I was just eight, my heart pounding with confusion and disappointment after my big sister’s mocking words. My bike tires kicked up slush as I sped toward the one place I trusted most—Grandma’s house. The world felt cold and uncertain, but the thought of Grandma’s kitchen, warm and bright, kept me moving. My mind replayed my sister’s jeer: "There is no Santa Claus—even dummies know that!"

Grandma wasn’t one for hugs or fuss, but her presence was steady as a mountain. As I sank onto a kitchen stool, she slid a warm bun my way. I bit into it, butter and spice soothing my nerves. Between mouthfuls, I confessed my worries, voice small and uncertain, while Grandma listened, arms folded, brow furrowed. "Grandma, is it true about Santa?"

"No Santa Claus? Ridiculous! Don’t believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad! Now, put on your coat, and let’s go." I blinked, surprised, my half-eaten bun forgotten. "Go? Go where, Grandma?" She only smiled, bustling me toward the door, the scent of cinnamon trailing after us.

Grandma presses a crisp ten-dollar bill into my palm—a small fortune to me. "Take this money, and buy something for someone who needs it. I’ll wait for you in the car." For the first time, I stand alone, the store stretching endlessly before me, adults bustling all around. My fingers clutch the bill as I puzzle over who might need a gift most.

It comes to me in a rush: Bobby never played at recess in winter, always with a note from home. My heart beats faster as I choose a red corduroy coat with a hood, picturing Bobby’s smile. The woman at the register wraps it carefully, wishing me a Merry Christmas, while I whisper, "It’s for Bobby."

Grandma nudges me gently. "All right, Santa Claus, get going." With trembling hands, I dash to Bobby’s porch, drop the present, and knock hard, sprinting back to hide. We wait, barely breathing, as the door creaks open and Bobby appears, framed by warm lamplight, eyes wide with wonder.

I realize in that moment, shivering beside Grandma, that the spirit of Santa is very real. As we slip quietly away, Grandma squeezes my hand, her world-famous cinnamon buns and fierce love wrapping me in warmth. Decades later, I still keep the coat’s tag tucked in Grandma’s Bible—a reminder that love, kindness, and a little bit of magic are never myths.