The phone buzzed in my hand before I could finish the sentence, another message from Donald popping up at the top of the screen.
“Claire, please,” the text read. “Do not tell her I sent this.”
“Who is she?” I typed back, my fingers moving quickly over the virtual keyboard.
“Mom,” the reply came a second later. “She has been looking for the folder since Tuesday.”
I leaned back against the cushions, the scratchy corduroy pressing through my thin cotton shirt.
“Why would your mother be looking for Carolyn’s school folder, Donald?” I typed, holding the phone with both hands to keep them steady.
“She says the school is trying to interfere,” he sent. “She wants to keep all the correspondence in one place.”
“We are her parents,” I typed. “The school should be corresponding with us, not Nancy.”
The three grey dots appeared, then disappeared, then appeared again.
