Brighton walked in the door, dropped his backpack like it owed him money, and looked me square in the eye.

“Is Santa real?”
Then, just to really twist the knife, he added,
“And don’t lie to me.”

My wife and I locked eyes. This was a test. And we hadn’t studied.

Brighton was in early elementary school at the time, old enough to be suspicious but still young enough to believe in flying reindeer. And clearly, someone at school had planted a seed of doubt. A classmate. A YouTube video. Who knows?

Either way, Christmas was now on trial. And I was the defense attorney.

I turned to Karen and said, “I’m taking him to Dairy Queen.”

Because if I was about to deconstruct the North Pole, the least I could do was buy the kid a Blizzard.

We sat down in the corner booth—just me, Brighton, and a medium Oreo—and I laid it out gently.

I told him Santa Claus was real. Or at least, he had been. A long time ago. A man known for giving, for helping, for making children feel seen and loved. And in his honor, parents now carry on the tradition—keeping the story alive through the magic of giving.

“Santa,” I said, “is more of an idea. A spirit. When Mom and I give gifts in his name, we’re doing it to make Christmas magical. The way he once did.”

Then I made it personal.

“Remember when you and I dressed up as Batman and Robin for Trunk-or-Treat at church?”

He nodded.

“Well, we’re not really the Dynamic Duo. But to the kids we took pictures with? We might as well have been.”

He took a few thoughtful stirs of his Blizzard. Then looked up and said,
“Well, first of all… thank you.”

I blinked repeatedly. “For what?”

“For the presents,” he said. “All these years, I thought they were from Santa. But it was you and Mama.”

I smiled with a chuckle. “You’re welcome.”

Then he asked me when I found out.

I remembered like it was yesterday: I found the Ghostbusters firehouse playset hidden in our garage. Totally on accident. But once I saw it, I knew it had to be a Christmas gift. Sure enough, it showed up Christmas morning, but unfortunately, it was in the “Santa” spot in front of our big cedar tree. And while I was bummed, I played along, for the sake of my little brothers. I didn’t want to take that from them.

So I told Brighton the same thing: this knowledge came with a responsibility.

“You’ve got siblings who still believe,” I said. “Let’s please keep it going for them.”

He didn’t miss a beat.

“Can I help?” he asked.
“Can I help put the Santa gifts out, too?”

“Yes, buddy. Yes, you can,” I answered proudly.

Since then, he’s helped. And now his little sister helps too. It’s become a rite of passage in our house, moving from magic recipient to magic co-creator over a sweet treat. They get to see the Santa gifts before everyone else and those smiles on my teenager and almost teenager is all the gift I need. They still light up, and they also get to light up when they see their younger siblings and the magic.

Because here’s what I’ve come to believe:

Santa may not slide down our chimney, but that doesn’t mean he’s not real.
He’s real every time we put someone else first.
He’s real every time we give without credit.
He’s real when we pass wonder, joy, and generosity down to the next kid in line.

We all get to put on the red suit.

Not just for our families.
But for our neighbors.
Our friends.
Our community.

And yes, Brighton…
There will always be a Santa Claus.

Thanks for reading Grit & Wit by Maury Wood! This post is public so feel free to share it.

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Yes, Brighton, There is a Santa Claus