I have a very clear memory of sitting my uncle down at our dining-room table when I was probably 7 years old. I’d learned the dangers of smoking at school and, with my DARE coloring book in hand, I told him why he should quit smoking. I crossed my tiny arms, furrowed my tiny brow, and said matter-of-factly, “Smoking could give you cancer — you could die.” He took a deep breath, his cheeks reddened, and he said quietly, “I know, Courtney. I know.” And shortly after, he quit for good. Three and a half blessedly healthy decades followed until this summer he was diagnosed with lung cancer. I inhaled sharply when I got the text from my dad.
