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Where there’s smoke: My husband’s habit could not be conquered


This article is reprinted by permission from This essay is part of Telling Our Stories, a series of 12 essays featuring the voices of Next Avenue readers, with support from Aroha Philanthropies.  

Smoking seemed so cool to me as a kid. My glamorous mother smoked. She had a ritual of gathering her cigarette holder, glitzy gold cigarette case with matching lighter and other smoking paraphernalia together with her morning coffee.

She dazzled my saucer-sized kiddie eyes more than any Hollywood star ever could. I watched her with such ardent admiration that by age 7, I could light a cigarette with her lighter, inhale the smoke, blow it out through…


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