I probably shouldn’t have judged him so harshly when he showed up. He’s making “Operation Santa” his entire personality right now, and I have to give him credit for that.
Complete silence descends on the house.
“Is that Santa’s toy bag?” Phoebe’s voice is an octave higher than usual, with the perfect amount of disbelief.
I start my mental countdown from thirty.
Dad always preached it was important to make them wait—dial up the anticipation to the point the air vibrates. Funny enough, he always told Evelyn something similar.
Make them wait a respectful pause. The people who will appreciate you will wait. Those who get mad about it probably aren’t.
One thing I can give my sister is that she never fails to command a room.
I close my eyes and let myself feel the weight of this moment. Dad’s legacy and wisdom, and a tradition I never saw myself continuing.
I was sure moments like this died when they did, and when I open my eyes, I’m grateful I was wrong.
The stairs creak more than usual as I descend, and I’m not sure if it’s the boots or if the house is offering a little extraboost. Either way, when I step into the living room, reactions roll through the adults like a wave.
Evelyn presses a hand to her chest, her facade cracking a smidge. A simple “Oh” is all I can make out from here.
Owen grins from ear to ear, like he’s ten again. His parents stand with their elbows hooked, exchanging a look. Surprise that softens into understanding.
Carter’s arms drop from their crossed position. “Dude.”
Reid just nods, like he’s actually impressed.
My beautiful wife is sneaking around, snapping photos, and crouching behind stair spindles and pieces of furniture.
But there’s only one reaction I’m interested in: Phoebe’s.
She’s frozen in place, mouth open, and eyes wide. I hope Chloe captures this look so I can remember it forever.
“Santa?” Her little voice is full of reverence.
“Well,” I start, dropping my voice as low as I can manage. “Your elf passed along that you spent the week fighting off a virus, but still managed to dance like a sugarplum.”
“Elsa?” she whispers. Half-frantic, she looks for Chloe. “Mom! Elsa really does report to Santa every night!”
“All the elves report on their kids,” I reply. “As long as you’re good and don’t touch them. You haven’t stolen any of Elsa’s magic, have you?”
Phoebe shakes her head slowly. “No way. I know better.”
I can’t wait to hear about this from her perspective later.
Especially when she runs at me and clings like a little spider monkey. But then I panic, because I’m worried she’ll recognize the way I hold her, and so I sit in the middle of the floor, not the chair they put out for me.
But Phoebe doesn’t seem to mind. I just shift her, acting like this is just a normal day.
She talks to me about ballet, still overly excited about her makeshift recital. I’m surprised by her incredibly thoroughChristmas list—I always thought Dad exaggerated about the number of things she asks for. I laugh at the corny Christmas jokes she tells me, and smile when she shares some of her Christmas wishes.
“I have a secret for you,” I tell her. This part was always one of my favorites. “But I only tell good kids that will tell theothergood kids.”
She blinks in surprise. “You want me toshareyour secret?”
“It’s an important one. Can you do it?”
“I’ll tell every kid I know at recess,” she says solemnly.
