Oh, snap. My mother is texting Bonnie? How in the world did she get Bonnie’s number?

Mom: It’s me. I got your number from Gran.

Bonnie: Lovely.

Mom may not, but I hear the sarcasm in that one-word text.

I open a new text thread, one with just Mom, and type?—

Me: Why are you texting Bonnie?

Mom: Are you saying I’m not allowed to text Bonnie?

Me: That’s exactly what I’m saying.

But then, Bonnie messages the group again.

Bonnie: I’m sorry to hear about the tree yard.

I am too. I like old man Warren. I wonder what’s up with his business.

Me: Too bad, Mom. I guess we’ll have to cancel our outing today.

And with the night I had, it’s probably for the best.

Mom: What about our tree? And Gran’s tree?

Me: The fake one Dad bought you two years ago is still in the basement. I can set it up today. And Gran already has five artificial ones up—one for each of her grandkids.

Mom: It’s not the same. And you know your grandmother loves a real tree.

Bonnie: My sister’s best friend runs a Christmas tree farm just an hour and a half from here.

Mom: You wouldn’t mind taking us there?

I switch over to my private text between just Mom and me.

Me: Don’t ask Bonnie to take you out of town. She signed up for an hour this afternoon, not an all-day event.

Mom: She’s offering. I didn’t ask.

Me: That’s because she’s nice, but don’t ask her to do it. She has other commitments.

Mom: Fine. No need to be Mr. Grumpy Pants. I hear you, Elliot.

A new text from Bonnie comes through.

Bonnie: I’d be happy to take you. I’ve only been once, but it’s a pretty little farm.

Me: I’m not being a grumpy pants. I just need my privacy respected.

Three little dots blink back at me. Typing… Waiting… Reading… Only those dots don’t belong to my mother.

I called myselfgrumpy pants… to Bonnie. And my mother, of course.

Grumpy pants—the name my mother used to call me when I was ten.

I sit. I stare, but no words come up on the screen. A drop-down message tells me Mom has sent another text between the two of us.