The Last Smack

The Decision

I was not a quiet child.

I was cheeky. Curious. Restless. The kind of child who tested boundaries not out of malice, but out of energy. Out of wanting to see what would happen if I pushed just a little further. My mother, on the other hand, was known — without apology — as a strict disciplinarian.

In our house, discipline was not theoretical.

It was immediate. Clear. And, when necessary, physical.

This was not unusual for the time or the culture. It was understood. Boundaries were drawn early and enforced. And for the most part, they worked.

But I remember a moment — or rather, a decision — that stands out as one of the earliest times I realised something important.

I was four years old.

I don’t remember exactly what I had done wrong. I rarely do. What I remember instead is the moment before the consequence. Standing there, aware of what was coming, and suddenly thinking — with the strange clarity that sometimes visits children — what if I didn’t cry?

For reasons I can’t fully explain, I believed that if I didn’t cry, the smacking would stop. As though tears were the currency of the exchange. As though my reaction, not the punishment itself, was the key.

That day, I tried.

I was smacked. I fought it. I clenched everything I could clench. But the tears came anyway. I cried, despite my best efforts.

The next day, it happened again.

Same sequence. Same consequence. But this time, I was ready.