Theresa Jackson, mother of three stair-steppin’ babies—Tyrone Jr. (11), Abeni (10), and little Theresa (9)—had a plan. A plan stitched together with red velvet, white fur trim, and a kiss that would shake the foundation of childhood fantasy.
See, the Jacksons believed in honesty. Not the kind you whisper behind closed doors, but the kind you shout over the sound of frying bacon. And this year, they were gonna tell the kids the truth: Santa Claus was a lie. A beautiful, jolly, gift-giving lie. And they were gonna do it with flair.
Tyrone Sr., a man that would do anything for his family, agreed to don the suit. He’d sneak in, Theresa would plant one on him, and the kids would catch ‘em in the act. Boom. Santa exposed. Childhood over. Youth preserved.
But the devil, as always, was in the details.
It was early Christmas morning. The kind of morning where the sky still wore its nightgown and the air smelled like cinnamon and secrets. Theresa was fluffing bows and adjusting gift tags when she saw him—Santa—standing outside the back window like a red-suited peeping Tom.
“What the hell you doin’ out back?” she hissed, cracking the door. “You supposed to come through the front like a respectable fake myth!”
He didn’t say nothin’. Just nodded and waddled in like he’d been summoned.
Theresa looked him up and down. “Damn, you went all out. That belly look real. You got the good suit, huh? Okay, okay, come on, let’s do this.”
She plopped down on his lap, giggling like a teenager at a basement party. “Mmm, you smell like peppermint and… is that Old Spice? You tryna seduce me, Mr. Claus?”
He grunted. Not a word. Just held her tight like she was a winning lottery ticket.
Upstairs, the kids stirred. The floor creaked. Theresa leaned in, lips puckered, and kissed him like she was tryna win a bet. And baby, that kiss? That kiss had heat. That kiss had history. That kiss had… confusion.
Because when the kids came barreling down the stairs, all sleepy-eyed and ready to snitch, they froze.
“Ayo!” Tyrone Jr. shouted. “Mama kissin’ Santa Claus!”
“I’m tellin’ Daddy!” Abeni screamed.
Theresa stood up, grinning. “Wait, wait, wait! Before y’all go runnin’ your mouths, lemme show you somethin’.”
She reached for the beard, ready to pull off the big reveal. But when she yanked it off, the room went still. The man under the beard wasn’t Tyrone Sr.
It was a stranger.
A stranger with beady eyes and a confused look, like he’d just realized he walked into the wrong sitcom.
Theresa blinked. “Who the…WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed the nearest lamp…one of them heavy ones from Big Lots with the fake gold trim—and cracked it over his head like she was auditioning for WWE.
The kids, trained in the ancient art of “don’t let nobody mess with Mama,” jumped in. Abeni had a broom. Tyrone Jr. had a Nerf bat. Little Theresa was just throwing Legos like ninja stars.
The fake Santa tried to run, but his boots were too big and his pants too tight. He slipped on a candy cane and hit the floor like a sack of bad decisions.
Hearing the confusion Tyrone Sr. burst through the front door, still in his own Santa suit, holding a sack of presents and confusion.
“What the hell!?!
All he saw was feet, hands and items flying with a furry.
Tyrone Sr. didn’t ask questions. He just joined in, swinging his sack like a medieval weapon. The living room looked like a holiday-themed episode of Cops.
When the dust settled, the fake Santa was tied up with tinsel and shoelaces, moaning under a pile of wrapping paper and regret.
Turns out, he was a burglar. Thought he could sneak in, grab some gifts, and bounce. Didn’t expect to get kissed, cuddled, and curb-stomped by a whole family.
The police came, took one look at the scene, and said, “Damn. Y’all need a sitcom.”
After that, the Jackson kids never believed in Santa again. Not only because he wasn’t real, but because they beat his ass.
And every year, when they passed the mall and saw a Santa ringing a bell, Theresa would mutter, “We should beat his ass again.”
And nobody corrected her.
Not even Jesus.
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