Tim squeezed his eyes shut against the light of the tree. In his self-inflicted blindness he sat and let the shame wash over him. He wasn’t like his brother… he hadn’t been since his brother was born. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t. All he wanted was to be like Joey… why couldn’t he? It was because he wore diapers. It was because he liked to be cute and sweet and all. But he was the older brother. That wasn’t allowed. It had never been allowed.

He opened his eyes again and let them drift up to the fireplace. Stockings were hung, with care, of course, in the hopes that Santa would fill them with toys or candy or other surprises. Tim smiled mirthlessly. No, not even Santa knew what he wanted for Christmas. He wouldn’t bring a pacifier, or a bottle, or a stuffed animal. His stocking would probably bulge with oranges, apples, those cheap chocolate candies from the bargain bin, and maybe a new toothbrush. Even Santa Claus couldn’t come through for him tonight. But it was all right. He didn’t deserve what he wanted anyway.

Tim wasn’t surprised that his eyes weren’t even wet. Trying to cry never worked. He stared at the tree lights as his eyes began to sag and the crispness of the twinkling points gradually phased into starry blurs.

A reflection caught his eye and he blinked twice to clear his vision, turning back toward the fireplace. Quickly his mind grappled with and immediately allowed the utter impossibility of what he was seeing; any other night, his first instinct would have been to yell for help or run from the prowler who had snuck inside his house. Tonight, it was simply to stare at the tall, round, white-haired man in the red suit. Tim was sure he was dreaming. Santa Claus himself was standing right there in decidedly un-imaginary glory. Noticing Tim, the man turned toward him, his corpulent belly swinging around to balance his almost comically sized rear end. His eyes sparkled as bright as the lights on the tree, his beard was not only curly but as white as the blank paper in any child’s picture, and his boots glowed with a mirrored shine that would have made any Marine proud.

Santa paused a moment and smiled at Tim. The corners of his eyes crinkled delightfully as he winked at him like… well, like only Santa could. “Ho ho ho.”

Tim stared dumbly. “…hey Santa.”

The warm smile rested easily on the old man’s face. “Hello, Tim. Merry Christmas.”

There wasn’t really anything for Tim to say. He knew Santa Claus didn’t exist, the large man in his living room notwithstanding. “Um… yeah. Merry Christmas, I guess.” He shifted a bit uneasily.

With glacial speed, Santa’s jolly smile turned sympathetic. It was a few more moments before he spoke. “Not quite what you expected?” He glanced down at his own feet. “Boots too shiny? That elf always goes overboard with the polish… I keep telling him not to.” He droped his large brown sack unceremoniously next to the fireplace.

“Huh?” Tim said eloquently as his eyes went straight to Santa’s feet. “Boots? No, uh, they’re fine…” Why in the heck would Santa be worried about his boots of all things? “Um, don’t take this… I mean…”

“Ah!” The sympathy turned back toward genuine warmth again. “Am I really Santa Claus, right? It’s fine, I get that all the time.” He winked again, his eyes twinkling, and Tim blinked. “You don’t believe it, but yes, it’s true.”

Tim frowned slightly. “How do you know I don’t believe it?” Of course he didn’t. The man had said he was Santa Claus. He had to be some wacko. Yet somehow, somewhere deep down, Tim didn’t feel scared of him. Wouldn’t a real wacko have tried to scare him? Or at least done it accidentally?

The old man chuckled and shook his head. “Teenagers.” He opened his sack with one hand and rubbed his temple with the other. “Why don’t you guys ever just know things? How do you think I know? Didn’t I just say I’m Santa Claus?” Shaking his head and smiling he began to fill the stockings with businesslike precision.

Oranges, apples, chocolates… Tim watched him pause and look back at him with a wink and add a toothbrush to his stocking. Tim frowned. “Yeah, but… wait… how’d you know my parents always do that?”