Every holiday became more special since I adopted him, and my favorite was Christmas. Dylan was a fuzzy baby, and I hate crowds, so instead of going to the mall, I started searching for a Santa I could hire for a photo.

I discovered a photography studio that had its own actor, and I took my son there. However, as Dylan grew up, I thought about mixing things up.

Over three years ago, as I was still trying to come up with ideas for better Christmas traditions, I found a flyer stuck on my doorstep. It said: “Professional actor available to visit your home dressed as Santa Claus to surprise your child.”

There was a name and a phone number, and honestly? It felt heaven-sent. So, I called, and soon, Harold entered our lives.

He dragged Santa around our tiny living room and showed him every single ornament on our small, weirdly decorated tree. Meanwhile, I watched from the old, thrifted couch.

But looking back, I should’ve noticed the red flags. That day, Harold stayed for THREE HOURS. He built block towers with Dylan, read stories, and even helped bake cookies.

I tried to pay him extra (which I honestly couldn’t really afford), but he straight up refused and asked me to please call him next Christmas.

A year later, I did just that, and Harold was surprisingly still in business. Most kids get a rushed mall Santa photo, right? Not Dylan.

He got personal playtime with Santa in our living room. But, I kept thinking, “Doesn’t this guy have other houses to visit?”

One time I asked him about it. “You really don’t have to stay this long. Other families must be waiting,” I hinted, trying to be subtle about it.

He just smiled and said, “Oh no, Christmas Eve is reserved just for special boys like Dylan.” Again, looking back now… yeah. Something was up.

Dylan also became used to his Santa privilege and went ALL IN on these visits. He would deep clean his room (I mean, as best as a kid could) and do extra chores. As he told me, “Santa would want to see I’m being good.”

Fast-forward to this past Christmas. Dylan was eight and still believed in Santa, but he was slowly getting to that age where kids started asking questions.

As always, our living room was in full Christmas mode with lights everywhere, dollar store stockings by our fake fireplace (hey, we work with what we got), and our trusty artificial tree covered in eight years of random ornaments.

Dylan was excitedly talking about his science project to Harold when he made a wrong move, and suddenly, hot cocoa was covering Santa’s whole suit.

“Oh NO!” my kid bellowed like his world was ending, but Harold played it cool.

“Don’t worry, my friend. Even Santa has accidents sometimes,” he laughed, then looked at me. “Mind if I use your bathroom to clean up?”

I nodded and rushed to grab him a towel from the closet, and when I went to hand it to him… oh, boy. He had taken off the top of his costume and…no! This is not one of those stories.

What struck me speechless was a weird crescent-shaped birthmark on Harold’s back. It was identical to Dylan’s. What were the odds?

But wait, it gets stranger. On the bathroom counter, I saw keys to a Mercedes. Since when does a part-time Santa actor (who works for a less-than-averaged income family) drive a car like that? Also, it wasn’t outside. Did he park it far away?

Anyway, I tried to play it cool and handed over the towel without looking. But my mind was RACING.

Back in the living room, Dylan was setting up some board game Santa had said he could open early. I sat there trying to make everything make sense. The birthmark, the car, the way he always spent so much time with us…

But what happened next was the real kicker.

Harold came out of the bathroom and said, “So, Martin, ready to play again?”

MARTIN! That was the name written on the note left with Dylan when he was found on the doorstep of an orphanage eight years ago!