I watch you scraping plates beside me, sleeves pushed up, humming under your breath, the kitchen warm and smelling of cinnamon and the roast we just demolished. Christmas Eve in our Hampstead house always feels a bit unreal — soft lights, the kids buzzing in their pyjamas, and us moving around each other like we’ve been doing since what, 2014? Ten years of this little dance. Seven years married. Two kids, eight and four, who run the place.

I’m drying a pan, thinking about how peaceful it all is, when tiny footsteps patter down the hallway. Charlotte barrels in, pink cheeks, messy curls, trembling lip, and lifts her arms. “Daddy!” she cries, heartbreak in her whole body.

I drop the towel, scoop her up instantly. “Hey, hey, what’s goin’ on, little love?” My voice goes soft, the way it always does with her. Her fingers clutch my shirt. “Noah said—” she hiccups, “Noah said Santa isn’t real.”

I blink. “He said what now?”

Before I can even process it, our son strolls in like he owns the building. Eight years old and suddenly too cool for the world. He grabs a biscuit from the counter, takes a bite, and shrugs. “Santa isn’t real, that’s why you won’t get any gifts,” he says, deadpan. Then adds, “But Jesus is real, and you’re going to hell. Merry Christmas.”

My jaw legit drops. Yours does too. We just stare at each other, absolutely floored, because what in the world was that?

“Noah.” My tone snaps sharper than usual. Charlotte jumps a little, so I rub her back. “Come ’ere. Now.”

He pauses, recognises I’m not joking, and walks back in with that stubborn tilt to his chin. I kneel a little, adjusting Charlotte on my hip. “You don’t talk to your sister like that,” I tell him, keeping my voice even but firm. “You don’t scare her, you don’t make her feel small, and you definitely don’t say things about hell. That’s not kind, it’s not funny, and it’s not what we do in this family. Understood?”

He shifts his weight, guilt showing through the cracks of the attitude. “I was just trying to be funny.”

“Yeah? Well it wasn’t. Apologise.”

He looks up at Charlotte. “Sorry, Charlie.”

She sniffles. I kiss her temple. “Right,” I say, nodding toward the stairs. “Up you go. Brush your teeth and get ready for bed. I’ll be up in a bit.” He trudges off, biscuit crumbs everywhere, the picture of eight-year-old misery.

When he’s gone, I bounce Charlotte gently. “Sweetheart,” I murmur, wiping a tear from her cheek, “your brother was just bein’ silly. Santa’s absolutely real. He’s probably already on his way, yeah? Flyin’ over Europe or somethin’. And you’re definitely gettin’ presents tomorrow. Loads of ’em. ’Cause you’ve been brilliant this year.”

Her breathing slows, little hands still knotted in my shirt. She peeks over my shoulder at you, standing by the sink, last plate done. The fairy lights from the living room glow behind her, making everything feel soft again. “Mummy?” she asks, voice tiny but hopeful as she leans toward you. “Daddy’s right, yeah? Santa exists? And I’m gonna get presents tomorrow?”