Magical Truth??

Holiday magic or just cruelty for pretending

They call it magic,
tell children to believe in a man
who never misses a house,
never counts the cost,
never fails.

But they don’t tell them
what happens when a child
believes too well.

My little Pacey once told me
not to worry,
that I didn’t have to be sad or ashamed,
because Santa would take care of it.
As if hope itself
had a credit card.

He said it gently.
Trusting.
Certain.
And that certainty broke me.

I cried that night
where he couldn’t hear it—
because no child should feel responsible
for comforting a parent,
and no child should believe
that love arrives only
if you’re lucky enough.

They say Santa is harmless.
Fun.
A tradition.
But no one talks about the nights
mothers lie awake
counting what they don’t have,
while their children believe
someone else will come through.

My heart didn’t break
because Pacey believed.
It broke because he believed for me.
Because he thought magic
was supposed to fill the gaps
I couldn’t.

And I hated that story then—
not because it’s a lie,
but because it teaches children
that good things come
from strangers in the dark,
instead of the people
who are breaking themselves
to love them.

If there is magic,
it isn’t a man in a suit.
It’s a child who offers comfort
when he shouldn’t have to.
It’s a mother who keeps going
even when her heart caves in.

That night,
I didn’t stop believing in love.
I stopped believing
in pretending.

And I promised myself
that my kids would know the truth—
that whatever they have,
whatever they lack,
it comes from hands that bleed,
from hearts that try,
from love that shows up
even when magic doesn’t.