Glass cigarette holder – a forgotten gadget from the times of the Polish People’s Republic
Summary
The glass cigarette holder may seem like a relic of the past, but it tells an important story about smoking culture in the mid-20th century. It was more than just a tool—it was a symbol of sophistication, purity, and elegance. Although it’s no longer widely used today, its legacy lives on in collectibles and vintage smoking accessories. For history and design enthusiasts, it’s a compelling example of combining function with the aesthetics of a bygone era.
My name is Emily, 28 years old. Simply put: I should never have been born. At least not as a girl. My mother always dreamed of two sons – her perfect sports team, one that would take over her name and fulfill her vision. When she got pregnant with me and it turned out I was a girl, she was devastated. My Aunt Rachel, with whom I still have a good relationship, once told me something I’ve never forgotten. When my mother learned my gender, she apparently seriously considered terminating the pregnancy. By the time she got around to it, it was too late, and it was considered risky. This is how I was born – not as a blessing, but as a regret.
My mother never explicitly said I was unwanted. She didn’t have to. It was evident in her eyes, in how she treated me, and even in how she spoke of me when she thought I wasn’t listening. I was a fussy baby, a demanding toddler, then a difficult child. Nothing I did was good enough. And then there was my older brother, Jake, 30—the golden boy, the apple of my parents’ eye. He was everything I wasn’t: confident, charming, and, frankly, a complete jerk. But my parents didn’t see that. To them, Jake was perfect.
Jake wasn’t just the favorite—he was the villain in my story. He made it his mission to make my life miserable. Growing up, Jake had a knack for getting me into trouble. If something broke at home, “Emily did it.” He broke Mom’s favorite vase—it was definitely me. He took money from Dad’s wallet—it was obviously my fault. He made up wild, detailed lies, and no matter how absurd, my parents always believed him. It got to the point where I stopped defending myself altogether. Why? They never listened.
Jake didn’t stop with the lies. He made my life miserable at school, too. He spread rumors about me so subtly that at first I didn’t even know it was him. I’d notice my friends pulling away, and weeks later I’d find out Jake had told them I’d been gossiping about them or that I was too weird to hang out with her. By the time I got to middle school, I didn’t have many close friends anymore. I couldn’t invite people over because Jake would either humiliate me in front of them or later exploit what he’d overheard. He’d twist my words and make it sound like I was slandering my parents or being ungrateful. And of course, Mom and Dad believed him every time.
The favoritism was blatantly obvious. Every year, Jake got a huge birthday party with all his friends, decorations, and once even a bouncy castle. When it came to my birthday, I’d get cake at the table and maybe a card, if they remembered. One year, they completely forgot. Jake would make fun of me. “You’re obviously not that important,” he sneered.
I wasn’t a perfect child. I wasn’t extroverted, and yes, I was quite sensitive. But who could be surprised? Growing up in a home where I was constantly belittled or ignored took its toll on me. I felt like I was screaming into the void, desperate for someone to notice me, to care. But the only people who mattered in that house were Jake and my parents. And Jake reveled in it. He knew he was the favorite, and he used that power against me at every opportunity.
If I ever dared to stand up to him or defend myself, he’d run to Mom and Dad, spinning some story about me being mean to heaven or starting fights. It didn’t matter that he was the one provoking it. He was the golden child, and I was the problem. I remember when, in high school, I finally thought I had a chance. I steeled myself and auditioned for the school play. I didn’t get the lead role, but it was a good one, and for the first time, I was proud of myself. I told my parents, hoping they’d come see me. Jake immediately interjected, “Who wants to watch you embarrass yourself on stage?” My mom didn’t even defend me. She shrugged and said, “Maybe next time, Emily.” That’s when I realized they weren’t just indifferent—they weren’t interested in me at all.
Jake wasn’t just cruel—he was calculating. He knew exactly how to get under my skin and make me feel small. And worst of all: he never faced any consequences for it. Mom and Dad never scolded him or punished him. If anything, they encouraged him, always taking his side. Every day was a battle I knew I’d lose. I tried to focus on school and my interests, but Jake was always lurking in the background, ready to destroy me. And my parents didn’t care.
Still, I persevered. Maybe it’s because of stubbornness, or maybe it’s because of a faint hope that things will get better someday. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t force people to love you. You have to find the strength to walk away. And that’s exactly what I did.
