Added March 12, 2026 9:00 PM CST
Backwards P.S. My adoptive father died of lung cancer when I was two. The mama who raised me always said he never smoked a day in his life. But when I got older, I saw pictures of him with a cigarette in his hand. When I asked, she swore he never smoked.
Years later, after she died, I read her typed journal. She wrote of caring for him, of how he quit a two-pack-a-day habit cold turkey when he was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer—during the physical to complete my adoption. For me. I was his reason to live. And yet, he died anyway.
The following was originally posted March 12, 2026 5:14 AM CST
The mama who raised me and the mama who gave birth to me were chain-smokers.
The one who raised me did it to stay thin, among other things. One of the first things I remember her telling me was that a woman never finishes her meal. You have to stay dainty in the mirror.
Then she’d light up one of her Salems or Kents and flick the ashes into the food so she wouldn’t be tempted to go back in for another bite.
Everything about her was smoke and sharp edges.
In second grade, she and 11 other mothers made flash cards for our times tables. A classmate commented that the ones I brought smelled like smoke. Of course they did. She couldn’t go long without a cigarette.
In fourth grade—nine or ten years old—I’d go into her dresser drawer and take a pack from the carton of cigarettes. Then I’d walk down the street to the house on the corner where my friend and her sisters lived. Their mom was a single mother who worked the 3–11 shift.
We’d do wild things there, and I was the one who supplied the cigarettes. It was the 70s — groovy ✌️
The mama who gave birth to me—I don’t really know a whole lot about her. Except that she was brilliant and had bipolar. She would sometimes light a cigarette before finishing the first one and end up with three or four going at the same time.
Her stepdaughter, who I claim as big sister, took care of our baby sister because my mother was unable to.
For what it’s worth, I hate the smell of cigarette smoke. My throat gets sore just saying the word. I know it’s an addiction, just like any other though. A monkey on your back for sure.
Despite being an enabler, I only smoked socially for a brief window. Cigarettes were expensive, and I had to choose between them or alcohol—I went with the alcohol. Eventually, I went with neither.
Except on vacation. The last part of this trip was very walkable. I felt better about having a drink since I wasn’t driving.
I have no judgment—as long as you don’t puff it onto others.
As Always, More to Come!
©2025 Jill Witherspoon. All rights reserved
My Writer’s Workshop Entry for the Week of March 10th: 1) Write a post inspired by the word cigarette. The rules and pingback are here. Badge/feature image by Patty, http://anothercookieplease.com
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