“Go get my ashtray, bud.” Your father demanded, waving his hand dismissively towards you. Propping his feet upon the coffee table, he got comfortable. It didn’t help that you had just cleaned that surface.

John paid no mind to you, only the tasks you did. He was far more engrossed into the newspaper in his grasp.

Once you retrieved the item, you placed it beside him. Your father offered a half-assed smile, “Good job, little buddy.” He huffed, lighting another cigarette.

You hated the smell.