My mother had a strict rule while I was growing up - no smoking in the house. Yet, my image of my father was always with a cigarette between his lips. The porch was his sacred place, filled with books, graphing paper, rulers, and ashtrays. The stench of cigarettes stained every inch of it. I can still smell it vividly. It was uniquely my father’s, and in the strange way that love manifests itself, I grew fond of it.

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For countless years, my sister’s birthday candles were blown out under the heavy wish of our father extinguishing his cigarettes. Some years were met with a sad smile. Others were followed by a week of nicotine gum and patches. But there would always be a day, without warning or apology, when he’d return to the porch, facing out into the night, the only light coming from the burning stick between his fingers. After a decade of unwavering wishes, my sister’s tactics evolved into clandestine operations—flushing cigarettes down the toilet, secreting cartons beneath her sanctuary of stuffed animals. That year, a realization settled heavily in my heart. It wasn’t just the sting of watching my sister's fruitless rebellion. It was realizing how her little acts of love would never change him.

 

At the age of twelve, in the restless heart of New York City, my father was introduced to his first cigarette, a gift tainted with an ironic promise, bestowed upon him by his own mother, my grandmother. She told him, “Promise me you won’t do any real drugs.” Thus began my father’s longest relationship. 

He’d often immerse me in vivid tales of his youthful adventures—ditching class to smoke with friends behind the school and bargaining for singles under the counter at the local corner store. He’d recount to me about the salvation of rock ‘n roll during his tumultuous periods with his father. How “Paint It Black” drowned out the disappointment he had felt when they moved from New York to the middle of nowhere; where kids spent their summers getting drunk in fields and their winters shooting heroin in basements. He’d share tales of the working class grind, the music, the parties, the girls, and the dreams—all woven into the romantic backdrop of back alleys and wafts of cigarette smoke. He’s narrated those stories a hundred times over the years: part warning, part explanation, but always with a twinkle in his eye.

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My father had a deep love for stories as they were his way of making sense of the world. Regardless of whether you had heard a story a million times before, he would resurrect it with unrelenting detail and zest. He'd regale us with tales of how he won over my mother or the time he surreptitiously snuck me onto the Super Duper Looper when I was only three. Each time he told the story, the coaster would do another loop. 

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His fervor for stories transcended his own experiences. He discovered narratives in every aspect of life. He knew the backstories of every song and held a deep appreciation for the unseen contributors behind the scenes. He’d always assert, “Every hit from the 60’s was written by two Jewish boys that remain unheard of.” The more obscure the tale, the better. For my father, witnessing the underdog triumph, or the improbable become reality, represented the ultimate victory.

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When I was a kid, he’d make thematic CDs for us to listen to in the car. We’d spend our rides enveloped in these special moments. Me, guessing the connection between all the songs. My father, with his yellow-toothed smile, allowing the music to transport him back into another story. By the time I was nine, thanks to those CDs, I had become a huge fan of Bruce Springsteen. My father took me to see him for my first-ever concert—just us. I still remember how the music vibrated through my body, how I felt every note of Bruce’s harmonica, and his long, heartfelt “oohs”. I remember my father saying, “You know what that sound is, KK? That’s pain. That’s Bruce letting out all the pain.” I remember holding my father’s hand, having no pain to let go of that day. 

 

When my father met my mother in college, she was a casual smoker, a sign of the times in the late ‘80s. By 26, she had me; and by 30, the air had cleared in America, smoking having lost its former glory. I remember catching her, cigarette in hand, on the deck of our beach house or out on the porch during my dad’s birthday gatherings. She’d always tell me she was holding it for my father, a mask of shame for her tacit approval.

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As the years drifted by, the habit loosened its grip on my parents’ friends. All but my father, who seemed stuck in the past. My mother would quietly muse about the uncertainties of knowing who a person will truly become. About the gamble of growing together, especially in love. She still whispers these things to me in quiet pauses at traffic lights… in the early morning hours around the coffee pot.

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As a teenager, I saw firsthand the repercussions of a lifetime of smoking on my grandfather, who, like my father, was a smoker. The wheezing scared me; I was reluctant to even embrace him, haunted by the fear that my hug might consume his remaining breaths. His passing weighed heavily on my father. I observed him outside the funeral home, pacing, consuming two cigarettes in quick succession. Yet, when he stepped in to deliver his eulogy, I witnessed the anxious energy subside, transforming into something beautiful. My father gave a touching and heartfelt tribute to my grandfather that day. The irony was not lost on me. 

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Reflecting on my own confrontations with my father, I find a pang of self-hate for not being more straightforward, like my sister. I can’t pinpoint an exact conversation. Instead, fragments of awkward silence linger in my memory. My hands moving a carton to grab a CD in the car, fingers grazing over the Marlboro letters. My father, sensing my trepidation, would navigate us into another narrative. “Did you know my doctor says I have the best lungs he has ever seen? How funny is that?”, or “If something was truly wrong, would I be able to hold my breath for two entire laps of the pool?”. Every time, I let myself believe. Every time, I think he let himself believe too.

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By high school, my sister became a smoker. I would find Camel lights in the car, under the bed, and in every purse. The same rule applied to her - no smoking in the house. My sister, the little girl who used to scream at my father, now dismissed herself from the movie with him; they’d disappear onto the porch, shadows intertwining under the soft, wavering glow of the lighter’s flame.

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When the words hit me—that my father had stage four lung cancer—I was 28 years old. I wept every day for a week straight and arranged a flight home. All I could sense was this stark, harsh awareness that my father would be gone sooner rather than later. This awareness—it consumed me, it smothered me. It washed away every tainted memory of him and left me pleading for more time.

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When I spoke to my sister, she was consumed by anger. She unleashed a barrage of what-ifs: "What if he had just stopped smoking when his six-year-old daughter pleaded with him? What if he had realized it wasn’t just about him anymore? That he had a wife? And kids? What if he wasn't so fucking selfish? What if?"

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I remember the quiver of her lower lip and the snot dripping from her nose. I remember her hesitancy when looking up at me. “I know, I know. I fucking smoke too. I’m quitting, though. I promise.” 

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Family is tough, not because they disappoint you, but because you have such an intimate understanding of who they are. You know what grounds them, what makes them retreat. It's a bond distinct from any other kind of love—forged in shared experiences, in tears and blood. And what we do with that love is simply feel its weight. Unconditional isn’t evolving—it’s swallowing the truth and storing it deep in your core. I looked at my sister and squeezed her hand. “I know you are, Soph. I know you are.” 

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When I first met my father’s eyes after the news, I saw a scared, little boy. He was in a distant world, searching for comfort that he could understand. He spoke of his top-tier doctors and a close friend who, against all odds, had gone into remission. He believed my grandfather had come to him in a dream. He delved into documentaries about the power of the mind and filled our medicine cabinet with an array of vitamins. He made a vow to quit smoking. "Never again," he affirmed. "Never again."

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Our first Thanksgiving post-diagnosis was a convoluted affair. Opting to forego the traditional extended family celebrations, we sought refuge under the Florida sun, hoping for a reprieve. However, the bright sunlight only seemed to illuminate the lurking shadows within us. I remember sitting poolside, watching children make a splash, while my mother was already on her third cocktail by the afternoon. My father, typically immersed in a book, simply sat, his gaze fixed on the sun, seemingly disconnected from the world around him.

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As afternoon turned to evening, he began taking each of us siblings for private walks. I was the last. Our path led us around the volleyball court and by a tiki bar filled with the carefree laughter of vacationers enjoying their daiquiris. I could sense his intention for this walk – he sought a meaningful connection, hoping to leave me with a cherished memory. But in the stark juxtaposition of our surroundings, his words felt distant. The comfort I yearned for evaporated, leaving me with an inescapable truth: nothing felt right anymore. He fumbled through sentences, the crux of which was "I love you," but those words failed to bring the solace I needed. That week, I cried out whatever remained in my body. My sister muttered under her breath and lit a cigarette.

 

By Christmas, I watched my mother,  the unshakable foundation of our family, crumble before me. She wept like a wounded animal, her body wracked with sobs, releasing two months' worth of pent-up emotions. Her face, once a picture of warmth, now contorted with tears, anger, and shame. Much like my sister, her words carried a complex mix of resentment and love, underpinned by an overwhelming sense of fear. So much fear. She told me about the cartons of cigarettes. The ones she knew and the ones she uncovered. That there were seemingly hundreds of them, hidden beneath the floorboards of our home; bodies surfacing and washing ashore months after the shipwreck. As the tide receded, there were somehow still more to be found. “I don’t know if he can do this,” she sobbed. So I sat with her into the night, swallowing more of her truth. Letting the burden burrow inside me and take root. 

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About five months after the diagnosis, my father began walking in the woods. The same woods that sat behind the back screen porch of our house where he had pored over his draftsman paper and infused the wood with his scent, one cigarette at a time. It was a view he had always watched but now finally explored. The walks became his ritual. A way for him to escape the reminders of his addiction. A way for him to prove that his story was not over. 

We had always had the woods. During my childhood, I'd lose myself in the lush foliage for hours on end. In the summer, we'd chase fireflies and search for toads, while winter brought sledding adventures, weaving through the trees. However, post-cancer, the woods took on an entirely new significance. My father poured hours into creating his own trails, meticulously removing thorny sticker bushes and tending to fallen trees. He diligently cleared away the remnants of teenage beer bottles and trash, transforming the woods into a serene sanctuary. Whenever I came home to visit, he eagerly guided me through his cherished spots in the woods, asking, “Do you want to turn towards the creek or do the grassy loop?” We’d trek on for hours, exploring the different parts. Suddenly, he knew the names of the horses that frequented the fence at the forest's edge, and he greeted passersby by name, even miles from our house. Despite it always being there, the woods had become his second home.

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On these walks with my father, he began to listen. We let the snow crunch beneath our feet as he asked more about the books I’d read recently. About things that moved me. About my life. For the first time in a long while, I felt my father come out of his own world and visit mine. 

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He never spoke about his cancer on our walks. Instead, he spoke about family and the future. About someday walking my sister down the aisle for her wedding, the same way he did for mine. About his plans for his trail. How he’d named it after the mushrooms he began to notice along the edges of the forest path. Letting the small things become his stories.

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I took my father to a doctor's appointment at Johns Hopkins. He remained unusually quiet throughout the entire ride. As we entered the hospital, the sterile smell overwhelmed me, making my body feel weak. I was jolted by the sound of my father's animated voice as he greeted the nurse and cracked a bad joke, as if everything were normal, as if we hadn't just spent the last hour in silence. It was another story we were telling ourselves. My father gave me a wink and assured me he would be back soon. I waited in a room while they took him away, and just as he turned the corner, I once again saw that scared little boy.

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Months went by, and my father’s treatment seemed to defy all odds. The cancer didn’t grow, but the doctor continued to warn us it would never go away. That what we have been gifted was just more time. My father took this news as remission, which it was not. Despite the frailness of his body and the painful lean of his spine, he drank his favorite beer. He made his playlists. He continued his walks up Mushroom Trail. He joked with me, “Can you believe it, KK? Just my luck.” 

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Somehow, a whole year goes by and I do let myself believe. I think, “Yeah, my dad has always been able to hold his breath for two full laps of the pool.” 

Another Christmas arrived, and my family returned to our old habits, playing games, reminiscing about nothing in particular, and cherishing the moments. Under the tree, I handed my father his gift: painted mushroom stones for his trail. A smile spread across his face, and we embarked on our winter walk, carefully placing the stones beneath the trees, savoring the gift of another year to feel the snow crunching beneath our feet.

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A few nights later, my sister and I indulged in drinks sharing laughter and life's grievances over six beers. In the midst of our tipsy conversation, she brought up her recent visit to Aunt Sue in Vegas, a trip our father had accompanied her on.

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“Ugh, and Dad,” she groaned. “We had a few drinks at the casino bar and we were having such a good time. Then he asked me to buy him cigarettes. Can you believe him?” 

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There it was again. Not disappointment. No, that was too simple. It was knowing. Knowing deep down what you already knew. 

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“Wait, what?” I asked.

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“This isn’t the first time, KK. He’s done this to me so many times. It’s pathetic.” 

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“How many times?” 

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“Does it matter?” she griped.

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“What did you do?” I whispered.

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“Well, he was being so annoying about it, so I gave in!” she replied, her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m not his wife. I’m not his fucking mother.” 

And I’m back to hearing the news again – the wind knocked out of me. 

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Reflecting now, I think it’s what my father and I have most in common—our desire for a better truth. My father’s is that he lived the American Dream–a smoking cowboy on a quest towards the sun. That his wife still sees him as the twenty-year-old blue-eyed looker who stole her heart in his black convertible. That his eldest daughter has no idea. That she believes in him. 

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My better truth is that I have that father. The one that’s strong enough to do anything. The one who loves his family enough to change. And most days, he makes that truth easy to come by. When we’re together in his car, blasting the perfect tune, he tells me it's never inappropriate to cry for things that move you. I steal glances at him from the passenger seat, feeling that I am unequivocally his daughter.

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In those moments, I can embody that truth – looking past the mistakes and pain, choosing to believe in his humanity. Because my father is dying. Because that is the only way I can forgive him.

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I’ve witnessed my father, that scared little boy, grappling with his own mortality. I've seen the twinkle in his eyes dim, replaced by a fainter light. I've observed his hope anchored in the routines of vitamins and vegetables, those fleeting moments of triumph when he believes he's cracked the code to conquer this. Then the storm clouds loom, and the woods grow too dark. I’ve watched that little boy seek refuge beneath the blankets, finding solace in the very thing that shattered him. And when the sun breaks through the next day, he walks his mushroom trail, puts on a new face, and convinces himself that none of it has transpired.

 

That there is a better truth.