You better watch out.

I’m sure I’m not alone in saying that for most of my life, I was firmly under the impression, and been led to believe that Santa was not real. I am also 99% sure that my parents were not lying when they told me that they had been Santa all along; they were the ones leaving me letters for me to read, along with the present that I had begged an entire year for. When I confronted my mom about how her handwriting was suspiciously similar to that of Santa, she sighed in relief and said, “I guess it’s time for you to know the truth.”

So you can imagine the shock and awe that coursed through my system, when I came face to face with what was clearly a workshop full of elves who were faithfully serving a white-haired woman(!), clad mostly in red, with hints of green in her socks and gloves.

“Bet you thought we were all somewhere in Northern Europe, huh? Why no one ever bothered to look in the Bermuda Triangle, beats me.”

Santa (or Ms. Santa, as she pointed out during our first introductions) didn’t seem too phased by the fact that her secret operation was now blown, found by me - an unassuming aviator lost at sky - who stood at her doorstep agape at the sight. She chuckled at my disbelief and went about her business, and even in my stupor, I thought her attitude was strange for someone who had just been caught in a lie.

“I never lied! Your parents were the liars. I was always faithful to my mantra: presents for the good kids, none for the bad ones. But the parents who had the naughty little ones were the ones who started taking my place, and soon I was only delivering to a handful of kids a year. I’m sure they are still baffled and wondering which kind neighbor left them the present or are curious as to why their parents, to this day, still insist that they never put the present there or just take credit for it.”

“Wait so I was a naughty kid? What did I do wrong?”

“Oh, naughty isn’t so bad. Honestly, at some point, I began to think that there was something wrong with the “good kids” that I delivered to. All the ones who turned out fun were never the ones on my ledger.”

So it seemed that Santa spent the rest of the year crossing out kids who weren’t going to get the presents - that alone was a full time job. With the number of kids decreasing nowadays, she’s had to decommission some of her elves, which was the most disheartening and heartbreaking thing for her to go through. She lamented the quality of the presents that kids were now wishing for, as well. Kids were no longer just kids, she found. They just all seemed to want what the adults already had.

When I told her my 3-year-old’s name, she powered on her machine with a spark of curiosity flashing through her eyes and after reading what seemed to me to be gibberish, she turned to me, with an expression that I could only describe as the face that my mother used to make while tucking me in at night.

“She almost got something from me last year but this year, she wants the one thing I can’t give her.”

“And that would be?”

“For her daddy to spend more time with her.”

Some low-hanging fruit dislodged in my chest, making a thud as it plummeted to somewhere low in my gut. And I suppose the sound traveled to Ms. Santa’s ears, because she made a face as she put a hand on my shoulder.

“I know it’s been hard for you, watching her hurt like that. As much as you can’t face it, she also doesn’t want to be left alone.”

Since the diagnosis, Laurel had almost seemed apologetic most times, worrying about how I was going to be able to take care of her and go to work, how I was going to pay the bills - basically how a 28-year-old single dad was going to be responsible for a 10-year-old cancer patient. And as hard as I tried to hide it, the horror and the pain of watching the most precious thing in your life wither away, must have shown on my face. At some point, I had made the decision that I was the last thing she needed to see; I couldn’t stand the thought of letting her know how overwhelmed I was feeling. I felt like a twig bearing first snow, ready to snap at even the lightest nudge from the smallest bird who flew by.

“I don’t want her to know how much I’m struggling. I don’t want her to think it’s her fault.”

“If it was you, would you rather have a struggling dad who cares about you or no dad at all?”

The answer was clear, but what was less clear was how I was going to get home.

“Can you help me get out of here?”

“I’m no genie, I don’t grant wishes.”

“I’m not asking for a wish grant, I’m asking for instructions on how to get back out. I have no idea how I got here!”

Santa sighed, rolling her eyes at an idiotic man, just like the commoners do - as if she weren’t a mythical, legendary creature. Santa, she’s just like us!

“Get back into that raggedy old thing and keep flying north. And I know this sounds ridiculous but you have to keep thinking of Laurel while you do it. Almost a Jesus take the wheel, kind of mindset.”

“You know about Jesus?”

“That’s a story for never. And one caveat - you’re going to forget all about what happened here, so make sure you have some way of figuring out how you’re going to make sure you remember what you learned here.”

“And what’s that?”

“That you’re a good father, and no amount of Christmas presents is going to replace you.”