black santa & lil boy

*I can’t remember the exact words I used to break my daughter’s heart and tell her the truth about Santa Claus. All I do recall, is that my heart needed some mending too.

I never mentioned to her how I found out. At least not at that time. But it was messy. I realized who “Santa” was one night in Virginia. I was probably about seven or eight. I was upstairs on Christmas Eve. It was late…around two in the morning. That’s when the steps would creak as my parents went up and down – carrying the boxes with all the toys they’d gone into debt buying for us. I sneaked a peek through the ventilator on the floor. It allowed me to see just enough of the room below.

And that is where I witnessed my mom and dad, in front of our fabulous 6-foot-tall Christmas tree, putting together an old, “new” bike that I had somehow asked “Santa” for.

The next morning after the revelation was like every other morning years before. Mom and dad would be still asleep while us kids nearly broke our necks running downstairs (around 5 a.m.) to see our toys. Opening them with sheer joy and marveling at what we had gotten. Our parents would eventually come in and revel in our joy at “what Santa brought us.”

They never let on, bless their hearts.

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