How could you, daddy? How could you look me in the eyes at seven years old on promise me you would stop smoking, just for seven years to pass and you still come into the house with that acrid stench on you every 30 minutes? Don’t try to deny it. You’ve broken this promise I believe an utmost of three times already. I’ve seen you with nicotine patches. I’ve glared at you as you’ve walked back into the house from the garage after being out there for god knows how long. I’ve seen the cigarette butts in the front yard. I hear the way you cough. Please daddy. Stop. You don’t want to know how many I’ve cried over this. I’m crying now, actually. If you can believe it, I want you to make it to my wedding. I don’t to here the news in two years that you have lung cancer. I want you to see my high school graduation, I want you to see me become a pediatric phycologist, I want you to see every roll I’ll ever play in theatre, I need you, dad. I just want you to stop.