I grew up with a secret ambition to become Santa Claus. I think it all started with a shockingly realistic dream in which I discovered a secret portal to the North Pole in the back of my brother’s closet. As an adult, I’ve enjoyed the times I’ve had a chance to play the jolly old elf. Mostly, it’s been at my school’s tree lighting ceremony, where I just come out at the end, wave, say ho-ho-ho, and hand out candy canes. My favorite moment from one of those was when my great niece Hadley came with her parents and she walked up to get her candy cane. She has always been a sharp one, so she looked me in the eyes and immediately knew it was me. To her credit, though, she didn’t give away my secret.

I have a new favorite moment now, though. It happened this last Tuesday as I was handing out candy canes to the wee ones. And by wee ones, I mean anyone who wants one. I gave out many to smaller children, but several also went to my students. That really was a lot of fun, especially when people asked me for pictures with their children. I even got a picture with my beautiful daughter, Lauren, and another with her and her friends. The truly magic moment happened as I was turning away from a group of my students, when I was greeted by an adult man and his wife. I would guess he was in his twenties or thirties and she was my age or a bit older. He looked at me so seriously I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I fell back on the script by handing him a candy cane and wishing him a merry Christmas.

He very quietly replied, “Thank you, Santa.”

He was clearly developmentally delayed. I said, “You’re welcome. See you in a few weeks!”

Before I could get away, I heard him shouting, “Santa! Santa!” When I turned back, he looked even more serious than before, like was on a vital mission. “Do you want chocolate chip cookies or peanut butter cookies when you come to my house?”

Taken aback for a moment, I stammered before finding my words. “Well, I like both, how about that?”

He nodded. “Okay. Now, do you like white milk or chocolate?”

I fought back tears for some reason. “I love chocolate milk.”

“Okay, I’ll have them ready for you when you get to my house.”

Overcome with emotion, I mumbled a thank-you and walked away. But again, before I got far, I felt a tap on my shoulder. This time it was his mother, who was apparently feeling pretty emotional too, as tears streamed down her face. “Thank you for that.” There was a tremble in her voice that enlarged the lump in my throat. “Mentally, he’s only about eight years old. He was so excited to see you and get to talk with you.”

No longer able to fight them off, I felt a tear leak from the corner of my eye. “I’m just thankful I got to be a part of this.”

She thanked me again and disappeared into the crowd to find her son. I stood for a few seconds basking in the joy of brightening the day of the young man, whose name I didn’t think to ask. I felt for just a little while like I really was Santa.