Married To The Man In The Red Suit: Life As A Santa's Helper Widow In December

By State Rep. Wendy E. N Thomas, InDepth NH

MERRIMACK, NH — There are many kinds of marriages in the world, but mine comes with an extra seasonal clause; every December, I share my husband with the world.

He is a professional Santa Claus helper, and while I get him to myself for eleven months of the year, December belongs to the children of our communities, the parents, the grandparents, the schools, the libraries, the town centers, the parades, and the very devoted believers who make up his magical world.

When we’re out and about during the rest of the year, we look like any other couple. We run errands, complain about grocery prices, walk through the park, and settle into our favorite comfy chairs at the end of the day. We share inside jokes and quiet moments, just like everyone else. But once Thanksgiving arrives and the boxes of ornaments start emerging from closets, a transformation begins. The phone rings more often. Emails stack up. Events fill every open space on the calendar. And just like that, I become what I lovingly call… a Santa widow.

From the outside, “being married to a Santa” sounds whimsical and romantic. And in truth, sometimes it is. But understand, it’s no Hallmark movie, being a Santa’s helper's wife is also a unique sacrifice, one made not out of obligation, but out of love for the joy my husband brings to others. While most couples are taking cozy holiday photos together, sipping cocoa side by side, or going to tree-lighting ceremonies hand in hand, I am often at home, waving goodbye as he grabs his red suit and stomping coal-black boots and rushes off to another event. We are rarely seen together in December. People sometimes ask, “Why aren’t you with him?” and I just smile and say, “Because the children need him more right now.”

He belongs to them in December. And I have learned that sharing him is the price I pay for the happiness he delivers everywhere he goes.

During the holiday season, he becomes more than just my husband. He becomes the embodiment of magic, hope, nostalgia, and kindness. Children look at him with wide eyes filled with wonder. Parents lean in with grateful expressions, quietly whispering, “Thank you for making my child believe.” Some people cry when they see him, not out of sadness, but because he brings back memories of their own childhood Christmases long past. He represents tradition in a time where so much changes so quickly.

And while he is gone for long hours, sometimes from morning until night, I start collecting evidence of his adventures. It’s not at the North Pole, and he doesn’t have a workshop full of elves, but he does come home carrying the most delightful assortment of things: cookies, candy canes, handwritten notes, crayon drawings, and tiny magical trinkets gifted by those he affectionately calls “the true believers.”

There are cookies in every imaginable shape and flavor. Some are perfectly baked with care and precision, wrapped in sparkling paper and tied with elegant bows. Others are clearly the work of tiny hands and big hearts, slightly crooked, generously frosted, and sugared beyond all reason. And he treasures them all equally. He always says the messier the cookie, the more love went into it. He’ll gently place them on the kitchen counter and grin, as if he’s just unloaded a chest of gold.

Then there are the letters, oh, the letters. Children write the most beautiful things when they believe they are writing to Santa. They share their hopes, their fears, their wishes, and sometimes their deepest struggles. Some ask for toys. Others ask for healing for a loved one, peace in their home, or for their parents to stop fighting. These are not just notes; they are little glimpses into tender, growing hearts. My husband reads every single one. He doesn’t rush them. He lets their words settle in his heart. He carries their faith like a sacred responsibility.

Over time, I have come to understand that my husband is not just “playing” Santa's helper. He is protecting magic in a world that desperately needs it. He is holding space for wonder, imagination, and belief. That knowledge makes my quiet evenings without him a little easier to bear.

The true believers, children and adults alike, often give him tiny gifts. A polished stone “for Santa’s pocket,” a small ornament, a bell, a charm, a bracelet made of yarn and love. These items have no monetary value, but they are priceless in meaning. Our home is dotted with these magical pieces year-round. Every ornament and trinket holds a memory of a child whose world was made brighter, if only for a moment.

Sometimes, when the house feels especially quiet in December, I wander around and touch these offerings. They remind me that although I may spend many evenings alone this time of year, I am still connected to something much bigger than myself. I am married to joy. I am married to hope. I am married to magic.

And yet, I won’t pretend that it’s always easy. There are nights when I wish he were sitting beside me instead of answering one more email or driving to one more event in the falling snow. There are moments when I long to attend holiday parties together instead of explaining again, “Santa has to work tonight.” There is a certain loneliness that accompanies loving someone who belongs, in part, to the world.

But that loneliness is softened by an immense pride.

I watch how he patiently listens to every child, even when he is exhausted. I see the way he kneels down to eye level, the way he laughs with genuine warmth, the way he remembers small details from year to year. I have heard families say that seeing him is the best part of their holiday season. I have witnessed the change in a child’s posture, the way their shoulders lift and their worries melt just by being near him.

How could I not be proud of that?

So I have accepted my role as a Santa widow with grace. I decorate the house in a way that welcomes him home, no matter how late he returns. I keep a light on, a warm drink ready, and a listening ear open for the stories that spill out of him when he finally sits down. He tells me about the little girl who was so nervous she cried, until he held her hand and she smiled. He tells me about the shy boy who finally laughed at his silly jokes. He tells me about the parents who thanked him over and over, because life has been hard and this moment of happiness meant everything.

And in those quiet, late-night conversations, I feel deeply connected to the mission we share, even if I am not the one wearing the suit.

December doesn’t last forever. The red suit eventually gets cleaned and stored. The beard is trimmed back into something that is a little more controlled. The boots stop jingling down the hallway. January returns him to me in a way that almost feels new again. And when we finally walk side by side at the store, or sit together at a coffee shop, I sometimes see people looking twice, as if they recognize him but can’t quite place from where.

They don’t know that for a few magical weeks, he belonged to the world.

And I don’t mind.

Because sharing my husband so he can bring joy to parents and children is the price I pay and it is one I pay gladly. After all, how many people can say they are married to a Santa Claus helper?

And how many can say that they helped keep the holiday magic alive?

This article first appeared on InDepthNH.org and is republished here under a Creative Commons license.