I was three years old.
It was Christmas Eve.
I had been put to bed early but I got up to tell or ask Mommy something important to me. I took a few steps down the stairs and peered through the banisters. Mommy and Daddy were standing at the fireplace, taking turns leaning down and then reaching up and doing something with their hands, speaking to each other in low tones. I had three unhappy epiphanies at once.
Daddy and Mommy were stuffing our stockings.
So there was no Santa Claus.
And I had better forget about whatever I needed to tell them and creep back upstairs without their knowing I had seen them.
Because believing I believed their lies was important to them.
