I have a confession to make. I’m forty-five years old and I believe in Santa Claus.
When I was a little girl, my parents did the whole Santa thing. I always knew that the man at the mall was just a man dressed up as Santa and not the real McCoy. However, I always loved Christmas and, though I rarely had an opportuntiy to sit on the lap of the man pretending to be Santa, I always appreciated the story behind the man.
The story goes that, way back in history, if a woman wanted to be married, her father had to have money, called “dowry,” to give to her prospective husband. If the father didn’t have anything, his daughter might have to become a prostitute in order to be able to support herself. The story says that there was one such father with three daughters and a wealthy, young…
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