I accidentally told my CEO’s six-year-old son the truth about Santa.
Minutes later, my CEO called me into his private study, slid an envelope across his desk, and warned me that opening it meant choosing something I couldn’t undo.
Every December, like clockwork, my company threw a massive holiday party at Mike’s house.
Mike was our CEO. The kind of guy whose Christmas tree probably cost more than my car. The kind of guy whose house looked like it belonged in a luxury magazine, not on a street with regular people.
I was never the person who looked forward to office parties.
I had perfected the art of showing up, nodding politely, smiling just enough, and counting the minutes until I could leave without looking rude. I knew exactly where to stand, when to laugh, and how to avoid real conversations.
That was my survival strategy.
But one year, I made a mistake so big it almost cost me my job.
I arrived at Mike’s house right on time.
The place looked exactly how you’d expect. Every decoration looked effortless, but I knew it probably took a team of professionals three days to set up. Garland wrapped perfectly around stair railings. Lights placed at just the right angle. A tree so tall and flawless it felt intimidating.
Tables overflowed with food that looked too pretty to eat. Everything gleamed. Everything was perfect. Everything was just a little too much.
I grabbed a drink from the bar and took my usual position near a wall. Close enough to look involved. Far enough to avoid actually talking.
Around me, coworkers stood in small groups, laughing at jokes that weren’t that funny. Smiling in ways that felt practiced. Everyone playing their part perfectly.
That was the thing I hated most about these parties.
Nothing felt real.
It was all staging and scripting. Networking disguised as fun. Compliments that meant nothing. People sucking up to people who could help them climb higher.
So I listened more than I spoke and stayed on the edges where I felt safe.
Then someone tapped my arm.
I turned and saw a woman standing there with an overly bright smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Hey,” she said cheerfully. “Would you mind helping out in the kids’ room for a bit?”
I didn’t even hesitate.
“Sure!”
Honestly, it felt like an escape hatch. Cookies. Crafts. Kids who didn’t care about office politics or promotions or who was trying to impress the boss.
I thought I’d actually enjoy myself.
If only I’d said no.
The kids’ room was chaos, but the contained kind. Paper snowflakes hung crookedly on the walls. Half-finished crafts covered a low table. Glue sticks without caps. Glitter everywhere.
A few kids argued over markers like the fate of the world depended on it.
I sat down and tried to be useful.
I handed out napkins. Opened juice boxes with those impossible little straws. Told one girl her ornament looked amazing even though it was mostly glue stuck to her fingers.
It was easy. No pressure. No judging adults.
For about five minutes.
Then one boy looked up at me.
He was six, maybe seven. Frosting covered his fingers. His eyes were serious in a way only kids’ eyes can be when they ask something important.
He leaned closer and whispered,
“Is Santa real?”
I answered without thinking.
“Not really,” I said casually. “But it’s fun to pretend, right?”
The moment the words left my mouth, I knew I’d messed up.
His face collapsed. I watched his heart break in real time.
I started talking immediately, panic flooding my chest.
“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just—”
He pushed his chair back hard.
His eyes filled with tears, and he looked toward the door like he wanted to run.
Someone near the table hissed my name, sharp and urgent.
Another kid whispered, “You’re not supposed to say that.”
Then someone behind me murmured,
“That’s Mike’s son.”
The words hit me like a punch to the stomach.
Mike.
My boss.
The CEO.
The man whose house we were standing in.
The nanny appeared in the doorway. I hadn’t even seen her leave earlier.
She knelt beside the boy, whispered something I couldn’t hear, then stood and looked directly at me.
Her voice was calm, but firm.
“Mike would like to see you. Now.”
I followed her, apologizing nonstop, but she didn’t respond. Didn’t acknowledge me at all. She walked with purpose, the kind that told me I was already in more trouble than words could fix.
We stopped outside a study. The door was already cracked open.
She gestured once.
“Go on.”
Inside, Mike sat behind his desk alone.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. Like all the noise from the party had been swallowed by thick walls.
He didn’t look angry.
That was somehow worse.
He looked calm. Thoughtful. Like he was deciding something important.
Without saying a word, he reached into a drawer, pulled out a plain envelope, and slid it across the desk toward me.
My name was written neatly on the front.
My stomach dropped.
“If you walk out of this room tonight,” he said evenly, “things stay exactly as they are.”
I froze.
“If you open that,” he continued, “you’re choosing something else.”
The envelope sat between us like it weighed a thousand pounds.
For a second, I wondered if I should just walk away. Say no thank you. Go home. Pretend this never happened.
But I didn’t.
Mike didn’t rush me. He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach, staring at the ceiling like this was a dentist appointment.
“Go on,” he said lightly. “It’s just paper.”
But it wasn’t.
I picked up the envelope. My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside was a check.
For $500.
I stared at it.
“What is this for?”
“Advance payment,” Mike said calmly, “for you to dress up as Santa tonight and go back out there to fix your mistake.”
I blinked.
“You want me to do what?”
“Santa suit. Beard. Ho ho ho. The whole thing,” he said, like this was perfectly reasonable.
“My son needs to believe again. You’re going to make that happen.”
“I already apologized,” I said quickly. “To him. To the nanny.”
Mike shrugged.
“Apologies don’t erase things. Experiences do. I want my son to feel better. I want the story fixed.”
“So this is punishment?” I asked. “Damage control?”
“Call it whatever you like,” he replied. “Just do it.”
He tapped the desk.
“You made a mistake. This lets you correct it.”
I looked at the check again. $500 wasn’t nothing, but it didn’t feel like a gift. It felt like humiliation.
“And if I don’t?” I asked quietly.
Mike smiled, but this time it was sharper.
“Do you really want to find out?”
I imagined myself in that suit. Fake beard itching my face. My coworkers watching, pretending this was normal. Mike’s son staring up at me, trusting me to lie better this time.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I said. “But this feels wrong.”
“Consequences,” Mike corrected.
“Every adult mistake has them.”
The silence stretched.
And then I realized something.
I was tired.
Tired of pretending. Tired of nodding. Tired of swallowing my real thoughts just to keep my job safe.
I slid the check back into the envelope and pushed it toward him.
“I won’t do this,” I said.
“I made a mistake. I answered honestly without thinking. I’m sorry for that. But pretending harder doesn’t fix it. And I don’t want my job to depend on how well I play along.”
Mike raised an eyebrow.
“That’s usually how employment works.”
“Only if you want an office full of suck-ups,” I said before I could stop myself.
The words hung in the air.
I instantly regretted them.
For a long moment, Mike didn’t move.
Then he laughed softly.
“Well, that’s new.”
My heart pounded. I was sure I was about to be fired.
Instead, Mike stood, opened the door, and said,
“You passed the test. You’re not dressing up as Santa. And honestly, it’s about time someone told the kid the truth. If he’s old enough to ask, he’s old enough to know.”
Relief hit me so hard my knees almost gave out.
As I walked out, he added,
“Show more of that backbone at work. You might be surprised what happens.”
The party noise rushed back in.
No one looked at me differently. No one knew what had just happened.
But something had changed.
Not in the room.
In me.
When Karen from accounting asked how I was doing, I told her the truth. That I hated these parties.
She laughed.
“Me too.”
We talked for twenty minutes. Real talk. No pretending.
For the first time all night, I didn’t feel like I’d survived something.
I’d chosen something else.
And I knew I’d never go back to pretending again.