I was eight years old back then and not very excited about Christmas. Everyone around my grandparents house seemed so naturally festive. I hovered around the kitchen watching my grandmother prepare the turkey and ham we would stuff ourselves with after attending church promptly at 9 o'clock, followed by the opening of gifts piled high under the aluminum tree in the living room.

I was more than moderately depressed because just two months before Christmas my parents finalized their divorce. Our new temporary home was my grandparents house until Mom return to the corporate world. Our family life was now so very different. Normally, there would be nightly conversations around the dinner table about what we hoped Santa Claus would deliver, and how well behaved we had to be to have our wish list granted. Santa knew all. Santa was vigilant every moment, making sure my brother, sister, and I were on our best behaviors. This time, there was no mention of Santa or what gifts we were hoping to find under the tree. Dinner discussions consisted of Mom's attempts to find work, my grandmother confessing every ache and pain she had throughout the day, and my grandfather trying to stay awake. Why was Santa Claus and gifts not the topic? Did they not see how I paged through the Sears catalog every night looking at toys?

As a child, Santa was a God. My parents told me everything I wanted to know about Santa. Santa lived in the North Pole with his wife. Mom even went so far as to point to the white mountain areas on the top of my metal globe. She said the North Pole was magical and no one knew exactly where it was located. Santa had many helpers, little people who knew how to make all the toys for every child in the world. Best of all, Santa had special deer and a huge sled. The deer could fly, pulling Santa's sled stuffed with toys. How wonderful to be Santa!

Every year, we had a ritual to prepare for Santa's visit. Cookies were baked and laid out on a plate by the fireplace. Santa liked cookies for the energy he needed to visit every house on Christmas Eve. Carrots were placed in the back yard for the deer. Of course, Santa got in through the chimney of the house, but if you didn't have a fireplace, you had to leave the back door unlocked.

Santa had two ways of knowing what you wanted for Christmas. You had to write a wish list of gifts and include your pledge of good behavior throughout the year. Somehow the letter was delivered to Santa by my parents. The other method was paging through the Sears catalog, pointing to the toys while Mom took notes to send off to Santa. How great is that!

Santa only visited your house if you were sleeping. All good children would go to bed early on Christmas Eve, toss and turn for hours until exhaustion finally kicked in. When you wake up in the morning, it's a mad dash to the tree to find your special gifts from the man in the red suit. The cookies set out had been chewed, the carrots in the back yard were gone, and if you were really lucky and it snowed that night, tiny foot prints could be found in the snow. All of this was evidence of Santa being real.

My grandmother called me to the kitchen as we were all dressed in our pajamas for bed. She had us place the cookies by the fireplace with a glass of milk. We then watched grand-pop place a bunch of carrots out in the back yard, spreading them around for all of Santa's deer to eat. Mom gave us all a hug, tucked us in our beds, and told us Santa would be here by morning as long as we had a good night sleep. The lights went out. The house was quiet.

I woke up in the middle of the night because I had to pee. As I was walking through the dark hallway to the bathroom, I could hear voices coming from the living room. The aluminum tree was being lit by a mobile multi-color light and the glow of red, blue, yellow, and green was filtering up the stairs. Was this Santa? Was I even going to dare peek down the stairs? It had to be him.

I knelt down at the top of the stairs trying my best to get a glimpse of Santa, but I couldn't see past the banister. Slowly, I laid on my belly and slid down the top of the stairs, using my hands and arms to support me. My heart was pounding at the thought of seeing Santa for the first time.

All I saw was my grandparents and mother. They were hovered over boxes of gifts, cutting wrapping paper, and placing name tags on the gifts that were already wrapped. Mom was murmuring about a gift she bought for me, and told my grandparents it was to be signed "from Santa". Suddenly, without warning, she began to cry. My grandparents tried to console her but Mom was too upset. In between sniffles and gasping for air, I heard her thank my grandparents for lending her the money to buy all our gifts for Christmas. She said she just wanted Christmas to be the same as it had over the years, and couldn't wait until us kids charged down the stairs in the morning. I was beginning to cry as I crept slowly back up the top of the stairs. I leaned against the hallway wall and realized there was no Santa.....

I was eight years old, and I discovered there was no Santa. Santa was my parents, in this case, now my grandparents and mother. To keep Santa alive, Mom borrowed money from my grandparents to buy our gifts. Santa was an extension of their love. Love created the vision and purpose of having Santa come once a year, and parents enjoyed the thrill of seeing their children's eyes open wide with delight on Christmas morning. Christmas seemed to take on a new meaning for me that night.

In the morning, I was the first to wake up. I grabbed my siblings and we charged down the stairs. Grandparents and Mom were awaiting our arrival. They all assumed the same surprised look on their faces as we ran to the gifts under the tree. I, in turn, played it out so well for my mother. I ran to show her the cookies were eaten and the carrots were gone from the yard. I only stopped playing with my new gifts to eat dinner.

Later in the evening, after hours of playing, Mom found me half asleep clutching onto the 007 spy briefcase from Santa. I remember her sliding the briefcase out from my folded arms and carrying me upstairs to bed. As she placed me under the covers, she bent down and kissed my forehead, told me she loved me, and rose to leave. I touched her hand nervously. Mom turned and leaned towards me when I said, "Thank you Mrs. Santa Claus. I love you". I saw her eyes water and the corners of her mouth begin to tremor. With another hug, she said "Let your brother and sister enjoy Santa a bit longer". It was our special secret for the next few years.