I was six when my mom spilled the beans, and I told her, steel-spined, that I didn’t believe her. Actually, I refused  to believe her. I wanted to go on listening for bells on the roof and pretending that I didn’t know my dad was the one making the trail of orange peels from the fireplace to the Christmas tree. But by the time my dad announced, as an explanation for the jerky in our stockings, that Rudolph had died and Santa wanted to share him with all the kids, I was well-adjusted enough to laugh (that’s a well-adjusted response, right?).

My husband’s story was different. When he was five, his grandma told him in passing, “Oh, I know the kids at school have already told you there’s no Santa.” Spirit=crushed.

What about your story? Who told you the ugly truth? How’d you take it? (The sadder the story the better!) Let it all out in the comments, and remember, this is a safe place.