I accidentally told my CEO’s six-year-old son the truth about Santa. Minutes later, my CEO called me into his study, slid an envelope across the desk, and warned me that opening it meant choosing something I couldn’t undo.
Every December, like clockwork, my company threw a massive holiday bash at Mike’s house. Mike being our CEO, and the kind of guy whose Christmas tree probably cost more than my car.
I was never the guy who looked forward to office parties.
I’d perfected the art of showing up, nodding politely, and counting the minutes until I could leave without seeming rude.
But one year, I made a mistake so big, it threatened my job.
I arrived at Mike’s house right on time.
The house was exactly what you’d expect: decorations that looked effortless but probably took a team of professionals three days to arrange, and food spread out on tables like something from a magazine.
Everything gleaming and perfect and just a little too much.
The house was exactly what you’d expect.
I grabbed a drink from the bar and positioned myself near a wall. Classic move. Close enough to look engaged, far enough to avoid actual conversation.
Around me, people clustered in groups, laughing at jokes that weren’t really that funny, smiling in ways that felt rehearsed.
In short, everyone performed their roles perfectly.
That was the thing I hated most about these parties.
That was the thing I hated most about these parties.
Nothing felt real. It was all staging and scripting, everyone networking and sucking up to everyone else.
So, I listened more than I talked, and stayed on the edges where I belonged.
Then someone tapped my arm.
I turned. A woman was standing there with an overly bright smile.
Someone tapped my arm.
“Hey, 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 and crafts, and kids who didn’t care about office politics or who was angling for what promotion.
I thought I’d actually enjoy myself.
If only I’d just said no.
If only I’d just said no.
The kids’ room was chaos, but the contained kind.
Paper snowflakes were taped crookedly to the walls, and there were half-finished crafts scattered across a low table.
A few kids were arguing over markers in that intense way kids do, like the fate of nations hung in the balance.
I took a seat at the table and tried to be useful.
I took a seat at the table and tried to be useful.
I handed out napkins and opened juice boxes with those impossible little straws.
I told one girl her ornament looked great, even though it was mostly glue and glitter stuck to her fingers.
It was easy. No stakes, and no adults watching and judging every word.
For about five minutes, anyway.
It was easy for about five minutes.
Then one kid looked up at me.
He was six, maybe seven, and had frosting smeared across his fingers.
He leaned in close, his expression dead serious, and asked,
“Is Santa real?”
I answered without thinking.
I answered without thinking.
“Not really, but it’s fun to pretend, right?”
His face collapsed. I watched his heart break in real time.
I started talking immediately, words tumbling over themselves.
“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I was just—”
The boy pushed back his chair.
I watched his heart break in real time.
His eyes filled with tears, and he looked toward the door like he wanted to run.
Someone near the table whispered my name. Sharp. Urgent.
Another kid said, “You’re not supposed to say that.”
“That’s Mike’s son,” someone murmured behind me.
The realization hit like a punch to the stomach.
“That’s Mike’s son.”
Mike. My boss. The CEO. The guy whose house we were currently standing in.
The nanny appeared in the doorway.
I hadn’t even seen her leave. She kneeled briefly beside the boy, murmured something I couldn’t hear, then looked up at me.
“Mike would like to see you,” she said. “Now.”
The nanny appeared in the doorway.
I followed her out, apologizing rapidly, but the nanny didn’t respond. Didn’t acknowledge me at all. Just walked with that purposeful stride that meant I was already in more trouble than words could fix.
We stopped outside a study. The door was already cracked open.
The nanny gestured. “Go on.”
I followed her out, apologizing rapidly.
I went.
Inside, Mike sat behind his desk, alone.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. Like all the party noise had been swallowed by the walls.
He didn’t look angry. That was almost worse. He looked calm, thoughtful, like he was considering something important.
He reached into a drawer, pulled out a plain envelope, and slid it across the desk toward me.
Mike sat behind his desk, alone.
On the front, in neat handwriting, was my name.
My stomach dropped.
“If you walk out of this room tonight,” he said, “things stay exactly as they are.”
I froze.
“If you open that, you’re choosing something else.”
The envelope sat between us. I felt like opening it would shift something fundamental.
The envelope sat between us.
Sometimes I wonder if it would’ve been better if I’d just walked away, if I’d said “no, thank you” to his envelope, and gone straight home.
But I didn’t.
Mike didn’t rush me.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach, watching the ceiling like this was a dentist appointment.
Mike didn’t rush me.
“Go on,” he said lightly. “It’s just paper.”
But it wasn’t just paper.
It was a choice that might change everything. I’d already messed up big time, and now it felt like I couldn’t just go back to being the head-down, do-my-work guy I’d always been.
I picked up the envelope.
My fingers trembled as I opened the flap.
I picked up the envelope.
My jaw dropped when I saw what was inside.
A check for $500!
“What is this for?”
“Advance payment for you to dress up as Santa tonight and step back out into that party to correct your mistake.”
I stared at him. “You want me to do what?”
“You want me to do what?”
“Santa suit. Beard. Ho ho ho. The whole thing.” He said it like it was the most reasonable request in the world.
“My son needs to believe again. And you’re going to make that happen.”
“I already apologized,” I said. “To him. To the nanny.”
Mike shrugged. “Apologies don’t erase things. Experiences do. I want my son to feel better. And I want the story fixed.”
“Apologies don’t erase things.”
“So this is what? Damage control? Punishment?”
“Call it whatever you like, I don’t care so long as you do it.”
He tapped the desk. “You made a mistake. This lets you correct it.”
I looked back at the check. $500 wasn’t nothing, but it also wasn’t enough to pretend this was generous, or anything other than an effort to punish me in front of everyone I worked with.
“And if I don’t?” I asked.
“So this is what? Damage control? Punishment?”
Mike smiled again, this time sharper.
“Do you really want to find out?”
There it was. Not a threat, exactly. But close enough that I felt it in my chest.
I imagined myself in the suit: fake beard itching my face, forcing out laughter in a room full of my colleagues… all those climbers watching me with pity while pretending this was normal. Mike’s son staring up at me, trusting me to lie better this time.
I imagined myself in the suit
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I said. “But this feels like humiliation.”
Mike tilted his head.
“Consequences,” he corrected.
“Every adult mistake has them.”
Silence stretched between us. I looked at the check again. Then at Mike. Then back at the check.
And I realized something.
I realized something.
I was tired.
Tired of performing, pretending, of keeping my head down and my mouth shut and my real thoughts locked away where they couldn’t get me in trouble.
What was the worst that could happen? I get fired? Maybe that wouldn’t be the end of the world.
I slid the check back into the envelope and pushed it across the desk.
“I won’t do this,” I said.
What was the worst that could happen?
“I made a mistake. I answered a kid honestly without thinking it through. I’m sorry for that. But I don’t think pretending harder fixes it. And I don’t want my job to depend on how well I play along.”
Mike’s eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s usually how employment works.”
“Only if you want an office full of sycophants and suck-ups.”
The words were out before I could stop them.
“That’s usually how employment works.”
I wished I could take them back immediately. Shove them back in my mouth and swallow them down where they belonged.
For a moment, Mike didn’t move.
Then he laughed. Not loudly. Just a short breath through his nose, like I’d surprised him.
“Well, that’s new.”
My stomach tightened. I was about to get fired, I knew it!
I was about to get fired, I knew it!
Mike leaned forward and took the envelope back.
“Do you know how many people would’ve taken that without blinking?”
I didn’t answer.
“Most of them work here. They smile. They nod. They tell me what they think I want to hear.” He studied me for a long moment. “You didn’t. We don’t have enough of that.”
I blinked. “So…?”
Mike leaned forward and took the envelope back.
“So,” he said, standing and opening the door, “you passed the test, and you’re not dressing up as Santa. Honestly, it’s about time someone broke the truth to the boy. If he’s old enough to ask, he’s old enough to know the truth. He’ll survive.”
Relief hit me so fast it almost knocked me over.
He paused, hand on the doorknob. “If you can show a little more of that backbone at the office, I think you’ll be surprised how quickly things change for you.”
He paused, hand on the doorknob.
The door swung open. Music rushed in, loud and bright and overwhelming.
I walked out of the study and back into the party.
No one looked at me differently. No one knew what had just happened behind that closed door.
But something had shifted.
Not in the room. In me.
Something had shifted.
I found my spot near the wall again. But this time, when Karen from accounting walked past and asked how I was doing, I told her the truth about hating these parties. She laughed and said she did too.
We talked for twenty minutes. Real conversation. No performance.
For the first time all night, I felt like I hadn’t just survived something.
I’d chosen something else.
I’d chosen something else.
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