When I read the open call for the truth about Santa, my gut wrenched in memory of the night I learned, for sure, there was no Santa Claus.

It was the Christmas of 1970 and I was eight years old. All I could think about was this fancy doll I’d seen in the Sears Wish Book. She didn't do much of anything, she was just pretty. In her blue velvet dress, with shiny blond hair and accompanying lacy umbrella, I could not take my eyes off her picture in the catalog.

This doll business was new for me. I was a tom-boy and normally a match box car kind of girl. So I was preoccupied with her that Christmas and maybe didn’t notice my parents were having problems. I was just rocking on, being a kid and looking forward to Santa bringing me that beautiful doll.

I knew something was up with the Santa deal. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but I went along and was genuinely impressed when the cookies and milk were gone on Christmas morning. It was easy to believe.

My dad had to work the midnight shift that Christmas Eve. Working on holidays always made my mother sore at him, but double time was double time and like most families, we needed the money. He really didn’t like Christmas anyway and was always sullen during the holidays. She was sore, and he was sullen. What could possibly go wrong?

My siblings and I went to bed about 10:00. After a while, we heard our parents speaking in anger downstairs, then the voices got louder. They didn’t often fight, and when they did it was the usual snappy cuss fest with the occasional thrown ashtray, no real violence, no screaming.

This time was different. I heard my brother and sister outside my door speaking in urgent whispers. I got up and joined them and we all peeked down the stairs.

Our parents were scuffling and screaming at each other, but something else caught my eye and I stared, transfixed. There were toys everywhere! The whole living room was packed. It was like...Christmas, a super duper Christmas with more presents than we had ever seen before. I saw a Chemistry Set that I had secretly coveted and my heart thumped. There was a Rock-Em-Sock-Em Robot! And matchbox cars!

Then I was brought back to harsh reality by my panicked older siblings dragging me along as we ran down the stairs. The parents were still scuffling and all of sudden I realized they were fighting over a GUN and someone was about to get shot. My brother was pushing my sister and me out the back door and then there we were, in the snow, barefoot and in our pajamas. I never did figure out why we didn’t just run back upstairs.

Still in a panic, we headed to the house next door through the snow. We made it about thirty feet before we stopped, regrouped and listened. The screaming had stopped, it was quiet. Our feet were frozen and I whined to go back inside.

We crept back in. It was quiet and no one was around. The gun was laying on the kitchen floor. My brother picked it up and hid it in the laundry hamper. Then we heard voices upstairs. They were soft.

We walked into the living room through the toys. My interest in the them was lost, but when I saw her my breath caught in my chest. In a prime place beneath the tree, shining under the lights, sat the doll in the blue dress. She just sparkled.

We all stood there in tears, warming our feet by the heater grate, until our parents came back down the stairs. It was 11:00 PM, almost time for my father to go to work. They both sat down and looked at us, mainly at me because I was the youngest.

My mother said, “You know there is no Santa Claus don’t you?” We nodded and she continued, “Your father and I buy the Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I got carried away and spent way too much money this year.”

“Way too much,” my father echoed.

She continued, “You can each pick one toy. The rest of it has to go back. We’re sorry, but we’ve got bills to pay.”

She was crying. So was he. Damn, we all were. 

I chose the doll. My sister picked a Spirograph and my brother, trying to be an adult, chose a warm jacket.

We went back to bed, my father went to work and my mother began putting the toys back in their boxes.

The next morning was tense and we picked at our breakfast while waiting for Daddy to get home. He walked in the door at 8:30 looking calm, but down. He hugged my mom and they disappeared for a while.

They came back out shortly carrying packages, two for each of us. They didn’t explain themselves and we didn’t ask. I was happy to see the Chemistry Set and a few matchbox cars, and my siblings politely accepted their gifts, but it didn’t hold much of a thrill for us. Presents be damned, we were just happy they weren’t trying to kill one another.

This incident was never spoken of again, until today. No one ever explained how the gun got involved or who was wielding it at whom, or why my mother went so far out of character that year, spending money we did not have. If there were reasons or explanations, they have gone to the grave with both of them.

I own the gun now, although I've never pulled the trigger. It was an inheritance from my father and every so often, I take it out and look at it, usually around this time of year.

I still have the doll in the blue dress too, and she only comes out at Christmas. As I write, she is sitting under my tree, sparkling in the lights and reminding me about what I learned that night.  Christmas is not about gifts, it is about those we love.