He was no longer a child easily distracted by a five-dollar bill; he was a teenager with a burgeoning sense of skepticism. He sat at the kitchen table, turning the envelope over in his hands, and gave me a look that was both searching and accusatory—the look of a boy beginning to doubt the magic of the world.
“Mom,” he asked, his voice cracking slightly with the onset of puberty, “is it you? Are you the one sending these every year just to keep the story going?” I couldn’t help
