Only one can rule the roost

“Is that all?” my mother asked. I nodded and wiped my tears away.
“All this fuss about such a silly confession?” She put her arm around my shoulders.
“It's not a big deal,” she said comforting. I sobbed on, feeling relieved she wasn't angry.
“Your father and I will help you quit. How many cigarettes do you have right now?”
I looked up in surprise. Why would she say that? I didn't tell her because I wanted to stop, I told her because I didn't want to hide it any more!
“Well?” She tried to look me in the eye, but I turned away.
“Come on, darling, you have to cooperate.” She removed her arm from my shoulder and took my chin in her hand. Her voice sounded decisive and her grip was strong.
“But mum...” I muttered, trying to get loose without struggling. A slight nausea developed in my upper body.
“Henry McMillan! Get a hold of yourself! Here you are, devastated by the confession of being a smoker, but to weak to face your problem and do something about it! This is not how we raised you!” I could not avoid the stern expression on her face before I lowered my eyes.
The thing is that I'd been a smoker for almost a year, and I felt no need to change. Every break I used to gather with my friends at the gates behind school and fags constituted our image. If it weren't for smoking I would have no real reason to go out in the rain and complain about the English weather. Garth was the only non-smoker in our group, and obviously he was the doormat. He was the centre of many jokes he didn't understand and whenever he decided to stay in, there was no end to our backbiting over his lame conversation and his overall distastefulness. He was totally displaced in our group, and we had no clue as to why he wouldn't get the message. If I were to abandon fags, I would surely be sided with Garth, which was something I did not aspire.
“Do you understand what I am saying?” my mother asked fiercely.
“But you can't make me quit!” I protested, but my voice sounded weak and drowned in tears.
“As long as you live in this house, you will have to live by our rules! No more smoking, do you hear me?” She let go of my chin and left the room. Helplessly I listened how she pulled my jacket off the hall stand and searched my pockets for the evidence of what I had already confessed.
“There,” she said venomously when she entered the room with my cigs. “Go ahead, take your last breath of death, right here in the kitchen.” I gazed at her in disbelief, but she insisted, offering me the package. It seemed totally wrong, but what could I do? Hesitating I took a fag, placed it between my lips and searched for my lighter.
“Here you go,” she said, striking a match and placing it a little too close to my eyebrows. Her fingers trembled as I inhaled slightly and moved back. This seemed like the right time for practicing my French, so I took a puff of smoke into my mouth and pushed it out again without inhaling.
“Sissy,” she hissed. Aggressively she grabbed the cigarette pack of the kitchen sink and stunned me by taking my fag and jump starting a new one with it. With my mouth slightly open I watched her take a long drag. She threw her head back and held her breath for a few seconds. I had never seen my mother like this before, she seemed much older suddenly, and not so healthy at all.
“Christ, I missed this,” smoke jumped irregularly to her words.
“Go on then,” she went on, giving me back my cigarette. Numb, I took it and inhaled. Thickheaded by the nicotine I faltered: “I'd rather not have you doing that, it ...”
But my mother interrupted me: “Your father has always When I was expecting you, he finally had a good reason to force me to quit. He made me promise I would not give birth to a baby deformed by and addicted to nicotine. Also, the movies of unborn babies suffering every time their mothers inhaled were a great support. You can imagine my enthusiasm, but really, it was all for the best.”
Still slightly stupefied I took another drag and stared at my mum.
“Of course your father will be raving mad if he finds out about this, ” she said, pointing at the cigarette box. Some ash fell off her cig on the marble kitchen floor. She didn't seem to be bothered by it.
“Actually...” I started, but again she interrupted me.
“He loves you very much and will surely blame me for it. He will be devastated and I cannot foretell his reaction. He might never want to see me again. ” She inhaled dramatically and swallowed smoke and tears away. I was unsure what to reply and felt horrible over making her cry. Suddenly it didn't seem like a good plan to tell her about my little innocent habit any more, but I sure felt glad I hadn't told both of my parents at the same time. It did sound like my father to exaggerate the whole thing immensely, but I had not considered that he could blame my mother for it. The nausea expanded through my entire torso. Duty-bound I took another dreadful drag of my cigarette, which only made me feel worse. It had only burned half way, and my ash was gathered over the floor as well. I realized this was exactly what my mother sought to attain, it would enable her to physically clean smoking away from our lives.
“He loves you very much,” she repeated, “and he trusts you.”
I took her fag from her hand, knelled and pressed both burning cherries to the marble.
“Come on,” I whispered, “let's clean this mess. I'll help you.”