I woke up on Christmas morning with excitement bubbling inside me. I had written a long list for Santa, filled with all the toys and gadgets I wanted. My parents, Martha and Henry, were lawyers in New York City, and we lived in a big townhouse in Chelsea. I was used to getting everything I asked for, especially at Christmas.
This year, I even asked Mom to post my list on our family Facebook group so everyone could see what Santa was bringing. Dad wasn’t happy about it. He told Mom, “Tommy is becoming spoiled. Presents aren’t the most important part of Christmas.” Mom agreed but admitted it was hard to say no to me.
When I ran to the tree that morning, I expected piles of gifts. Instead, I saw only four boxes. My heart sank. I cried out, “Mom! Where are all my presents? Santa should have brought everything on my list!”
Dad came in, tired from work, and tried to calm me. “Tommy, these are your presents. Be grateful. Santa worked hard to bring them.” But I wasn’t convinced. I opened the boxes—an iPad, a drone, and other expensive toys—but it wasn’t enough. I shouted, “This isn’t fair! Where are the rest?”
That’s when Dad told me something shocking: “Santa was robbed on his way here. He managed to save the best gifts for you, but the thieves took the rest.” My tears stopped. My eyes widened. “Santa was robbed? By thieves?” Dad nodded, and I believed him.
But I remembered what Dad had taught me: if there’s a crime, call 911. So I did.
An hour later, loud voices boomed outside: “NYPD! Open the door immediately!” I rushed to the door, shouting, “Mom! The police are here!” Two officers stood outside with guns drawn, but they lowered them when they saw us.
I grabbed one officer’s pants and pulled him inside. “Come in! Santa was robbed! Look, I only got four presents, and my list was huge. You have to find the thief!”
Dad walked in, stunned to see the officers. “What’s going on?” I proudly explained, “I called 911 like you taught me. They’ll catch the bad guys who stole from Santa.”
The officers looked confused, and Mom quickly led me to the kitchen. Dad apologized, embarrassed. “We tried to teach Tommy that presents don’t matter, but he cried, so I told him Santa got mugged.”
The officers laughed. “We thought it was a real robbery. The dispatcher only heard a child crying and the word ‘robbery.’ We expected a home invasion. This is hilarious,” one said. They left, joking that they now had a funny Christmas story to tell their families.
Later, Dad sat beside me. “Tommy, Santa wasn’t robbed. That was a lie. Christmas isn’t about receiving gifts. It’s about giving.” Mom added, “You’re lucky, Tommy. Other kids don’t get as much. Santa gives to them too.”
I thought about it and finally said, “Well, I still got the best presents I asked for.” My parents smiled. That Christmas turned joyful after all.
From then on, I never asked for more than two or three presents again. And every year, my parents retold the story of the Christmas when I called 911 on Santa’s “robbery.” It became our family’s treasured memory.
