I don't understand what happened.

When I was a little girl, you told me fairy stories and helped me see little magical creatures living under the mossy ground in the woods.

You told me Santa Claus was real, and took me on (like you do your father in a political debate...) when I tried to argue that truth. When I was a teenager, you even gave me a book to read, debunking the myth of St. Nick's untruth.

We had a purple dragon for a pet--and you helped me ignore her pipe-cleaner body to imagine her alive. Her companion was a garden gnome who lived below her among your house plants. You taught me not to insult him by calling him fake.

You did everything you could to create magic in our home and in our lives. You did everything you could to make me a believer.

But now, 20-some years later, when all I need is for you to believe in me, all you can do is tell me that believing is foolish.