(gap: 1s) There’s something about childhood memories that makes them feel both distant and vivid, like a dream you can almost touch. (short pause) That morning, the sun was already warm as it streamed through our kitchen window, painting golden stripes across the breakfast table. My mother, always brisk and purposeful, announced that we were going shopping for new dresses. My heart leapt. Shopping was a rare treat in our family—money was tight, and new clothes were a luxury reserved for special occasions. I could already imagine the crisp feel of new fabric, the rustle of tissue paper, the possibility of something bright and beautiful that would be all mine.
My little sister, barely six, squealed with excitement, her pigtails bouncing as she danced around the kitchen. I tried to act more mature, being the eldest, but inside I was just as giddy. Still, a small knot of jealousy twisted in my stomach. I wanted to be the center of attention, to have first pick, to feel special. As we piled into the car, I pressed my face to the window, watching the familiar streets blur by, my mind racing with anticipation and impatience.
The department store was a world of its own—cool air, bright lights, the faint scent of perfume and newness. Racks of dresses in every color lined the aisles, and I could barely contain myself. But as soon as we entered, my mother steered us straight to the children’s section and began searching for a dress for my sister. I felt my excitement sour into resentment. Why did she get to go first? Wasn’t I older? Didn’t I deserve it more? I trailed behind, arms crossed, my face set in a pout.
I started to whine, my voice rising above the hum of shoppers. “Why does she get to pick first? It’s not fair!” My mother’s jaw tightened, her patience already fraying. She shot me a warning look, but I couldn’t help myself. The injustice felt enormous, and I wanted everyone to know it. I stomped my foot, tugged at her sleeve, and let my complaints spill out in a flood. (short pause) My mother’s eyes flashed. “Stop complaining right now or I’m going to spank you in front of everyone,” she said, her voice sharp and loud enough to turn a few heads. I froze, embarrassed but defiant. She’d threatened spankings before, but never in public. I was sure she wouldn’t dare.
For a few minutes, I tried to hold it together, but the jealousy and frustration bubbled up again. My sister twirled in front of a mirror, clutching a frilly pink dress, and I snapped. I shoved her, muttering, “I hate you—I wish you were dead!” The words were ugly, but in that moment, I meant them. My mother’s face went pale with anger. She stopped rifling through hangers and grabbed me by the arm, her grip firm and unyielding.
She marched me to a bench near the fitting rooms, her lips pressed into a thin line. I could feel the eyes of strangers on us, a prickling heat crawling up my neck. My mother sat down, pulled me onto her lap, and began digging through her purse with frantic determination. I knew what was coming—the dreaded paddle-brush she kept for moments like this. My stomach twisted with dread and shame. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the floor, but there was no escape.
She found the brush and, without hesitation, yanked me over her knee. The world seemed to shrink to the sound of her voice and the sting of the brush. “You have to learn how to behave while we are in the store!” Spank! “You are a naughty girl who needs to learn her lesson!” Spank! Each blow landed with a sharp crack, echoing in the cavernous store. The brush was cold and hard, its wooden back biting through the thin fabric of my dress. I could feel the heat blooming across my skin with every strike, a burning ache that deepened with each swat. My legs kicked involuntarily, my hands scrabbling at the air, desperate for something to hold onto. The bench creaked beneath us, and my mother’s grip was ironclad, pinning me in place as the punishment continued. Tears streamed down my face, hot and blinding, blurring the racks of dresses and the faces of onlookers into a watery haze. I could hear the whispers—“Oh my, what is she doing to that child?” and “How much more is left?”—but I was lost in my own humiliation and pain. The brush rose and fell, each smack punctuated by my mother’s scolding words, the rhythm relentless and inescapable. I lost count after six, my sobs growing louder, my body trembling with the effort to endure. The sting seemed to seep into my bones, a fiery reminder of my outburst and my mother’s authority. The world outside faded away, leaving only the sharp, stinging present.
When it was finally over, my mother let me up. My face was blotchy, my pride shattered. I avoided everyone’s gaze, wishing I could crawl into a hole and never come out. My sister clung to my mother’s side, wide-eyed and silent. We left the store in a heavy, awkward silence, the only purchases three dresses for my sister. I didn’t get a new dress that day. Instead, I got a lesson I would never forget—a lesson about jealousy, consequences, and the complicated love between mothers and daughters. (long pause) Even now, years later, I can still feel the sting—not just on my skin, but in my heart.
