I was around five the first time I remember getting in trouble. It was nearing Christmas, and I wasn’t buying into the whole Santa story anymore.
A magic man spends all year making toys, then drops down chimneys and delivers them all in one night? Nope. I may have only been five, but I was insulted that people expected me to buy that ridiculous story.
Feeling rather proud of myself for figuring it out, I demanded that my mom tell me the truth. And when she finally admitted Santa wasn’t real, I felt vindicated.
But that wasn’t enough. I needed my younger cousins to know the truth, too, so I ran next door and told them. I don’t remember what I said, but I remember what happened when my aunt found out.
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