This morning as I was getting ready for work I heard a soft knock on my bedroom door. My nine-year-old son stood outside in the hallway. He had a timid, thoughtful look that led me to immediately think ‘Oh crap, what broke.’

He hesitated, gathering his words, then in a soft voice asked ‘Dad… some kids at school… some of them were saying that Santa isn’t real. Is.. is that true?’

Now, like all parents, I knew this was coming. Eventually. Yet in that moment the question caught me flat-footed. As I looked into his eyes, I debated the best way to handle it. Clearly he’d been struggling with this for a while before he mustered the courage to share it.

‘Well, buddy… people believe different things. That doesn’t make them true or not true. We all have to decide what we believe for ourselves. I certainly believe in Santa, but it’s really up to you to choose what you believe.’

After a moment of consideration, his face softened. A broad, sincere smile emerged. With great relief, I realized I had somehow successfully navigated the situation and hit the snooze button on his innocence.

We shared a hug, and as I watched him turn and head back down the hall, my eyes began to well up. The magic was slipping away. I wasn’t ready for that.

A clear and sudden pang of loss arose within my chest.

There it was. The broken thing.