My parents stumble backward in horror when the gold dust settles. “Hi,” I say. As if that simple greeting doesn’t completely undermine the magical transformation they witnessed. “It’s me.”
“Son, I—” Not sure I’ve ever seen my father at a loss for words before. “I don’t understand. Is this some kind of new technology?”
I shake my head again. “No, it’s a pretty old technology called magic.” I pick the cloak up from the floor. Drape it over my arms. At least it will hide my shaking hands. “Do you remember that job opportunity I mentioned last Christmas?” Their nods of recognition happen in slow succession. “You might want to sit for this next part.”
Uncertainly, they shuffle to the couch. Mom sits perched on the edge of a cushion. Dad slumps back.
“This was the job.” I shake the cloak. More gold dust falls. “I’m Santa Claus.” It feels good to say that again to someone outside of the North Pole. It’s legitimizing in a way I hadn’t expected.
“What’s going on here? Magic? Santa Claus? Have you lost your mind? What am I saying? Clearly, he has with all that world traveling and not calling and gallivanting and God knows what else.” Dad’s finicky hands move fast.
“Did you miss the whole me-sliding-down-through-the-chimney and the glittery transformation that happened a second ago?” I ask. My dad can’t be that dense.
“Let’s say, for the sake of this conversation, that magic and Santa are real. How would you have become him?” Mom asks.
I weave the story. The abridged version. Less violence, of course.
They’re still stupefied. Still looking at me like I’ve grown a second head. Suddenly, their attention is caught by thumping up above us.
“What is that? Is there someone on our roof? This little prank of yours has gone too far, son.” Dad hauls himself to his feet and out the back door. He walks across the back deck in near darkness. He tilts his head toward the sky. “Holy Mother of— Are those reindeer?” He doesn’t notice he’s inched too close to the railing. He bumps it, loses his balance, and falls over the edge.
Good thing it’s only a few feet and that there’s several inches of fresh, fluffy snow on the ground.
“Bill!” Mom rushes out after him.
Dad’s okay. Just cold, wet, and shaken. We get him inside, dry him off, and sit him at the kitchen table wrapped in a towel. Mom turns on the electric burner and places the filled teakettle on it before coming back to us.
“I don’t expect you to understand everything tonight becauseI don’t have much more time left.” I check my pocket watch. “But I came here because Quinn and I were living at the North Pole for the better part of the year, working with the elves to grant wishes and spread Christmas cheer.”
Dad shakes his head fast but blinks slowly. “I assumed Carver & Associates had sent you on some special project to get ideas from around the world.”
“Actually, Dad”—I square off to him—“I got fired from Carver & Associates right before Christmas last year.”
“You what?” The teakettle begins to whistle. I imagine it’s the sound of steam pouring out of Dad’s ears as he lumbers up to standing and drops the towel.
Mom doesn’t say a word. She’s pouring the hot water and steeping the tea, not looking over. I get the sense she’s known this part but didn’t want to bring it up.
I stand to meet my father eye to eye. “I got fired. I’m sorry I lied. But I don’t regret any of it. I don’t regret studying what I love or pursuing it, because I’m not you. Dad, I know you wanted me to be a lawyer and, Mom, I know you’ve always wanted a daughter-in-law because you never had a daughter. I’ve made concessions every day to try and be myself while still pleasing you both, but I don’t think I can do that anymore. I have to choose me.”
“I don’t understand,” Dad says.
“That’s okay,” I say. “Because I understand now. I’m your son, and I’m wired to want you to be proud of me, but you know what? I learned that it’s just as important thatI’mproud of me. And I am. That’s enough.”
The three of us stand in tenuous silence. My pocket watch vibrates to remind me that I’m running out of time to put the cloak back on.
“I have to go now, but I’ll see you both for Christmas dinner, okay?” I ask, edging back toward the fireplace. Unburdened, at least a little. “I love you both.”
I transform back into Santa. Growing and widening. I heft the sack up over my shoulder.
Right as I’m about to disappear up the chimney, Mom calls after me. “Patrick?”
“Yeah?”
She clears her throat. “Those things you said— We never, well, we never wanted you to be anyone other than who you are. We only nudged you in certain directions because we wanted to ensure you’d be happy. Happy and loved. That’s all we ever cared about. That’s all we still care about.”
“That’s right,” Dad says after a beat. Which is as close to sentimental as he’s ever going to get.
“We love you,” Mom says. “We love you lots. Always will. No matter what.”
