I Hired the Same Santa for Three Years, But It Was Last Christmas Eve That I Found Out the Truth…
Real life can be stranger than fiction, and believe me, what happened to me last Christmas was a wild twist I never saw coming. My name is Elara, and this story starts a year ago when I was 34. Before I dive in, let me give you a little background.
I adopted my son, Dylan, when he was just six months old. It was eight years ago now, and he’s my whole world.
The adoption agency found him left on their doorstep (I know, it sounds like a movie, right?), with just a note saying his name was Martin.
I renamed him Dylan, and we’ve been a little team ever since. Raising him on my own has been a challenge, but it’s also been the most rewarding thing in my life. Every holiday with him was magical, but Christmas was always my favorite.
I hate crowded malls, so instead of braving those long lines, I started searching for a Santa I could hire to make the holiday special for my son.
A couple of years back, I found a photography studio that had a professional Santa actor. Dylan was just a fuzzy little baby at the time, and the photos came out so adorable. But as Dylan got older, I began to think about creating even more memories and traditions for him.
Then, about three Christmases ago, I found a flyer on my doorstep. It read: “Professional Santa available to visit your home and surprise your child.” It even had a phone number. I felt like it was meant to be, so I called, and that’s how Harold came into our lives.
When Harold showed up for our first Christmas, he was dressed in a Santa suit that was a little too big for him. But it was perfect. Dylan, who was just five, immediately believed he was the real Santa.
He dragged Harold all around the house, showing him every ornament on the tree. And I just watched from the old couch we had— cozy, but certainly nothing fancy.
But, looking back, I should’ve seen some red flags. That first year, Harold stayed for three hours. He built block towers with Dylan, read him Christmas stories, and even helped us bake cookies. I tried to pay him extra (even though I really couldn’t afford it), but he refused. Instead, he told me, “Just call me next Christmas.”
A year later, I did just that. And, surprisingly, Harold was still available. Most kids get a rushed mall Santa photo, but not Dylan. He got personal one-on-one time with Santa in our little living room. But I couldn’t help but wonder, “Doesn’t this guy have other families to visit?”
One time, I asked him about it, casually saying, “You really don’t have to stay this long. There must be other kids waiting for you, right?”
Harold just smiled and replied, “Oh no, Christmas Eve is reserved just for special boys like Dylan.” At the time, I thought it was sweet, but now… it makes sense. Something wasn’t adding up.
Over the next couple of years, Dylan became obsessed with his Santa visits. He would clean his room (as best as an eight-year-old could) and do extra chores, all because he thought, “Santa would want to see I’m being good.”
Then, this past Christmas Eve, things took a very strange turn.
Dylan, who was now eight, still believed in Santa, but he was at that age where kids start asking questions. Our living room was decked out with lights, dollar store stockings hanging by our fake fireplace (we make do), and our trusty artificial tree, covered in eight years of random ornaments.
Dylan was talking excitedly to Harold about a science project when he accidentally spilled hot cocoa all over Santa’s suit. “Oh NO!” Dylan yelled like his world was falling apart. But Harold stayed calm.
“Don’t worry, my friend. Even Santa has accidents sometimes,” he said with a laugh, then looked at me. “Mind if I use your bathroom to clean up?”
I nodded, rushing to grab a towel from the closet. But when I handed it to him, something caught my eye that made my heart skip a beat. Harold had taken off the top of his Santa costume, and there, on his back, was a crescent-shaped birthmark. It was exactly like Dylan’s.
What were the odds of that?
But it got even stranger. On the bathroom counter, I saw car keys— to a Mercedes. Now, I’m no expert, but I don’t think part-time Santa actors usually drive expensive cars like that. And where was it? It wasn’t parked outside.
I tried to stay calm, handing him the towel without saying anything, but my mind was racing. Was this all just a coincidence?
When Harold came out of the bathroom, he said, “So, Martin, ready to play again?”
Martin? The name on the note left with Dylan when he was found all those years ago at the orphanage… it was Martin. That was the moment I lost it.
“WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” I yelled, feeling my world crumble.
Dylan froze, wide-eyed, and Harold looked completely shocked. “Mommy? Why are you yelling at Santa?” Dylan asked, his voice so small.
I took a deep breath, sent Dylan upstairs for a minute, and turned to Harold. “The birthmark. The keys. And you called him Martin. I need answers. Now.”
To my surprise, Harold didn’t look scared. He just laughed— but it wasn’t a laugh of amusement. It was like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He removed his fake beard, and for the first time, I saw his real face. He was handsome, around 40, with a square jaw and the look of someone who’d made it.
And then he said the words that changed everything: “That’s correct. I’m his father.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He explained that years ago, when Dylan was born, he was young, broke, and alone. His mother had left, and he had no way to take care of his son.
The only choice he saw was to give him up for adoption, hoping someone else could give him a better life. But he never stopped thinking about him. He kept tabs on me and Dylan over the years.
And then, every Christmas, he played Santa, just to be near his son— without disrupting our lives.
I was mad, confused, and a million other emotions. But, I also understood. It was a strange, roundabout way for him to be a part of Dylan’s life, and I couldn’t help but admire the lengths he went to.
I needed time to process everything, so Harold, still in his Santa suit, said goodbye to Dylan and left. But we stayed in touch, and a few days later, I sat down with Dylan to tell him the truth. He had always known he was adopted, but this was different.
“Mom, Santa can’t be my dad,” Dylan said, rolling his eyes.
“No, silly,” I said, sighing. “Santa is a real man under that suit. His name is Harold.”
I told him everything. It took a while for Dylan to digest it, but the next day, he wanted to meet Harold. I wasn’t surprised. Dylan had always loved “Santa,” even before he knew who Harold really was.
The following weekend, Harold came over— without his suit this time. It felt strange, but we got used to it. Dylan was excited to show off to his biological father. By the end of the night, we agreed to meet regularly.
Those weekends turned into every other night, and before I knew it, Harold was spending every day with us. And to my surprise, he also started taking an interest in me— something I never expected.
Months later, we confessed our feelings for each other. Just last week— Harold, in his Santa suit— proposed to me. It was more romantic than you might think, and I just had to share this crazy, beautiful story with you.
Life is wild sometimes. Dylan got the dad he never thought he’d have, I found love in the most unexpected way, and it all started because I hired a Santa.
And now? We’re getting married this Christmas!
What do you think? Let me know your thoughts in the comments below!
