Offspring
by Taylor Lewandowski

My mom forced me to listen to Nickelback on repeat. We were on a long drive to cope with another break up. We passed the endless fields of corn husks, the farm house with a busted truck, the crooked barn, the family cemetery, the schoolhouse packed with farming equipment. The usual shit I’ve seen a million times. Her Pontiac Grand Prix smelled like cigarettes, breath mints, sweaty men. She cried and I asked her if she was okay, if she wanted to talk, even though I knew she’d reply, like always, “You wouldn’t understand.”