My mother had been gone for about two years and my father was just starting to date the woman who would become my stepmother about a year later.
My father knew I needed to be around other women as much as I could, so I had started to spend time with my godmother, Margo.
Margo was my godmother in the truest sense, with ‘God’ being the appropriate word. She had a dignified, spiritual presence that seemed to fill every room she entered. Margo always dressed with a sense of reverence and purpose—her crisp, dark blue uniform was always immaculate, the fabric pressed to perfection, and her modest hat perched neatly atop her head. Her blond hair, streaked with grey, was always pinned up with care, never a strand out of place, as if she were preparing for a sacred duty. There was a quiet authority in the way she carried herself, her posture straight and her movements graceful, almost ceremonial. Even her shoes, sensible and polished, seemed to echo her devotion to order and faith. With Margo, God was present in every aspect of life, 24/7. She was godly in her behavior and expected everyone around her to be the same. I spent about three days a week during the summer at her home while my dad worked. I loved it there, and I loved Margo too. Of course, sometimes I got into a little bit of trouble, but Margo generally just scolded me and we moved on. On one particular incident, though, I discovered her stricter side.
Margo had taken me to get some things from the store and I saw this tiny troll doll. I was sitting on the floor playing with the doll when Margo told me it was time to go. I acted as if I had put the doll back – but instead I had placed it in my jacket pocket.
We came home and had lunch – but when Margo moved my jacket to hang it up, she felt something in my pocket. Upon checking what it was, she found the doll.
Margo asked me whether I had stolen it – I told her I didn’t know how it got there. I was never a good liar but even if I had been, it would not have mattered because Margo already knew that I had stolen it.
She spent what seemed like forever scolding and lecturing me, then she told me that two things were going to happen – I was to go to the kitchen and pick out a wood spoon from the utensil holder on the counter, and then we were calling my dad. (pause)
The wooden spoon. Even just hearing those words made my heart pound. To me, as a child, that spoon looked enormous—its smooth, worn handle and broad, flat head seemed designed for one thing only: punishment. It was the legendary implement of chastisement in Margo’s house, and every kid who visited knew to fear it. I remember staring at it, my hands trembling, dreading the sting I knew it could deliver. The anxiety in my stomach twisted tighter with every step I took toward the counter, knowing what was coming.
I had to confess my sin to my dad and tell him Margo was going to spank me. He agreed, and told me I had better do as I was told by her and not fight her.
Once I hung up the phone, Margo instructed me to come over to where she was sitting on the couch. She had me bend over her lap so that my feet and hands both touched the floor.
The room felt impossibly still, the only sound the faint ticking of the kitchen clock and the soft rustle of Margo’s skirt as she adjusted her position. My heart thudded in my chest, so loud I was sure she could hear it. The air was thick with anticipation and dread. I could smell the faint scent of starch from her uniform, mingling with the aroma of the afternoon’s lunch, now cold and forgotten. As I bent over her lap, the fabric of my jeans felt thin and useless, offering little comfort. I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself, my fingers digging into the carpet. Then, the first sharp crack of the wooden spoon landed—a sound that seemed to echo off the kitchen walls, sharp and final. The sting was immediate, a hot, biting pain that bloomed across my backside and sent a jolt through my whole body. Each smack was punctuated by a crisp, hollow thwack, the spoon connecting with a rhythm that felt both endless and precise. The pain built with every strike, radiating outward, making my eyes water and my breath hitch. I tried to hold back the tears, but the burning sensation overwhelmed me, and soon I was sobbing, my cries muffled against my arm. The world shrank to the sound of the spoon, the ache in my bottom, and the overwhelming sense of shame and regret. When it was finally over, the silence felt heavy,
