“I know you put my presents under the tree.”
“What are you talking about? We don’t even have a tree yet.”
“At Christmas, before, I know you’re the one that puts my presents under the tree. Matthew Owen said.”
My disappointment was surely palpable. I didn’t want this day to come. Had I known that last year was the last year he would believe, I would have savored it more.
I do remember thinking to myself that 2011 would likely be the last Christmas my last baby would believe in Santa Clause. Sometimes I hate being right all the time. Well, most of the time. OK, sometimes.
I took a long breath myself, stalling, trying to think of a way to convince him otherwise, “And what do you think about that?”
He thought a moment; even put his finger up to his lips, and looked skyward.
Then he threw his arms around my ample middle and rested his head on my soft breasts, because he’s still that small, and said earnestly, “I just want you to keep doing it!”
He looked up at me with the smile that always melts my heart, and the love that is always in his eyes, and I felt his thank you, even if he didn’t have the words to say what he was feeling.
This boy of mine, who almost wasn’t.
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