When my husband of 12 years walked out on me and our two young children, I didn’t know how we would survive. I made little at my cleaning and haircutting jobs, and we couldn’t afford to stay in our home. We packed up and drove to Idaho, where relatives helped us find a small house for rent.
Then the holidays arrived. The kids approached me with puppydog eyes. “Mom, can we go to the mall? Santa’s there!” Sure, why not, I figured. They made out their Christmas lists. A trendy doll for Katiebeth. A big Lego set for Keith. New clothes for both. Nothing I can afford, I worried.
The kids lined up and finally got their turn on Santa’s knee. Afterward, they seemed so excited. How could I let them down? At a thrift store, I found some passable used clothes, books, a board game. I wrapped and hid the gifts in the closet. Lord, please help the kids understand.
Christmas Eve, it snowed all day. I was getting the kids to bed when our doorbell rang. Who would visit so late? I peered through the peephole. A snow-covered Santa held a big black bag.
“Ho, ho, ho, merry Christmas!” he said. The kids ran to the door and shrieked with delight. “Have you been good?” he asked. They nodded yes.
Santa reached into his bag. Out came a doll for Katie. A Lego set for Keith. And brand-new clothes, in the kids’ sizes. My arms held a pile of pants and shirts and dresses!
I stood in stunned silence as Santa turned to go, shutting the door behind him. “Wait!” I called. I put the clothes down and pulled the door back open.
Santa was nowhere to be seen. Not even his boot print on our snow-covered front yard.
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