchen seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as the tension mounted. I sat frozen, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it. The ticking of the kitchen clock grew impossibly loud, marking each second with a relentless, metallic click. Candy’s small hands gripped the edge of her mother’s skirt, her knuckles white, her breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. Grace’s hand hovered for a moment, poised in the air, before descending with a sharp, decisive smack.
(pause) The sound was startling—an unmistakable, echoing crack that seemed to reverberate off the tiled floor and faded wallpaper. Candy’s cry was immediate, high and piercing, cutting through the silence like a knife. Grace’s hand rose and fell in a steady, unwavering rhythm, each smack punctuated by a gasp or a sob. The room filled with the raw, honest sounds of discipline: the slap of skin on skin, the stifled whimpers, the shuddering breaths. I could see Candy’s small body writhing in protest, her legs kicking helplessly, her face buried in her arms as the tears began to flow.
(short pause) The atmosphere was electric, charged with a mix of shame, empathy, and something deeper—a recognition of the boundaries being drawn, the lessons being etched into memory. The kitchen, once warm and inviting, now felt like a stage for an ancient ritual, the roles of mother and child played out with unwavering certainty. The scent of dinner still lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp tang of fear and the salt of fresh tears.
(pause) When it was over, Candy’s bottom was a deep, angry red, the marks of her mother’s hand stark against her skin. Her cries subsided into hiccuping sobs, her small body trembling as Grace gathered her up, holding her close in a fierce, protective embrace. For a moment, the world seemed to pause—the only sounds the soft murmur of Grace’s voice, soothing and low, and the distant rumble of thunder outside. Shawna, wide-eyed and silent, watched from her chair, clearly unwilling to risk her mother’s wrath. The house was quiet again, the storm having passed, but the air still tingled with the aftershocks of what I had witnessed.
(pause) Grace returned to the living room and sat beside me on the sofa, her presence both comforting and intimidating. She apologized if she had embarrassed me, her tone gentle but unapologetic. “You’ll have to get used to it,” she said, her eyes searching mine for a reaction. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, my body betraying me in ways I didn’t fully understand. There was something raw and honest about the scene I had just witnessed, a reminder of the boundaries between childhood and adulthood, innocence and experience.
(short pause) Sensing my discomfort, Grace shifted the conversation, asking about my own childhood. She wanted to know about the punishments I had received, the lessons my mother had taught me with a firm hand. Her questions were probing, almost clinical, and I found myself blushing as I recounted memories I hadn’t thought about in years. The shame and embarrassment mingled with a strange sense of relief, as if sharing these stories somehow lessened their weight. Eventually, Grace excused herself to bathe the girls, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the fading light.
(pause) Over the next two years, I became a quiet observer of the rhythms of Grace’s
