One Last Slap

A moment of discipline, a lifetime of love, and a farewell too soon.

I have lived a long life, stumbled through mistakes, taken wrong turns, and ignored wisdom when I shouldn’t have. And yet, if you ask me what I truly long for, it’s not another chance to rewrite those mistakes. It’s something simpler, something impossible.

One last slap from my mother.

It must have been around 1965 or 1966. I was around six years old… an obedient child, a rule follower, a boy who understood that ‘no’ meant ‘no.’ Mummy’s word was law. No tantrums, no pleading, no negotiations. Life was simple. Life was safe.

Until the day I decided it wouldn’t be.

Mummy was in the bathroom, the sound of the shower steady and rhythmic. And I, for reasons lost to time, decided to test the boundaries I had always respected. Maybe I wanted a toy. Perhaps I just wanted her attention. Maybe, for once, I wanted to see what would happen if I pushed back.

So I banged on the door. Once. Twice. Over and over. My little fists rattling the latch, my voice rising above the sound of the water.

She told me to stop. I didn’t. She warned me, her voice firm, steady. I ignored her.

And then…

The latch gave way.

The door swung open, and before I could react, I stumbled forward, skidding across the wet bathroom floor. For a brief moment, I saw her—startled, caught off guard, her expression a mixture of shock and concern in a way I had never seen before.

And then, before I could catch my breath—

A slap.

Sharp. Quick. Final.

Not out of anger. Not out of cruelty. But out of sheer instinct. A mother’s instinct to correct, to protect, to teach.

I stood there, soaked, stunned, and suddenly aware of the weight of my actions. My six-year-old heart couldn’t fully grasp it, but I knew I had crossed a line.

I never got another slap from her.

Because four years later, she was gone.

Cancer came like a thief in the night, ruthless and unyielding. But she fought it the way she fought everything… with quiet strength, unwavering resolve, and dignity that refused to break. Even in pain, she never let me see her crumble.

And when the end came, I could almost hear her voice in my heart.

“You control your life, but don’t forget your destiny.”

“It’s time to say goodbye. I know it will make you cry.”

“You make your destiny. I know you’ll find the way.”

Outside, the sun was bright. It didn’t seem fair. The world kept moving, unchanged, oblivious to what it had lost.

But she was right. Life went on.

I made my destiny, as she told me to. I walked my path, stumbled, fell, and picked myself up again. Through all these years, I have felt the absence of that firm hand, that silent guardian who once corrected me when I needed it most.

I have deserved many slaps in life… for arrogance, for missteps, for the times I lost my way. But I never got another.

And now, after all these years, I find myself wishing for one last slap.

Not as punishment, but as proof.

Proof that she’s still here. Proof that she’s still watching. Proof that, somewhere beyond this world, she’s still keeping me in line.

And who knows? When we meet again, I might just start an argument, just to see if she obliges.

Some instincts, after all, never fade.