Alex Wu, G8 吴萌 When I was young, a popular collectible among my friends was the cigarette card — the little rectangle cut from the top of a cigarette box and folded into a tiny card. They were printed with logos and images, and some designs were rare enough to feel like treasures. Kids are drawn to oddities; the cards were small goals I could hunt for and trade. I wanted to collect them all. There were three ways to get them. The first was scavenging discarded boxes on the street, but other kids always seemed faster. The second was playing card duels: you bet your cards, and if you won you took the opponent’s stash; if you lost, you handed yours over. I lost more often than I’d like to admit, and those losses taught me about risk and the sting of disappointment. The third, and safest, method was the one I relied on most: my parents would give me empty boxes after they’d finished smoking, and I would carefully cut and fold the tops into cards myself. At first I wanted my father to bring home more boxes every day so my collection could grow. As I grew older, however, I began to understand what those empty cigarette boxes represented. I learned about the health risks of smoking, and I began to worry that my hobby might encourage him to smoke more. Eventually, I stopped asking my father for boxes, stopped playing the duels, and let my collection thin out naturally. As the cards disappeared from my pockets and drawers, something else filled the gap. I started noticing the little things at home — how my father relaxed after dinner without a cigarette, the afternoons when he came home and played with us instead of going out to smoke. My dream of assembling every card never came true, but giving up that pursuit gave me a larger joy. Looking back, the cigarette cards were more than a childhood collectible; they were a lesson in values. I learned that some pleasures are small enough to sacrifice for someone else’s health, and that growing up sometimes means choosing the well‑being of loved ones over one’s own desires. | 