Minh sat alone on the doorstep. A cigarette was in his hand. He couldn't remember when he started smoking. Perhaps it was in his youth, when he first experienced pressure, sleepless nights, and a feeling of helplessness in the face of things he couldn't talk to anyone about.
Back then, someone offered him a cigarette and said, "If you're stressed, smoke one, it'll clear your head." Minh believed them. Then one cigarette became two. Two cigarettes became a pack. At some point, he realized he wasn't smoking because he liked it anymore. He smoked when he was sad. He smoked when he was happy. He smoked when he was tired. He even smoked when there was nothing wrong. He always kept a pack of cigarettes in his pocket for every mood.
This afternoon was no different. Minh received a call from his wife: "Can you come home early?" His wife's words made him uneasy. On the other end of the line, her voice was hesitant, as if she had something she wanted to say.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
- No… I just wanted you to come home a little earlier. Then she fell silent.
Minh glanced at his watch. Outside the window, the setting sun was fading over the rooftops. His work was still unfinished, but for some reason, he felt uneasy. His wife rarely called at this hour, and even less so when she spoke so curtly and then fell silent. He quickly gathered the files on his desk. A vague feeling lingered, making him quicken his pace.
Upon arriving home, Minh listened as his wife recounted his mother's condition. The illness wasn't too serious, but given her advanced age, he felt he had to take her to the doctor to get a proper diagnosis. He stood up, walked a few steps, then sat down again. His hand instinctively reached for his pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He lit one. The smoke curled up before him, thin and gray, like another layer of mist covering the afternoon. His youngest daughter ran out of the house.
- Dad!
Minh turned around. The girl was standing a few steps away from him, still holding her notebook. She looked at the cigarette in her father's hand, then at the smoke rising, and asked softly:
- Is Dad smoking again?
Minh paused.
- Yeah… Dad just smoked a little.
The little girl said nothing. She walked closer and sat down beside him. Minh froze. The smile on his lips suddenly became strained. A child's question, seemingly simple, yet he didn't know how to answer. If he said "yes," it would be like teaching her that whenever she was sad, she should just reach for a cigarette. But if he said "no," he would have to confront himself, his past, when he had always turned to cigarettes whenever he felt tired or sad, even though deep down he knew it had never truly eased his sorrows.
Minh remained silent. For the first time, he found the cigarette in his hand so difficult to explain to the little girl. He stubbed it out on the cement floor. His reply was awkward and hesitant:
No, son.
Then why does Dad keep smoking?
Minh looked at his daughter. No reply. He bent down, his hand unconsciously twirling the cigarette pack. A childish question, yet it left him speechless. It turned out that what he had only realized after years was something his daughter could see with just one question. She remained silent. A tiny hand grasped her father's finger.
- So, when you're sad, Dad will play with you, okay?
That statement left Minh speechless. For years, he had thought cigarettes gave him time to calm down. He hadn't realized that each time he lit a cigarette, he was sacrificing his health for a few minutes of relief. That relief was fleeting, while the consequences lasted much longer.
He remembered what the doctor had said during a health checkup: Cigarettes not only cause lung and cardiovascular diseases or increase the risk of cancer, but nicotine also affects the brain, creating dependence. Smokers may turn to cigarettes whenever they are stressed, sad, or tired. The more they smoke to relieve stress, the easier it is for them to fall into a cycle: discomfort - smoking - temporary relief - then craving again. Minh used to think that was how he controlled his emotions. It turned out that perhaps the cigarette itself was controlling him.
That day, after taking his mother to the doctor, the doctor said she had chronic bronchitis, but inhaling cigarette smoke had worsened her condition. Minh stood beside her, listening intently, his heart sinking. He didn't dare look at his mother. The woman had repeatedly urged him to quit smoking, yet the very smoke from the cigarettes he smoked every day might be silently exacerbating her illness.
On the way home, his mother sat in the back, coughing occasionally. The dry, hacking cough echoing in the deserted road made Minh feel uneasy.
Minh returned home. The lights were off inside. He helped his mother upstairs to rest. Downstairs, he made a cup of warm water and sat silently on the porch. It was late at night. The sounds of traffic outside faded, leaving only the gentle rustling of the wind through the trees.
Minh sat there, thinking about his mother, about her cough, then remembering his daughter's eyes and her innocent question from that afternoon: "Why does Dad keep smoking?" He looked down at his hands. For years, whenever he was sad, tired, or unhappy, he would turn to cigarettes as a habit. He used to think it was a way to calm himself down, but he never once wondered how much smoke those around him had inhaled from that habit.
The water in the glass in his hand had gradually cooled. Minh remained silent. That night, he didn't tell anyone about his decision. He just quietly told himself that perhaps it was time to let go of what he once thought was his support whenever he was sad.
In the days that followed, Minh began to change little by little. When stressed, he went for walks. When sad, he talked to his wife and played with his children. When tired, he went to bed early. There were days when he still thought about smoking. Sometimes his hand would instinctively reach into his pocket, then stop. He understood that quitting smoking wasn't an easy break. But he also understood that no one can break free from a cycle if they keep following the same old path.
One morning, his daughter gave him a small box: "This is for you, Dad!" Minh opened it. Inside were neatly folded pieces of paper. Each piece had a sentence written on it: "Dad, hang in there!", "Dad, you don't need medicine," "If you're sad, hug me." Minh read to the last piece: "I want you to live a long life."
A breeze passed by, carrying the scent of wet grass and the earthy smell after the rain. Perhaps tomorrow he will still remember. Perhaps there will be times when pressure will return, days when mental exhaustion makes him want to find a cigarette to escape into the familiar smoke. But he knows he has many other ways to get through a difficult day.
People's emotions need to be listened to, not burned. And cigarettes, while sometimes providing a momentary sense of relaxation, are never a true "cure" for inner wounds.
That day, Minh sat on the porch again. He no longer had a cigarette in his hand. Outside, his daughter ran and played, her clear laughter echoing in the peaceful afternoon.
Minh silently watched his child and suddenly understood: what was worth holding onto wasn't a habit he'd maintained for years, but the afternoons he could still spend with his wife and child, the family meals that were still complete, and the days he could still hear his mother call his name.
And most importantly, it's a peaceful future, where cigarette smoke no longer seeps into the space between him and the people he loves.
Source: https://baolaocai.vn/dung-de-thuoc-la-tro-thanh-lieu-thuoc-cho-tam-trang-post911062.html
