I Hired the Same Santa for Three Years, But It Was Last Christmas Eve That I Found Out the Truth…
Real life can be crazier than any movie — and trust me, what happened to me last Christmas was the biggest shock of my life. My name is Elara, and this story starts when I was 34, just a year ago. Let me take you back a bit first.
I adopted my son, Dylan, when he was only six months old. That was eight years ago now — he’s eight, and he’s my whole world.
The adoption agency told me they’d found him left on their doorstep. I know, it sounds like something from a sad Christmas film, right? All he had with him was a tiny note that said his name was Martin.
I decided to call him Dylan. From that day, it was just me and him — my little team. Raising him on my own has never been easy, but it’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Every holiday felt special with him, but Christmas? That was our time.
I can’t stand busy malls and long lines, so instead of dragging Dylan around for Santa photos, I thought, Why not hire a Santa to come to us?
A few years ago, I found this cute photography studio that offered a Santa actor. Dylan was just a chubby baby back then. The photos turned out adorable! But when he got older, I wanted to make Christmas even more special.
Then, about three Christmases ago, I found a strange flyer on my doorstep. It said: “Professional Santa available to visit your home and surprise your child.” There was a phone number too. It felt like a sign. So, I called. And that’s how Harold came into our lives.
The first time Harold showed up, he looked like a Santa from an old storybook — his red suit was a bit too big, but he had the rosy cheeks and the warm smile. Dylan, who was five then, was convinced he was the real Santa.
He dragged Harold all over our tiny house. “Santa, look at this ornament! And this one!” Dylan would squeal, showing him every shiny thing on the tree. I just sat on our old, squeaky couch and watched. It was perfect.
Looking back, there were little clues that I missed. That first year, Harold stayed for three whole hours! He didn’t just hand out a candy cane and leave — he built block towers with Dylan, read him stories, and even helped us bake cookies. When I tried to give him extra money (even though I barely had any), he smiled and said, “Just call me next Christmas.”
So, the next year, I did. And guess what? He was still free. Most kids have to stand in a crowded mall line for a five-minute picture. But not my Dylan. He got hours with his own personal Santa. I did wonder sometimes, Doesn’t this guy have other families?
One night, I asked him, “You don’t have to stay this long. Don’t you have other kids to visit?”
Harold just smiled, his eyes crinkling. “Oh no. Christmas Eve is just for special boys like Dylan.” At the time, I thought it was sweet. Now? It makes sense.
Over the next few years, Dylan became totally hooked on these Santa visits. He’d clean his room like crazy and do extra chores because he thought, “Santa will be so proud of me.”
Then, last Christmas Eve, everything changed.
Our living room was decorated top to bottom. We had our dollar store stockings taped up by our fake fireplace, and our old plastic tree was covered in random ornaments from the last eight years.
Dylan, now eight, was chatting Harold’s ear off about some science project. He got so excited that he knocked over his mug and spilled hot cocoa all over Harold’s Santa suit.
“Oh NO!” Dylan yelled, eyes huge like he’d just ruined Christmas.
But Harold didn’t even flinch. He ruffled Dylan’s hair and chuckled, “Don’t worry, my friend. Even Santa spills sometimes.” Then he turned to me and said, “Mind if I use your bathroom to clean up?”
“Of course!” I said. I ran to grab a clean towel from the hallway closet. But when I came back, my hands froze. Harold had taken off the top part of his Santa costume — and there it was. A small crescent-shaped birthmark on his back. The exact same one Dylan has.
I felt like the floor fell out from under me. What are the odds?
Then I noticed something else — Harold’s car keys were on the counter. They had a shiny Mercedes logo on them. A Mercedes! What kind of mall Santa drives a car like that? And more importantly… where was it? I didn’t see any fancy car parked on our street.
My head was spinning. I handed him the towel, trying not to look like my brain was screaming.
When Harold came back into the living room, he smiled at Dylan and said, “So, Martin, ready to play again?”
Martin. Martin. The name from that note left with my baby at the orphanage.
That was it. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” I shouted, my voice shaking.
Dylan froze like a statue. “Mommy? Why are you yelling at Santa?” he whispered, eyes full of tears.
I took a breath, bent down, and said, “Go upstairs for a minute, sweetie. Mommy needs to talk to Santa.”
When Dylan was gone, I turned to Harold. “The birthmark. The car. And you called him Martin. You better tell me the truth. Now.”
To my shock, Harold didn’t look scared. He actually let out this deep laugh, but it sounded like relief, not happiness. He tugged off his fake beard, and for the first time, I saw his real face — a handsome, rugged man with a strong jaw. He looked like someone who’d done well for himself.
Then he looked me right in the eyes and said the words that would change my life forever: “You’re right. I’m his father.”
I felt like I couldn’t breathe. He explained everything. Years ago, when Dylan — or Martin — was born, Harold was broke, alone, and terrified. His girlfriend (Dylan’s mother) had left, and he didn’t know how to take care of a baby by himself. So he made the hardest choice of his life: he gave him up, hoping someone else could give him the life he couldn’t.
But he never stopped loving him. He found out where Dylan ended up, and every Christmas, he would show up as Santa, just so he could be close to his son. Without messing up our lives.
I didn’t know what to feel. I was angry, sad, and strangely… grateful? It was the weirdest mix of feelings ever. I told Harold he needed to leave — but not forever. I needed time to process. So he hugged Dylan goodbye, gave me one last look, and walked out into the cold night.
A few days later, I sat Dylan down and told him everything. He already knew he was adopted, but this was different.
“Mom, Santa can’t be my dad!” Dylan said, rolling his eyes.
I laughed. “Honey, Santa is just a costume. His real name is Harold. And yes… he’s your dad.”
It took Dylan some time to get it. But the next day, he told me, “Can we see him again? Please?”
So Harold came over that weekend — no Santa suit this time. It felt strange at first, but Dylan ran into his arms like nothing had changed. They built towers, played video games, and just… clicked. We all did.
One visit turned into two. Then Harold started dropping by every week. Then every other night. And somewhere along the way, something unexpected happened: Harold and I realized we cared about each other too.
A few months later, we both finally admitted how we felt. Just last week, Harold did the craziest thing — he put on his Santa suit again and proposed to me in our living room. Yes, really! Santa on one knee. I couldn’t say no.
Life is wild. My son found the dad he never thought he’d know. I found love when I least expected it. And all because I hired a Santa off a flyer.
This Christmas? I’m not just getting a visit from Santa — I’m marrying him.
So, what do you think? Tell me your thoughts in the comments below — and merry Christmas to you too!