She smoked.
And the worst part was that she did it right in front of my children.
Every evening, she would sit in her old kitchen chair, pick up her red cup, light a cigarette, and stare out the window for hours.
I had asked her dozens of times to stop smoking, at least when the children were around.
“Martha, the children are growing up. They’re going to imitate you.”
“Sarah, there are many things you don’t understand,” she replied one evening.
Something about those words bothered me.
Then I began noticing that Emma and Jack were spending more and more time with their grandmother in the evenings.
Whenever I entered the kitchen, all three of them would suddenly fall silent.
One evening, I caught Martha slipping something to Jack under the table.
“What did you give him?” I demanded.
“Nothing, Mom,” my son answered quickly.
But I clearly saw him hide a small object in his pocket.
