My childhood was awash in lies telling us that priests would come out of our wounds, that I was adopted, and that Santa existed.

By nine, I stopped believing in Santa Claus and started believing in my parents. That was also around the time I learned they were perfectly capable of lying with love.

When I uncovered the sham, I had already discovered the theatrical lengths they went to keep the lie beautiful.

So, I humored my parents when, a few hours before Christmas, they told us to hang our socks by the window and “go to sleep.” Santa would fill them, they said, when it was just them shuffling in the dark like burglars with good intentions. 

No sleigh crashed through the roof; instead footsteps, pacing in what sounded like a minor war across the living room. The real magic is realizing your parents were improvising the whole time.

Somewhere between the crinkle of wrapping paper and scissors, I realized I was more entertained by their improvisation than by any gift under the tree.

It felt rude to interrupt; I pretended to sleep so convincingly that my father bent over me and whispered my name.

There were futile attempts to snore, counting my breaths, learning how heavy a secret could be by keeping still all night. It felt like defusing a bomb with a pillow over my face. At some point, Christmas stopped being about gifts and became about not ruining anything. If there was a Santa indeed and he was watching, he’d think that I was saving Christmas.

I counted each step my parents took, memorized each clumsy shuffle and clatter, imagining I could orchestrate their act. I was the invisible stagehand that made sure the story continued, who witnessed the way Christmas worked — the secret engine of joy that adults grind tirelessly for their children.

Dapple, the family dog, sniffed at boxes, barked at ribbons, occasionally trotted across the kitchen like he was a part of it. I shot him a look. My parents hushed him as though he knew more about Christmas than I ever would.

I felt guilty for catching them. Not for spoiling the lie, but for noticing how desperately they were trying to keep it. It’s strange, realizing that the ones who taught you to dream are often the ones performing the hardest, quietest miracles.

Half a world away, people value children but not childhood, which says quite a lot about why our Christmas is so special. Adults think Christmas belongs to the children; children know it belongs to the adults trying not to lose them. 

And so, for years, I would secretly watch my parents jig like Santa’s elves giggling with kid joy as they wrapped the presents they said they were sure we were going to love, so that sometimes I stood there thinking they ought to merit their own TV show — “My Parents are Cuter Than Yours,” say — peeking through a gap in the door and moaning, “Aww! You’re such a child!”