by Jessica Mann.

Falling asleep with a cigarette in hand, he burns a hole in the old brown recliner he sits in everyday after work. Third pack of the day for my dad, nothing new. I cough as the smoke fills the living room I’ve spent so many hours of my life in and my lungs that aren’t easily replaceable.

An average of $5 a pack, $15 dollars a day and $105 a week, my dad pays to damage his lungs.

“I can’t breathe,” I said.

“Yes, you can. Stop trying to make me feel bad,” he replies.

“You know second-hand smoke is worse than first hand?” I add.

No response. He knew he was hurting me. He knew that when he smoked, it was bad for my health also.

His granddaughter couldn’t even come stay the night. It is a risk to her health even more than mine she has asthma.

Walking into my house, I’m overwhelmed by the smoke in the air. I can’t help but cough. My clothes and hair reek of cigarettes and there’s no perfume or body spray that could cover it.

It’s an addiction though, right? He can’t help it. His body needs it.

“Wake up.” I say, “You’re going to catch the house on fire,”

“I’m awake,” he says.

He fell asleep with a cigarette lit in his shaky hand again. He can barely breathe, he has a “smokers’ cough,” and yet he still lights another.

He spends $105 a week on cigarettes that could be used to pay the bills we’re slacking on. He spends $105 a week to shorten his life. He wastes $105 a week that he’ll never get back.

I breathe in the smoke in our old living room. I keep my mouth shut. He might not know it, but through his choice, he’s made mine.