Janet, now very red-faced, ran into the house. She immediately went to our Mother, and told her what I had done.
(short pause) Before I go on, I should say that Janet was always the apple of my parents’ eyes. From as far back as I can remember, she was cherished and adored, the golden child who could do no wrong. My mother would beam with pride at Janet’s every little accomplishment, and my father’s eyes would light up whenever she entered the room. She was the one who got the extra scoop of ice cream, the one whose drawings were pinned to the fridge, the one who was fussed over when she had a cold. (pause)
I, on the other hand, always felt more like the runt of the litter. Not unloved, exactly, but somehow overlooked—my scraped knees and muddy shoes met with sighs and headshakes, my jokes and stories rarely earning more than a distracted nod. If Janet was the sunbeam in our house, I was the shadow trailing behind, always a little out of focus. It wasn’t that my parents were cruel, but their affection for Janet was so obvious, so effortless, that I sometimes wondered if I was simply there to fill out the numbers. (pause)
So when Janet ran crying to Mother, I already knew how the story would go. I could have written the script myself: Janet, the wounded angel, and me, the troublemaker. It was a role I’d grown used to, even if I never quite got comfortable in it.
I was still enjoying the joke with my friends when I heard my mother’s voice calling me. “Paul! Come here this minute!” Her tone was sharper than I’d ever heard before—there was no mistaking the anger in it. My heart dropped. I reluctantly slunk back to the house, my laughter dying in my throat as I saw her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, her face set in a look of deep disappointment and fury.
As I entered the living room, I saw Janet standing off to the side, her hands folded neatly in front of her, eyes wide and innocent, as if she’d never done a mischievous thing in her life. She looked so composed, so angelic, that it only made my own guilt feel heavier. I could almost see a hint of satisfaction in her eyes, but her expression was all sweetness—like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
My mother fixed me with a glare that could have frozen the sun. “Paul, I am absolutely appalled at your behavior,” she began, her voice trembling with a mixture of anger and disappointment. “How could you do something so cruel to your own sister, and in front of all those children? Do you have any idea how embarrassed and hurt she must feel right now?” She gestured toward Janet, who stood quietly, her face the picture of wounded innocence.
“You may think it’s funny to show off for your friends, but humiliating your sister is not a joke. I expected so much better from you. I raised you to be kind, to look out for your family, not to make them the target of your pranks. I am deeply disappointed in you, Paul. This is not how we treat each other in this family.”
The room felt unbearably small. I could feel Janet’s eyes on me, and the awkwardness was suffocating. My cheeks burned with shame, and I couldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. Janet stood perfectly still, her lips pressed together, not saying a word—her composure only made my embarrassment worse. I wished she would look away, or even say something, but she just watched, calm and collected, as if she were above it all.
My mother continued, her voice stern and unwavering. “You owe your sister an apology, and you owe this family better than what you showed today. I am truly disappointed, Paul. I hope you understand just how serious this is.”
She took a deep breath, her disappointment almost heavier than her anger. “Go up to your room,” Mother ordered, her voice low and stern, “I’ll be up to deal with you in a minute.” The weight of her words pressed down on me, and I trudged up the stairs, my cheeks burning with shame. I could hear her comforting Janet in the hallway, her voice softening as she soothed my sister’s sobs, but when she called my name again, it was all steel.
Five minutes later, she came into my bedroom. “That was a very naughty, wicked thing to do!” she told me, looking me squarely in the eye. “Have you anything to say for yourself?”
I hadn’t really. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, “it was just a joke.” “Well, young man, you will be sorry – and you’ll find out in a moment that it’s beyond a joke. Come here!”
“Well, Paul,” Mother said, “I think you need a good sore bottom, so you will get a spanking, followed by 10 strokes of the belt. And in front of your sister!”
With those words, she placed a pillow in the centre of my bed and I was told to lie on it in such a manner that it raised up my backside. My heart pounded in my chest, a cold dread settling in my stomach as I heard the unmistakable sound of the belt being unbuckled.
Now, this was not just any belt. It was a thick, heavy strip of dark leather, with a brass buckle that gleamed even in the dim light of my room. The belt was kept in the top drawer of my parents’ dresser, and it was only ever brought out for the most serious infractions—so rare that its very appearance was enough to make my blood run cold. I remembered the weight of it, the way it seemed to hang in the air with a kind of authority, and the sense of dread it inspired in all of us children. The mere mention of “the belt” was enough to make us behave, but now, hearing it slide free and seeing it in my mother’s hand, I felt a terror I’d never known before.
The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with tension and the faint scent of leather. My mother’s face was set, her jaw clenched, her eyes glistening with a mix of anger and disappointment. Janet stood in the doorway, silent and wide-eyed, her presence making my humiliation complete.
My mother’s voice was low and unwavering as she said, “This is for your own good, Paul. I hope you remember this lesson.” The first smack of the belt landed with a sharp, stinging crack, and I gasped, the pain blooming hot and immediate across my skin. Each stroke seemed to echo in the room, the sound of leather on flesh mingling with my own yelps and sobs. My mother counted each one aloud, her voice steady—“One. Two. Three…”—and with every number, the sting intensified, the heat building until my backside felt aflame. Tears streamed down my face, my hands gripping the bedspread, knuckles white. I could hear Janet’s breath hitch with every stroke, and my mother’s hand never faltered, her resolve absolute.
By the time the tenth stroke landed, I was in floods of tears, my body shaking with the effort to catch my breath. My mother’s face softened just a little as she put the belt aside, but her disappointment lingered in the air. She knelt beside me, her hand resting gently on my shoulder, and said quietly, “I hope you understand why this had to happen. I love you, but I will not tolerate cruelty in this family.” Her words, spoken with such firmness and care, cut deeper than the belt ever could.
Needless to say, I was left with a very sore bottom and it was a long time before my sister let me forget what she had seen and helped with. It was my first and last spanking from my mother, but in retrospect, the punishment did fit the crime and I definitely deserved to have my bottom well thrashed that day. I’ve never forgotten it.
