So get yourself a cup of cocoa, preferably with some marshmallows, sit by the fire, and enjoy.

Albuquerque, New Mexico, during the Korean War is the setting. Maureen, my grandmother, was then a young mom far from her family in Ireland, raising four little children while her husband George, an enlisted man, served in the Air Force in Korea.

Money was tight. Really tight.

My Uncle Michael was the oldest, a whole seven years old at the time, and he only wanted one thing for Christmas: a shiny black bicycle. In fact, he refused to give Santa or his mother any other gift ideas.

Grandma did her best to steer him away from expecting a bike. She explained that bicycles were expensive and neither she nor Santa had that kind of money. Michael told her not to worry. Santa didn’t need money. Santa’s elves could make the bike!

The discussion went on for at least a month as Michael, the great believer, told the whole neighborhood he was getting a shiny black bike from Santa.

On Christmas Eve, Michael went to bed convinced there would be a bike under the tree.

His mother went to bed in tears, knowing the few small gifts she’d been able to afford for her four children did not include a bicycle.

Early, way too early on Christmas morning, Michael ran into his mom’s room, climbed onto the bed, and with eyes dancing asked, “Are you ready to go see the bicycle Santa bought me?”

By then, his mother was so frustrated she was actually angry. “Michael,” she said sharply, “there is no bicycle! I told you I had no money for a bicycle!”

Michael just smiled. “I told you Santa doesn’t need money. I just know there is a black bike under the tree.”

Completely defeated, Grandma Maureen wiped away her tears and said quietly, “Why don’t we just go see what Santa did leave for you?”

From the hallway, she could see light coming from the living room. She knew she hadn’t left the Christmas tree lights plugged in, but clearly, they were on.

They stepped into the living room, and there in the dim, multicolored light stood a shiny black bicycle with a big red bow. A tag read, “To Michael, from Santa.”

As his mom tried to take in what she was seeing, Michael ran to the bike. “I knew it!” he said. “I told you Santa would bring me a bicycle!”

For years, that’s where my grandmother, and later my mother, ended the story. Proof positive that Santa was real.

It wasn’t until I was about eleven that my mother told me the rest of the story.

Later that Christmas Day, my grandmother learned what had happened. For weeks, Michael had gone up and down the block telling anyone who would listen that he was getting a black bicycle for Christmas. A kind older couple down the street, friends of my grandmother, knew that if they didn’t step in, Michael would be heartbroken.

They found a used bicycle in the local paper, and the man spent hours carefully refurbishing it, hiding it whenever he spotted Michael heading down the alley toward his workshop.

When the bike was as perfect as he could make it, he polished the handlebars and painted it a shiny black.

Because Michael’s mom was the only parent at home, she had entrusted the couple with a spare house key. In the early hours of Christmas morning, while everyone slept, the kind man unlocked the door, wheeled the bicycle into the living room, and for one last bit of magic, plugged in the Christmas tree lights before quietly slipping away.

Long after I stopped believing in Santa Claus, this story helped me believe in the goodness of everyday people. I still do.

I hope you all have a magical Christmas and a Happy New Year!