It happened again. I heard a little girl begging not to be spanked. I did nothing.

It was in an antique store. When I entered, with my husband, there was a guy, about my age, behind the counter. His little boy - aged 8 or so - and girl - aged 6 or so - were playing just outside.

The guy seemed nice enough. We asked what he had, spoke with him for a moment and he directed us to one of several rooms. There, I found an old typewriter and a crank phone - two things that would look nice in my office. I like the contrast of my ultra-modern job with business tools of the early 20th century.

Apparently the little girl spilled her juice box on her brother who yelled at her. The father stormed out and laid into her, assuming she had done it on purpose - and apparently not even caring if it had been an accident.

“No, Daddy, I didn’t mean it!” she cried. She was terrified. There were little quick steps on the sidewalk.

“Come back here, young lady, right this instant.”

“NO, DADDY PLEASE!” she screamed. “NO, DADDY, I DIDDN’T MEAN IT!”

My husband wrapped his arms around me, turning me to him and holding me as I bit my lips closed.

Then followed that familiar “pop” sound, just six times, but it was enough to make her cry from the first pop. It was that sad cry of a little girl that reeks of betrayal and loneliness. In between her cries, “I didn’t mean it, Daddy, I didn’t mean it!”

There was more to it than that - more scolding before, during and after, more back and forth along the way, threats of what was going to happen when he got her home, that kind of thing - but I can’t keep my eyes dry enough to write any of it.

Even after the spanking, he was still yelling at her, “Sit down right there and stop crying!”

But she bawled the way little girls do when they’ve been spanked by the one person who is supposed to love them - a person whose voice is filled with hate.

“Stop crying! I’ll put a washcloth in your mouth!”

Her cries became muffled, but still went on for a while.

Mine, on the other hand, were soft - almost soundless - as I lay my head on my husband’s shoulder - out of site of the owner and his children. It took me longer to compose myself than it did for the little girl.

When we got back to the counter, the guy acted as if nothing had happened. He was just as pleasant as he had been when we entered. My husband covered for me, saying that we hadn’t found anything.

As we left, I noted what time the store closed. I couldn’t help it. 8pm.

When we got outside, I looked at the girl. She was still sniffling and her brother was trying to cheer her up - which was more than I could do.

What could I do? He hadn’t crossed the line into abuse. Anything I might have said to him would have risked making things worse. And I have no credibility, never having had children of my own.

I had no words of comfort for the little girl. I couldn’t say, “It gets better,” because it doesn’t. I’m thirty-two and I’m still not over it.

No, I didn’t buy the typewriter or the phone. I didn’t need two reminders of a little girl who has been spanked before and will probably be spanked many times in the future.

… including that night. They probably live less than half an hour from the store. When 8:30 rolled around, I wondered if she was getting her “real spanking”. I couldn’t put the thought out of my mind.

My husband may go back and talk to the man without me. He, at least, is a school teacher, and a man. A father might listen to him. 

Besides, if I’m not there he can say things that I might not want to hear - things that might just put the fear of God into the guy behind the counter. My husband is fearless in those situations… and he has that “look” that could terrify a man with unspoken threats of unstated consequences.

Will he? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to think about it anymore.