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Berto and St. Nick (in his own words)

I am 15 years old, and I believe in Santa Claus – although I haven’t always. When I was young, Santa was an intriguing topic for me. I believed in the jolly old man with an extreme case of dad-bod, dressed in a red suit because I trusted my parents. My parents told me he was real. Besides, what evidence did I have against them? Santa Claus showed up every Christmas. Every year, my siblings and I would awaken before the crack of dawn to wake up our parents, who we assumed would be well rested and willing to sacrifice an hour or two of sleep to see what Santa had brought us. The moment our parents stepped out of bed, we were in the mentality of an Olympic sprinter. Our finish line was just down the hall and to the left, where our presents sat under our 7-foot-tall artificial tree, with a blanket wrapped neatly around the base. Each year we experienced the rush of Christmas morning. But then I grew up. As I became older, I pushed the thought of the magical man to the back of my m…

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