"I feel like a fraud." His fingers twisted in the white fur trim. "Ben, I can't—"
"Don't think. Just listen to them." I wanted to touch him, steady him the way I'd steady a piece of wood that wasn't sitting true, but not here. Not with an audience. "That's all you have to do."
"What if they ask me something I don't know? What if—"
"Then you'll figure it out." I gently caught his wrist, stopping his fidgeting. "You're better at reading people than anyone I know. Trust that."
He took a breath. He didn't look convinced, but he stepped out onto the stage anyway.
The first kid who approached couldn't have been more than six. Bright purple knit cap and mittens decorated with snowflakes.
Maria helped her up the stage steps. "This is Sophie. She's been working on her letter all week, haven't you, sweetie?"
Sophie nodded solemnly and held out a folded piece of paper. Her handwriting showed through the thin notebook paper—large, careful letters that wandered across the lines.
Alex crouched without thinking about it, bringing himself down to her eye level. The movement looked natural, not staged. Good.
"Hi, Sophie." His voice had lost that careful performance quality. It sounded real. "Is that for me?"
She pressed the letter into his hands. "Santa? My mommy tries to be brave, but sometimes when she thinks I'm sleeping, I hear her cry." Her mittened hands twisted together. "Could you maybe help her remember how to smile? Like, really smile?"
I watched something crack open in Alex's expression. The armor he'd been wearing—the Broadway polish—splintered. His hands shook slightly as he unfolded her letter.
"Your mommy loves you very much." He didn't sound like he was acting anymore. "Sometimes grown-ups cry because they have so much love inside, it spills over. Like when a cup gets too full."
"Like when my hot chocolate is too full?" Sophie's face brightened.
"Exactly like that." Alex's laugh sounded genuine. Relief flooded through my chest. "Tell you what—maybe we can think of ways to make her smile together. What makes you smile?"
"Jokes! Want to hear one?"
"Absolutely."
"What did one snowman say to the other snowman?" She could barely contain her giggles. "Do you smell carrots?"
The other kids burst out laughing. Alex's shoulders dropped, losing two inches of tension. He traded increasingly ridiculous snowman jokes with Sophie, and each response came easier than the last.
Noel materialized beside me in the wings.
"See?" He kept his voice barely above a whisper. "He's not performing. He's connecting."
A boy who'd been hanging back finally stepped forward. I recognized him—Tommy Phillips, eight years old, leukemia. He'd been in and out of treatment for two years. His hospital gown showed beneath a flannel shirt someone had brought him, and his IV pole rattled against the stage floor as he walked.
His gaze was intense as he approached Alex. "You told my friend Marcus that being brave doesn't mean not being scared. It means doing things even when they're scary."
Alex shot a panicked glance toward Noel. I tensed, ready to intervene, but Tommy kept speaking.
"Marcus told me that, and I've been thinking about it." He lifted his chin. "I'm still scared sometimes, but I'm here anyway."
Understanding spread across Alex's face. This wasn't about fooling anyone. These kids didn't care if he'd been Santa for decades or five minutes. They only needed someone to see them.
"Look how brave you're being right now." Alex's voice was soft and careful. "Coming up here to talk to me when you're scared? That's real courage, Tommy."
Tommy's smile could have powered the stage lights.
More kids came forward. Each one brought their own story and their carefully guarded hope. Alex met every single one exactly where they were—no performance or technique.
A boy in a Santa-red sweater carried a battered plush reindeer. "This is Dasher. He helps when it's foggy."
