The winter of 1975 wrapped our home in a heavy, silent embrace. My grandfather—my mother’s father—had just passed away, and sorrow seemed to seep into every corner. Laughter, once so common, was replaced by the soft shuffle of feet, hushed conversations, and the gentle clink of teacups in the kitchen. My mother inherited an antique mirror from her childhood—a grand, gilded piece, its glass clouded with age and memories. She placed it in the hallway, across from the staircase, and gently warned my brother and me not to play rough nearby. Her words were soft but carried a weight I dared not challenge. My brother, always restless, saw her warning as a dare. I, however, felt a strange reverence for the mirror, as if it held secrets from another world. One golden afternoon, as sunlight spilled through the windows, my brother and I wrestled in the hallway, our laughter echoing off the walls, momentarily lifting the gloom. In a careless moment, he pushed me, and I stumbled into the wall where the mirror hung. Time seemed to freeze, the air thick with anticipation, then shattered with a crash as the mirror fell, splintering into a thousand glittering shards that scattered across the floor like fallen stars. My brother’s eyes widened in terror before he fled, leaving me alone with the wreckage and a rising panic. My mother appeared, her face a storm of shock and anger, her presence filling the hallway. ‘Cassandra Dawn!’ she cried, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘What did I tell you about playing in the hallway? You’re getting a spanking now—the worst you’ve ever had. Go to your room and wait for me. Now!’
My legs felt impossibly heavy as I trudged to my bedroom, each step echoing with dread. I sat on my bed, heart pounding, dreading what was to come. Would she use her hand, as she always did—her hand, strong and unyielding, never needing anything else? My mother was larger than the average woman in many ways, though not fat—her presence was commanding, her movements purposeful, her voice steady and clear. She dressed simply, her hair always pulled back, her clothes practical and neat, never flashy. She stood for no nonsense, her gaze sharp, but there was a fairness in her eyes that made me want to please her. The minutes crawled by, each one thick with fear. The sound of her footsteps grew louder, each step deliberate and full of purpose. She entered, her hand clenched, her face set in determination, but her eyes glistening with unshed tears. The air was thick with dread and inevitability. ‘Prepare yourself, Cassandra Dawn,’ she commanded, her voice quivering. She sat on the bed, motioning for me to come closer. My heart hammered as I obeyed, the room shrinking around us.
Trembling, I lay across her lap, my pyjamas soft against my skin, the fabric bunching beneath me. She adjusted me with a firm but gentle hand, making sure I was in just the right position, then raised her palm. The first smack landed with a sharp crack—pain blossomed instantly, stealing my breath. Each swat after stung worse, the sound of hand on flesh echoing in the small room, mingling with my muffled sobs. I clenched my fists, biting my lip, but tears spilled down my cheeks as her hand fell again and again, ten times in all, each one a lesson, each one a reminder. The sting was searing, my bottom burning, my body tensed and shaking, the world narrowing to the rhythm of her hand and my own ragged breathing.
When it was finally over, I scrambled off her lap, my bottom throbbing and hot, the pain radiating through me. I collapsed onto my bed, burying my face in the pillow as sobs wracked my body. The pain was sharp, but what hurt most was the look of disappointment on my mother’s face—a wound deeper than any bruise. I longed for her forgiveness, for the warmth of her embrace, but all I felt was the cold distance between us.
That night, I cried myself to sleep, lying on my tummy, the ache in my heart matching the soreness that would linger for days. The darkness felt endless, wrapping around me like a shroud. In the quiet, I replayed the day’s events over and over, wishing I could turn back time, wishing I had listened. In the quiet darkness, I promised myself I would never go near that mirror again—if it ever returned.
Sleep came slowly, my mind restless with regret and longing. I thought of my mother, sitting alone in the kitchen, perhaps crying too. The house felt emptier than ever, the silence heavy with things left unsaid. I hugged my pillow tightly, vowing to be better, to never disappoint her again. The ache in my heart was a constant reminder of the lesson I had learned.
That night, I cried myself to sleep, lying on my tummy, the ache in my heart matching the soreness that would linger for days. Even as sleep finally claimed me, I knew I would never forget the pain, nor the lesson. In the quiet darkness, I promised myself I would never go near that mirror again—if it ever returned. The memory of that day would stay with me, a bittersweet reminder of childhood, love, and the cost of disobedience.
