Settling the Saturday Score

 Settling the Saturday Score

5 July 2026

Saturday started with promise. I'd slept in until eight, a rare luxury in a house with two teenagers, and woke to the smell of coffee already brewing downstairs. The sun slanted through our bedroom windows, casting warm rectangles across the duvet, and for the first few moments of consciousness, I felt something almost foreign: peace.

It didn't last.

He'd already made breakfast by the time I wandered into the kitchen—eggs scrambled with egg whites and cheese, fruit piled the way I liked, a glass of water waiting at my spot at the island. Emma and Sophie were still in their pajamas, arguing over who got the last piece of bacon, their voices shrill and grating against my un-caffeinated brain.

"Girls, please," I said, and my tone came out sharper than I intended.

They both looked at me. Sophie's brow furrowed. "Mom, we were just—"

"I know what you were just." I pulled out my stool and sat down heavily. "Just... please. Lower voices."

He was watching me from his position by the stove, spatula in hand, his expression carefully neutral. I could feel his eyes tracking my movements as I reached for the coffee pot, topped off my cup, and wrapped both hands around it like a lifeline.

"Rough night?" he asked quietly.

"No," I said too quickly. "Just tired.and already thinking about next year."

He didn't push. He never did, not when I was in this kind of mood. Instead, he had a cup of coffee and set it in front of me, his hand lingering briefly on my shoulder. A silent gesture. An offering.

I ate without tasting, my mind already racing through the mental checklist of Saturday chores. Laundry. Groceries. Emma needed new running shoes for track. Sophie needed some new bras. The lawn needed mowing. The Rav-4 needed an oil change. The list scrolled endlessly behind my eyes, a ticker tape of obligations that made my chest tight.

By eleven, I was snapping at Emma about her shoes left in the middle of the hallway.

"Mom, I was just going to wear them to practice—"

"They don't belong in the middle of the floor where someone can trip!" I bent to grab them, shoving them toward her with more force than necessary. "How many times do we have to have this conversation?"

Her face flushed. "You don't have to yell."

"I'm not yelling."

"You are, actually." Sophie appeared at the top of the stairs, her curly hair a mess, still in her sleep shirt. "Everyone can hear you."

I whirled on her, my patience snapping like a rubber band stretched too thin. "I don't need commentary from the peanut gallery, thank you very much."

Sophie's eyes went wide, and she retreated back into her room without another word. Emma grabbed her shoes and disappeared up the stairs toward her room, letting it slam behind her.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

I stood in the hallway, my heart hammering, my hands trembling at my sides. What was wrong with me? It was just shoes. Just normal teenage messiness that I'd dealt with a thousand times. But the irritation sat under my skin like a splinter, impossible to ignore, and I couldn't seem to stop picking at it.

He found me there, still standing in the hall, my arms crossed tight over my chest.

"Hey," he said softly.

"I'm fine," I said before he could ask.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were going to."

He smiled, just barely. "You're spiraling."

"I'm not." I turned away from him, heading for the kitchen. "I'm just... it's a lot. Okay? It's just a lot."

He followed me, his footsteps measured and calm. "Let me help."

"There's nothing to help with." I yanked open the refrigerator door, staring inside without seeing. "I just need to make lunch. We need to eat. There's still groceries to buy, and Sophie's clothes, and—"

"Lisa." His hands landed on my shoulders, turning me gently away from the fridge. "Breathe."

"I am breathing."

He didn't argue. He just pulled me in, wrapping his arms around me and holding on. The hug was firm, warm, encompassing. I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek, the solid wall of his chest, the way his chin tucked over the top of my head.

For a moment—just a moment—I let myself soften. The tension in my spine unknotted, my breathing steadied, and the frantic ticker tape in my mind slowed to a crawl.

It felt so good.

And then he released me, and I felt it all rush back in.

"Thanks," I said shortly, stepping away. "I need to make lunch."

He let me go. But I could feel his eyes on my back as I pulled sandwich fixings from the fridge, my movements jerky and aggressive. I slapped turkey onto bread, slapped cheese on top, slapped the second slice down with enough force to tear the crust.

"Lunch is ready," I announced to no one in particular, shoving plates across the counter.

The girls emerged cautiously, sensing the tension in the air. They ate quickly and quietly, their eyes darting between me and their father. Sophie finished first and immediately retreated upstairs. Emma lingered, her gaze worried.

"Mom, are you okay?"

"Fine," I said. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just seem... upset."

"I'm not upset." My voice came out clipped, harsh. "I'm perfectly fine. Please clear your plate."

Emma bit her lip, glanced at her father, and fled.

After lunch, I tried to lose myself in laundry, sorting darks from lights with aggressive precision. But every time I turned around, there was something else. A towel left crumpled on the bathroom floor. A coffee cup on the end table. The dishwasher still full from this morning, nobody had emptied it despite being asked twice.

By mid-afternoon, I was seething.

I was folding towels in the living room when my phone buzzed.

Time out.

I stared at the message, my stomach dropping. It was his code—discreet, invisible to anyone else—that I was spiraling out of control and needed to find a quiet place to reset. To reflect. To breathe.

I scowled at the screen.

I didn't want to reflect. I wanted to scream.

But I obeyed.

I set down the towel and walked upstairs to the master bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. The space was cool and quiet, afternoon light filtering through the frosted window. I sat on the closed toilet lid, my arms crossed, my jaw tight.

And I stewed.

I sat there thinking about how unfair it was. How much I did for this family. How nobody appreciated the invisible labor that kept our lives running. How dare he send me to time out like I was one of the children? I was a grown woman. A professional. A teacher with a master's degree and a decade of classroom experience.

I was not a child.

My phone buzzed again.

How are you doing?

Fine! I typed back, adding an exclamation point for emphasis.

I sat there for another ten minutes, my resentment building rather than fading. When I finally emerged, my expression was carefully neutral, my body language deliberately casual.

"Feel better?" he asked from the couch.

"Much," I lied.

The afternoon continued its downward spiral. I made dinner—chicken and rice, nothing fancy—and managed to hold my tongue through the meal, but I could feel his eyes on me. Tracking. Waiting.

After dinner, Sophie and Emma cleared the table without being asked, their movements hesitant and careful. They could sense the storm brewing.

"Lisa," he said quietly, "can you help me with something outside? Behind the house?"

I hesitated, suspicion prickling at the base of my skull.

"Sure."

We walked together through the back door, across the patio, to the edge of the yard where the grass met the treeline. The evening air was cool, a light breeze rustling the leaves overhead. Birds called from somewhere in the distance.

He stopped walking and turned to face me.

"You've been acting like a spoiled little child all day."

The words landed hard, and I felt my hackles rise.

"I have not—"

"You've snapped at the girls, you've bitten my head off over nothing, you've stomped around the house like a teenager throwing a tantrum." His voice was calm, measured, and somehow that made it worse. "I sent you to time out and you stewed instead of reflecting. You lied to me when I asked how you were."

"I did not—"

"You said 'fine' with an exclamation point, Lisa. I know you better than that."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to defend myself. But the truth of his words sat heavy in my chest, undeniable.

"Things need to change," he continued. "You're exhausted. You're overwhelmed. And you're taking it out on everyone around you."

"I'm sorry," I said, though the words came out hollow.

"I know you are. But sorry isn't enough right now." He held my gaze. "You have an early bedtime tonight. After dinner, you're going to go upstairs, get ready for bed, and be asleep by nine."

"That's ridiculous," I scoffed. "I'm not a child—"

"Do you want to go to the barn?"

The question was quiet, but it carried the weight of a threat.

The barn. Where he kept the strap. The one he'd only used a handful of times in our marriage, reserved for the worst offenses.

My stomach clenched.

"No!" The word burst out of me.

He just looked at me.

I swallowed hard, feeling my defiance crumbling. "No sir."

"Good." He gestured toward the house. "Let's go inside."

The girls were finishing the dishes when we walked back in. Sophie glanced up, her expression uncertain. "Mom, are you okay?"

"I'm just tired, baby." I forced a smile. "I think I'm going to head to bed early."

Emma's brow furrowed. "But it's only like seven-thirty."

"I know. I'm just really exhausted." I turned toward the stairs. "Goodnight, girls."

"Goodnight, Mom," they chorused.

At the foot of the stairs, he stopped me. "Give me your phone."

"What? Why?"

"So you don't sit in bed scrolling instead of sleeping."

I wanted to argue, but I'd already pushed my luck today. I handed it over, watching him slip it into his pocket.

"Goodnight, Lisa."

"Goodnight…. sir."

I went through the motions of getting ready for bed—washing my face, brushing my teeth, changing into pajamas. The house was quiet around me. At 8:45, I turned off the light and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling.

Sleep didn't come easily. My mind raced with unfinished tasks and simmering resentment. But eventually, exhaustion won out, and I drifted into a fitful slumber.

Sunday morning arrived gray and cool. I woke before my alarm, my stomach tight with dread. Today was the day. Sunday. The day that had somehow become our regular maintenance day, the day when the girls went to youth group and we had the house to ourselves.

Except this wasn't maintenance.

This was punishment.

The girls were already up and moving, scrambling to get ready for the nine o'clock service. I could hear Sophie calling from the bathroom, asking if anyone had seen her hairbrush. Emma was arguing with someone about what to wear.

I stayed in bed until the last possible moment, then dragged myself through a shower and into modest church clothes—a navy skirt and cream blouse, sensible flats.

When I came downstairs, he was waiting by the door with the girls' bags packed.

The girls had youth group early in the morning and were heading out and we would meet them at Church later. 

"Bye, Mom. Bye Dad." Sophie squeezed my waist before bouncing out the door.

"Bye babygirl." Hubby said. 

The door closed behind them, and the house fell silent.

He turned to me.

"Upstairs. Bedroom."

My heart began to pound. "Wait." I held up a hand. "Can we talk about this?"

"We've been talking about it all weekend."

"But I'm better now!" I could hear the desperation in my own voice. "I slept. I feel... I feel like I've reset. I don't need a punishment spanking."

"That's not your call." He moved past me toward the stairs. "Upstairs. Now."

I followed him with dragging feet, my breath coming short and fast. In the bedroom, he closed the door behind us and turned to face me.

"Strip."

I hesitated. "Please—"

"Lisa. Now."

My hands trembled as I unbuttoned my blouse. I let it fall to the floor, then reached for the zipper on my skirt. The fabric whispered down my legs, leaving me in my bra and panties. I unhooked the bra, slid it off, and finally pushed my underwear down to my ankles.

I stood bare before him, fighting the urge to cover myself.

He piled pillows on the bed and said, "Over the back of the couch." The couch was actually a love seat on the side of the bedroom like a reading area

My stomach lurched. The couch faced the window and although no one could see the vulnerability was acute.

I walked to the couch on unsteady legs. The back was high, and I had to stretch to drape myself over it, my upper body pressing into the cushions, my bottom raised and exposed, my toes barely touching the floor.

Behind me, I heard him move toward the closet. A drawer opened. Then the unmistakable sound of wood being lifted from its place.

The bath brush.

It was heavier than the hairbrush, a thick oval of polished cherry with a long handle that gave him leverage. He'd used it only a handful of times, and each time had been unforgettable.

"This is for your behavior yesterday," he said quietly. "The disrespect. The attitude. The lying. The way you treated our daughters."

"I know," I whispered.

"Good."

The first stroke landed without warning.

CRACK.

I screamed.

The pain was immediate and blinding, a concentrated explosion of fire that seemed to reach all the way to the bone. The bath brush didn't sting like his hand; it drove the sensation deep, layering agony upon agony in a way that left me gasping.

CRACK.

The second stroke landed on the other cheek, and I buried my face in the couch cushion, my hands clawing at the fabric.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

He settled into a rhythm, each stroke deliberate and devastating. I wasn't counting—he hadn't asked me to—but some part of my brain was tallying them anyway, trying to track how much more I could endure.

By ten, I was sobbing.

"Please!" I shrieked, my voice muffled by the cushion. "Please, it's too much!"

He didn't stop.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

The brush fell again and again, covering every inch of my upturned bottom with concentrated devastation. The pain layered upon itself, building into a crescendo that threatened to swallow me whole.

"Please, sir! Please, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

I was beyond dignity now, screaming into the fabric, my body writhing over the back of the couch. My legs kicked uselessly. My hands reached back instinctively, only to be caught and held.

"Stay still, Lisa."

"I can't! I can't—"

"You can. And you will."

He released my hands and continued.

CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

Somewhere around twenty, I stopped begging. The words dissolved into raw, animal sounds—moans and shrieks and broken sobs that seemed to come from somewhere primal inside me.

By thirty, I was limp.

I hung over the back of the couch, my body surrendering, my mind finally, finally quiet. The anger was gone. The resentment was gone. There was nothing left but the fire in my bottom and a strange, hollow peace.

When the final stroke landed, I didn't even flinch.

I heard him set the brush aside. Then his hands were on me, lifting me, turning me, pulling me into his chest. I collapsed against him, my face pressed into his shirt, my body shaking with the aftershocks.

"Shhh," he murmured, his hand stroking my hair. "It's done. It's over. You took it so well."

"I'm sorry," I sobbed, the words tumbling out. "I was so awful yesterday. I don't know what was wrong with me. I was awful to the girls, awful to you, awful to everyone—"

"Shhh." He held me tighter. "I know. It's okay now. You're forgiven."

He guided me to the bed and sat down, pulling me into his lap. I curled into him, my punished bottom throbbing, my face wet with tears. He held me for a long time, his heartbeat steady under my ear, his hands gentle on my back.

The storm inside me had finally broken.

Eventually, my breathing steadied. I pulled back, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "I need to shower."

He nodded. "I'll make coffee."

In the bathroom, I caught my reflection in the mirror. My face was blotchy, my eyes red and swollen. But it was my bottom that made me gasp.

The skin was a mess of red and purple, the oval impressions of the bath brush clearly visible across both cheeks. There were darker spots where the wood had landed repeatedly, deep bruises that would take days to fade.

I touched the skin gingerly, wincing at the tenderness. It was the worst I'd looked in months—maybe years.

And somehow, seeing the evidence made me feel better. The anger, the stress, the overwhelming weight of the week—it was all there, written across my skin. Paid for.

I showered carefully, letting the hot water soothe some of the ache. When I emerged, I dressed in loose linen pants and a flowing top, nothing that would press too tightly against the welts.

He was waiting downstairs with coffee.

"Better?" he asked.

I nodded. "Much."

We drove to church, the girls' faces lighting up when they saw us walk in together. Sophie waved frantically from the youth section. Emma offered a small, shy smile.

We sat together as a family, the four of us lined up in the pew, and when the Pastor spoke about forgiveness and renewal, I felt the words settle into my chest like rain on dry earth.

My bottom throbbed against the hard wooden pew. Every shift sent a fresh wave of sensation through me. But I didn't mind.

I was calm. I was reset. I was home.