Free Almost An Angel by Judith Arnold

If she had, I would have sent her to the principal’s office this time. But she got into an argument with some classmates about the existence of Santa during lunch, and she’s been sobbing uncontrollably for at least ten minutes. I can’t calm her down. Erin Murphy is accompanying her to your office. They’re good friends.”  
    “Okay,” Eliza said. “Thanks for the heads-up.” She said goodbye to the teacher and pulled up Amy’s file on her computer.  
    Minutes later, her door opened and Amy was led in by a worried-looking blond girl. Amy’s face was red, her eyes swollen. She was sobbing so hard she’d developed hiccups. “She’s very sad,” the blond girl said.  
    “I can see that.” Eliza reached for the box of tissues she kept on her desk, placed it in front of Amy and plucked a tissue from the slot for her.  
    “My mom didn’t die, but she doesn’t live with us anymore,” the blond girl said. “We’ve got a step-mother now. She’s great. I think Amy needs a step-mother, too.”  
    Thank you for that diagnosis, Eliza almost retorted. Amy’s friend might well be right, but Eliza didn’t want to think of Amy in the context of a step-mother.  
    Amy mopped her face with the tissue, reducing it to a soggy wad that she placed on the corner of Eliza’s desk. Eliza nodded to Erin Murphy, who backed toward the door, her gaze lingering on her weeping buddy. At least Amy had a close, caring friend. Not the same thing as a loving mother, or even a step-mother, but it would help.  
    Once she and Amy were alone, Eliza resumed her seat, swiveling her chair to face Amy and wheeling it close. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Can you tell me?”  
    “I didn’t hit anyone,” Amy swore between sobs and hiccups. “I’m being ve-very g-good.”  
    Eliza wanted to tell her to stop worrying about being so flipping good, but first she had to find out what had happened to precipitate this meltdown. “Did someone hit you?”  
    “N-no.” Amy released a stuttering breath. “But they told me there’s no Santa Claus. They said the pr-presents come from p-people like your parents, or your grandma.” Another shaky heave of breath. “My daddy can’t give me my mom. That’s the only thing I want for Chr-Christmas, and if there’s no Santa, I can’t have it.” She punctuated her statement with a heartbreaking whimper.  
    What Amy had said was true. Eliza couldn’t tell her otherwise. Yet she had to convince Amy that although her mother wouldn’t come back to her, she could still find joy in life, and in the holiday.  
    “I really want to believe in Santa,” Amy said, then sniffled.  
    Eliza handed her another tissue. “Do you know what a myth is?” she asked.  
    Amy peered at her through watery eyes. “Something Greek?”  
    Eliza smiled. “The Greeks had many myths. So did the Vikings. So did the Romans. So do we.”  
    Amy blew her nose. She had stopped crying, thank goodness.  
    “A myth is a story we believe because we want to. Logically, we know it can’t be true. But believing it makes us happy. So we accept that it’s not true, but we believe it anyway because it fulfills an emotional need inside us. Maybe it answers a question we can’t answer any other way. The Greeks believed Apollo carried the sun across the sky in a chariot because they could see that the sun appeared in different places in the sky, but they didn’t know how or why that happened. They created a myth. And we create myths to help us figure things out, too. Or simply because they make us happy. Santa Claus is a happy myth. We believe in him because it’s fun. But logically, we know he doesn’t exist.” She eyed Amy carefully, trying to gauge how well this explanation was working.  
    Amy mulled it over. “If—if—if Santa doesn’t exist, how can my mom be his angel?”  
    That question struck Eliza as a bit more theological than she felt comfortable with. She wished she could bring in a priest