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Last year, Dad died. Mom came to me and revealed the truth that she had kept to herself for decades.
With a soft smile and eyes full of memories, she sat me down on the old living room couch. “I think it’s time you knew,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
I braced myself. What could she possibly have to tell me about a Gameboy I received when I was seven?
“It wasn’t from a family friend,” she continued, wringing her hands. “It was from your father.”
I frowned. “But Dad always said he didn’t know who left it.”
She nodded. “Because he never wanted you to know.”
I stared at her, trying to process her words.
“We were struggling back then, sweetheart,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “Your father had just lost his job, and money was tight. We could barely afford Christmas dinner, let alone presents. We told you Santa might not bring much that year.”
I remembered that Christmas well. I had tried to act brave, pretending it didn’t matter, but deep down, I was devastated. All my friends were getting new toys, and I had accepted that I would get nothing.
“But your father,” she continued, “he couldn’t stand the thought of you waking up without something magical. He found an old Gameboy at a pawn shop. It was scratched and used, but it worked. He spent hours cleaning it up, making it look as new as possible. Then, on Christmas Eve, while you were asleep, he snuck outside and placed it by the door.”
I felt a lump forming in my throat. “But why didn’t he just give it to me himself?”
Mom smiled sadly. “Because he wanted you to believe in something bigger. He knew that if you thought it came from Santa, you wouldn’t worry about us struggling. You wouldn’t feel guilty for having a gift when we couldn’t afford much else. He wanted to give you joy, without any worries attached.”
I sat there, speechless.
“He never told me he was doing it,” she added. “I only found out when I saw the receipt hidden in his wallet weeks later. He never admitted it, not even when I asked. He just smiled and said, ‘Maybe some Christmas magic is real, after all.’”
Tears burned my eyes. All these years, I had believed in a mystery, when all along, it had been my father’s quiet love.
Mom reached over, squeezing my hand. “I thought you should know. He never wanted credit for it, but I think he’d like you to remember.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
That night, I dug through my old things until I found it—the worn, scratched Gameboy, still holding the magic of a Christmas long ago.