Our children, as appropriate, modestly brought a small, on three sheets, a list of desired gifts. It was about dressing me into that character, and then running through a long basement balcony to the windows of the central room, holding a large bag in my hands. The children had already been called into the room, but they stood with the back to the glass.When I laid out the gifts from the bag, I shrugged my hand.The woman, as agreed, shouted: "Look!"The children turned around, I shouted loudly "Ho-ho-ho!" and rushed to run away on the balcony.While the children opened the heavy door to grab the gifts, I was already entering the room from the inside of the apartment, worryingly asking what happened and who was screaming.Then, when all the gift wraps were broken, the shouts of enthusiasm were heard, and the children were lying in bed, my daughter called me to her.
She was 8 years old at the time.
Tell me, was it you?
and what?
That you didn’t take off your glasses.
It’s not about me, it’s about Sasha, he could know you.
Well, and what?
“You know, he’s a little boy and he believes in Santa Claus. You can’t let him know it was you.
Will someone tell him?
I’m not sure, I think the story is always better than the truth.
She didn’t say anything to him.