It started with a boy in her class—some kid with a loose tooth and loose lips—who told her Santa wasn’t real. “It’s just your parents,” he said, as if he were reporting tomorrow’s lunch menu. My daughter, with that mix of innocence and conviction she wears so naturally, argued with him. My 9-year-old debated her classmate. She defended Santa with her whole being.

But then… she wondered.

Later that night, she had that look she gets when she’s on the verge of asking a question she already fears the answer to.

“Mom,” she said, “is Santa real? It’s not you and Dad, is it?”

And there it was: the moment my husband and I agreed, years ago, would be the line. The rule had always been: The minute she asks, we tell the truth. No prolonging it, no adding twists, no pretending. I’ve always vowed t

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