She had a stick, some would call a switch. It was thin, brown and smooth, no rough edges. She used it when we got out of line. Raising four kids, not your own, you would need some super power. Hers was the stick. She wielded it like some magic wand. She was the evil queen in this childhood story.
Me, the sweet princess, in all my seven year old wisdom, I would laugh at the stick and her, and out loud exclaim, “that didn’t even hurt.” Challenging her to try harder.
Although tears streamed, she could never break me.