The girl and her parents went to see Santa Claus this year, just like always. But this time was different. This time, she said, she wasn’t going to sit on Santa’s lap.

Her old man really should have seen it coming. She is 7 now, a second-grader. She knows all the songs from “High School Musical.” When she thinks no one’s looking, she tries out dance moves in front of a mirror. She’s growing up — even though in his heart, she always will be a little girl.

There is still Christmas magic for her. She bounced with excitement to see St. Nicholas arrive in a horse-drawn carriage. He wore a fur-trimmed cloak and pillowy white whiskers.
Lots of other kids were in line. Not just little ones, either. There were carolers, gaily wrapped packages, electric candles and gaudy red bows. It’s enough to take your breath away — even if you’re not quite sure it’s all true.
Some of her little friends no longer believe. They have older brothers and sisters who are only too happy to share inside information. Word gets around on the playground and the bus.
So this is Christmas on the cusp: not quite wide-eyed wonderment, not quite open disbelief.
The girl looks for clues from those around her. A few weeks ago, she looked to the old man.
“Daddy,” she asked, “do you believe in Santa Claus?”
The question caught him off guard. How could he explain? She was thinking about the magic of presents received and wishes granted. He was thinking about something else.

He was thinking about a little house in upstate New York. Six people lived there. It seemed very big at the time. In fact, it was smaller than the place she calls home. It had one phone, and one TV. If you didn’t like what everyone else was watching, too bad. You could always read a book.
He’d turned 16 that summer and found his first job: busing tables in a restaurant. He hated it. But for the first time ever, he had money at Christmas. Instead of the sensible clothes he knew he would find under the tree, he could buy himself something cool. A stereo, maybe.
He spent a lot of time shopping. He found a lot he really wanted. Late one evening in a discount store, he found something better: a small TV, on sale for $85. That was about all the money he had. Still . . . .
He’d long since stopped believing in Santa Claus. When he did, most of the magic had disappeared. He thought it was gone forever.
It wasn’t. It started creeping back as he looked at that little TV and thought about how happy it would make his family. They’ll never expect something like this from me, he thought.
Christmas morning took its time coming. When it finally arrived, he broke with the tradition. Instead of the kids opening their presents first, he insisted that his mother open his.
All these years later, he still could picture the look on her face, on the faces of his brother, sisters and father.
It was special beyond special. It was magic.

The girl looked up solemnly, awaiting an answer. Her eyes seemed to plead for confirmation, the edges of her lips curled in knowing disbelief.
The old man thought about that Christmas long ago, and others since.
“Yeah, honey,” he said. “I believe.”
Still, she seemed unsure. “Do you really think he’ll come,” she asked.
The old man smiled.
“He wouldn’t miss it. Not for the world.”

— John G. Carlton