It reminded me of my childhood, of coming downstairs and seeing the piles of gifts for my brothers and me—not as many, of course, and not as beautifully wrapped, but evidence that Santa was real and that I’d been good enough to deserve presents from him. We’d rip them open all at once, and the living room would be a chaotic mess of shredded paper and ribbon, but even my fastidious mom wouldn’t care. She and my dad would sit on the couch with their coffee and act surprised by every gift we opened, asking to look at it more closely, saying of course it was okay if we played with it now. Then they’d go into the kitchen and make breakfast together—she’d scramble the eggs and fry the bacon and he’d make hash browns from scratch. Best Christmas mornings ever. I fucking wanted that feeling back, and only family could deliver it. How the hell had Sylvia’s husband thrown it away?

For a moment, I allowed myself a little fantasy—Sylvia was my wife, we were in our home, and we were up late playing Santa for our children.

This is what it would be like, I thought, coming in from the party in our formal clothes, quickly and quietly getting the gifts under the tree, laughing a little because we were tipsy and it was Christmas and we had everything we could ever want. And when we were done, we’d go upstairs and I’d unzip that red dress and she’d unbutton my shirt and we’d make love even though it was late and we were tired and we’d be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to watch our kids open their presents in wide-eyed delight. Maybe her hair would be a mess and she’d have mascara under her eyes, but I’d look at her and know I was married to the sexiest, most amazing woman in the world.

I saw it way too clearly. That was fucked up. What was in that expensive scotch, anyway?

Next to me, Sylvia sighed. “I don’t even know for sure if they still believe in Santa Claus, but I’m not about to ruin it for them. They’ve had enough taken away from them this year.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey. Everything okay?” Sylvia tugged on my sleeve.

“Yeah.”

“What are you thinking about?”

I faced her. Spoke quietly but firmly. “What a good mother you are. How lucky your kids are to have you.”

She looked down at her feet. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” I put my fingers under her chin and tilted her head up. “I know a lot of things.”

“Like what?” she whispered.