A small boy and his mother braved winter winds one December evening some years ago. They walked through slushy snow to buy some milk and beer. The milk was for the boy and his baby sister. The beer was for their father, who liked to wash down his cigarette smoke with a cold one when he got home.

The boy’s father was over-worked and under-paid, the old story.  But borderline poverty couldn’t prevent the boy’s mother from dreaming. Her great dream was the same every Christmas – to take the family to see the Balanchine Nutcracker at the New York City Ballet. They lived 90 miles off Broadway, in an upstate college town. But the car needed work and the little bit she’d been able to put away she’d already spent on gifts for the kids.

She was day-dreaming about the magic Waltz of the Flowers in Act II as she stepped out the deli’s front door.   Her son spotted something in the slush and picked it up.

“Hey Mom! I found a dollar. No – three dollars!”

The mother examined her son’s find. He was off by 57 dollars.

The boy had found three neatly folded twenties. Not daring to look around, she grabbed her boy’s hand and walked home, hardly able to contain her excitement.

When she got home, she unfolded  the bills and stared at them.  This year, the dream would come true.

But the more she thought about it, the unhappier she felt. Suppose this was somebody’s shopping money. Maybe someone had just cashed a check to buy their kids Christmas presents. What if it had been her? How would she feel?

She decided she’d have to do something. She’d have to  advertise.

“What are you, crazy? It’s probably money for a dope deal.”

The woman’s husband was a newspaper reporter. A realist, he said.  A rationalizer, she said.

The ad was simple and to the point: “Money found. Give convincing details for return, c/o Record,  Box 256.”

She received  half a dozen replies. A woman’s purse containing $119 had been lifted from a restaurant. A man had had his gym locker rifled for $23. The rest  of the replies looked like wild guesses. None of them contained enough detail to prevent the woman from making reservations for four at the New York City Ballet.

It was Christmas Eve when the newspaper forwarded  the last response to the ad. Her heart sank. Somehow, she knew what was in it before she read it.

The note was from a college student who said he had lost three neatly folded twenties a few days before outside the Main Street Deli. His telephone number was written at the bottom of the note. 

Suddenly, with crystal clarity, the woman watched the Sugarplum Fairy turn into a giant dancing prune.

She slowly dialed the number on the note.

 She gazed at the Christmas tree in the living room as the phone rang.

A man’s voice came on the line.

"Hello?" 

She told her husband about the call later.

“I think you did the right thing, babe” he told her.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t  easy.”

“Well, I’m proud of you.”

“I’m beginning to feel  better about it myself.”

“I’m glad. The guy must have died when you asked for the serial numbers.”

“Yeah. He said ‘Hang on there lady, who do you think I am, Mr. Memory?’ And I told him right back – I said ‘And who do you think I am, Santa Claus?’"

She was about to say more, but the curtain was going up. The overture had begun.