A highlight of the year for my women’s group is our festive Christmas banquet where we all join in songs and games.

When it had to be canceled because coronavirus is raging out of control in our county, we decided to do a Zoom Christmas party.

Everyone was asked to come prepared to share a story about a Christmas memory. Most agreed it was hard to pick just one memory from our many years of Christmas celebrations.

I knew right away what memory I would share, even though it wouldn’t evoke warm, fuzzy feelings.

It was a painful memory for me for several reasons but I thought it might offer food for thought.

My most memorable Christmas memory goes all the way back to when I was 10, and believe it or not, I still believed in Santa Claus.

Right before Christmas my next-door neighbor Joannie told me there was no such thing as Santa Claus. When I didn’t believe her, she said I should look upstairs in the attic where I would see toys my parents bought waiting to put them under the tree and pretend they came from Santa.

I searched the attic several times but there were no toys or other gifts. So I waited with full confidence that Santa would come bearing gifts, like always.

Christmas morning our house was eerily silent. Worse yet, there were no Christmas presents under the tree. Nothing for me. Nothing for my little brother.

When I asked my mother why Santa didn’t come to our house, she looked stunned. “I didn’t know you still believed in Santa Claus,” she said. She looked so sad and was strangely quiet.

I didn’t understand why there wasn’t a single gift, not even the socks and warm mittens I usually got.

What I didn’t know that day was that my mother’s sadness was caused by more than no money for Christmas gifts. That would be the last day we were in our house. My parents were getting a divorce.

It is only by looking back with older eyes that I can understand the depth of her despair.

She had no car, no money, no place to live and no way to support two children on her own.

The next day she took my brother and me by the hand and we walked to my aunt’s house in another part of town.

My aunt said my mother could work for her and we could stay in her attic.

All my 10-year-old mind could think about was there was no Santa Claus, and for me, there was no longer the dad I loved. I wish I could say I gave my mom emotional support, but I had no idea what she was going through.

When I married Andy and we had children of our own, we made sure Santa was more than generous to our two little girls.

I realize now that I overcompensated for my sad childhood Christmas.

While I still believed in Santa at 10, our daughters had doubts when they were 4 and 6.

They told me years later it was “reindeer tracks” in the snow on our roof that made them believe. They wanted to know how we put those tracks on the high roof.

We didn’t. Maybe it was just the magic of Santa.

However, that was the year I became disillusioned with Santa when I witnessed the downside of believing in a generous Santa that magically knew what children wanted and put those gifts under the tree.

Christmas morning two little neighborhood kids came to visit our girls. Five- year-old Janie and 4-year-old Bobby were at first speechless when they saw the gifts piled high under the tree.

I’ll never forget the look on their faces when they asked: “Why didn’t Santa come to visit us?”

That’s when I stopped believing in the magic of Santa Claus.

When I asked my friend, the youngsters’ mother, why she didn’t tell me she couldn’t afford gifts, she said she had some on layaway and thought she would have them paid off in time for Christmas. It didn’t work out that way.

I resolved that year to do all in my power to make sure little kids have Christmas presents.

Fortunately, some wonderful churches and charities devote themselves to helping families in need, especially during the holidays. We are getting much better at identifying families and providing gifts and food.

I used to thrill to see the excitement of my own children when they saw Santa Claus. As parents we did everything we could to continue Santa’s mystique.

What I painfully learned was that I was putting too much emphasis on “Santa” and not enough on the reason for the season.

As I sat with my youngsters reviewing the gifts we were giving each family member, I asked them what they were going to give baby Jesus for Christmas.

Much to my shame, my older daughter said: “What does he have to do with it?”

What, indeed?

I told my daughters I am sorry I taught them the wrong Christmas values.

They tried to spare me by saying I taught them strong values all their lives.

I’m not sure about that, but as long as I have breath I’ll be trying to do a better job than I did with Santa Claus.

Contact Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net.