While she was in our living room with me at our motel house, I lit a match, blew it out and shoved it under a bookcase. I never in a million years thought my beloved grandmother would tell on me.
The next thing I knew, my dad came at me with a belt in his hand demanding to know where the match was.
I refused to tell him.
He generously offered me two options: I can tell him what I did with the match, or I could get the belt.
He took me to my room and hit me with the belt a few times. It hurt. But I didn't cry.
Instead I felt a deep satisfaction at the thought that I had won, because after he hit me, he still didn't know where the match was. I did.