We crept down the hall as quickly as we could. In the back of the house, our parents slept peacefully. I had been waiting for this day all year, marking off the days on my calendar as they passed, one by one. I had watched every Christmas special on TV, from Charlie Brown to Rudolph, and now that Christmas morning was finally here, I could hardly contain myself. I wanted to laugh, I wanted to play and, perhaps most of all, I wanted to rip2 open my presents.
As we approached the den, my sister put a single finger to her lips and whispered, “Santa might still be here.” I nodded in complete understanding. At six, I knew all about Santa and his magic. At eleven, my sister was trying to give me my dream.
When we finally walked into the den, my first instinct was to rush toward the presents that were stacked oh-so-carefully around the room, but something made me hesitate. Instead of rushing forward, I stared in wonder at the room, wanting this single moment to last as long as it could. My sister stood quietly beside me, and we stared at the beautiful tree that we had decorated3 together weeks before. The lights shimmered, the ornaments sparkled, and our golden angel sat just slightly off-center on the top of the tree. It was the most perfect sight I’d ever seen.
On a nearby table, the cookies that we’d left for Santa were gone, and a small note read, “Thank you. Merry Christmas！”
My eyes widened in amazement at the note, for I was sure that I had finally found real proof of the jolly man’s existence. Yet before I could truly marvel4 over the letter,