I only smoke cause my mommy makes me

It's turned into a daily routine: we're on the way home from the store or whatever and my mother will turn to me and say:
"Oh honey, if we get home quick, don't you think we'll have time for a cigarette before your dad gets home?"

"No" is not an acceptable answer to this statement.

My mom doesn't smoke, has never been a smoker, in fact disapproves of smoking. I guess way back when they used to go out to bars a lot, she'd bum the occasional cigarrette despite my dad's worried disapproval. I don't think she had a single drag in the twenty-odd years since then. But ever since she discovered that I smoked occasionally at college, she's been niccing out like it's Joe Chanesmoker's third day on the wagon.

So we sit by the pool with our beers. The truth is, I don't really feel like smoking. It's 87 degrees and sweaty, even in the late afternoon, and the mosquitoes have already started making angry pinkish-white welts on my skin.
"I think I'll just share one with you, 'k mom?"
"NO, I'm not gonna share on with you! I want my own cigarette."
"Well, maybe I won't..."
"Dammit, I can't smoke alone, that's as bad as drinking alone! Light up, kid!"
"Ooookay...."