The Lie That Kept On Giving

I'm in my mid-40s now, and I've lived a mostly honest life. But there's this little white lie that just won't go away, one that has nagged at me for years but always seemed trivial enough to ignore until it started to feel like an anchor dragging behind me. It all began when my youngest daughter turned 8 and asked me if Santa Claus was real. Now, I know what you're thinking: of course there's no actual Santa. But when she looked up at me with such wonder in her eyes, a part of me wanted to keep that magic alive for just a little longer. So instead of telling the truth and potentially crushing some childhood innocence, I decided to tell her a half-truth, one of those vague answers parents give like “Santa is different for everyone.” It felt harmless at the time. A way to stretch out the holiday spirit just a bit more while still nudging her toward growing up. Years have passed and now she's 13, but I never corrected myself, not even once. Every Christmas, we do the whole Santa thing with equal enthusiasm, both of us knowing it’s all make-believe, yet neither of us saying anything. We both keep playing along because there’s something magical about pretending. The problem is, she's started to notice little inconsistencies. I can see her starting to suspect the truth and now we’re in this awkward space where I don’t know how to break it without completely destroying a decade of holiday traditions built on a lie. It feels petty and unnecessary, but there’s also something about keeping up appearances that makes me wistful for those simpler times. So here's my confession: I've been lying by omission for years just so we can enjoy the magic of Santa Claus without ever having to say goodbye to it together. Am I an asshole? Or am I just nostalgic?