It seems like every year, there are more children on the naughty list. Yes, I make this list and check it twice. I always know who’s been naughty or nice. That’s right, I’m Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, Father Christmas—whatever you call me, I’m still the jolly old fat man with rosy cheeks and a belly that shakes like a bowl full of jelly.

Today, I’m lounging on my big, comfy davenport, sipping cocoa and nibbling cookies while pondering a troubling thought: what should I do about all the naughty children in the world? Coal used to be my go-to solution, but with modern technology turning coal into diamonds, it feels like too precious a punishment. And let’s face it, not all those kids are truly naughty; some are just misunderstood.

I get up, brush crumbs from my coat, and shuffle over to the monitors that show me the lives of children all over the world. No, I’m not a pervert, so don’t go thinking that. My magical system automatically blurs private moments. Even Santa has boundaries.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been particularly interested in two children: Amanda and Trevor, nine-year-old twins. These kids have been on the nice list their entire lives—not a single naughty act between them. It’s a rarity, believe me. Most kids slip up now and then. But Amanda and Trevor are different. Scratch that. Max and Chelsea are different. Let me explain.

You see, Amanda and Trevor were the names given to them at birth, but deep down, Amanda knows she’s Max, a boy, and Trevor knows she’s Chelsea, a girl. They’ve never told anyone their true identities, not even each other, but I know. Santa always knows. And I’ve chosen to honor the names and identities they’ve chosen for themselves.

On one of the screens, I see Chelsea raking leaves in the yard while Max folds laundry inside. Their father, Richard, looms nearby, his critical gaze making my cocoa curdle. Richard is the kind of man who sees the world in rigid, black-and-white terms. He doesn’t know—or perhaps doesn’t want to know—who his children truly are.

"Good job, son," Richard says, clapping Chelsea on the shoulder. She flinches but keeps raking. Richard’s words sting, though not for the reason he might think. Chelsea’s not ungrateful for the praise; she just wishes it could come without the constant misgendering.
"Thanks, Dad," she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Did you sign up for hockey like I told you to?" Richard asks, his tone sharp.
"Yes, Dad," Chelsea replies, her hands tightening around the rake.

"Good boy. How were tryouts?"

Chelsea looks at the ground, her voice trembling. "I didn’t make the team."

Right on cue, Richard’s face darkens. "You didn’t make the team? I’m not raising a loser! Get inside, now! And no supper for you tonight."
Chelsea’s eyes well with tears, but she obeys, retreating to her room without another word. Upstairs, she collapses onto her bed, burying her face in the pillow to stifle her sobs. My heart aches for her. If only Richard could see what I see: a resilient, courageous child trying her best in a world that doesn’t always understand her.

Meanwhile, Max is inside, neatly folding laundry. He moves with the precision of someone who’s learned to avoid attracting attention. But even his careful demeanor doesn’t spare him from Richard’s wrath.
"Amanda!" Richard barks, storming into the room. "How many times have I told you to stay out of my way?"
"I wasn’t in your way," Max protests softly.

"Don’t talk back to me, young lady! Go to your room. No supper for you either."

Max’s lips quiver, but he holds back the tears until he’s alone. Upstairs, he sits on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
As I watch both children crying, my heart breaks. They’ve done nothing to deserve this. In fact, they’re among the kindest, most well-behaved children I’ve ever seen. It’s their parents who belong on the naughty list, not them. I decide then and there to intervene.
With a twitch of my nose and a twinkle of my thumb, I use my Christmas magic to bring Max and Chelsea to my workshop. In an instant, they’re standing before me, wide-eyed and bewildered.

"Ho, ho, ho!" I greet them warmly. "Don’t be afraid, Max and Chelsea. You’re safe here."
Their jaws drop. "How do you know our names?" Max asks.

"I’m Santa Claus," I reply with a chuckle. "I know everything about you—even the names you haven’t shared with anyone else."
Chelsea’s eyes fill with tears. "So, you know I’ve been bad," she whispers.

"Oh, no, no, no," I say, shaking my head. "You’re both on the nice list. Your father doesn’t decide who’s naughty or nice. That’s my job, and I’ve never seen either of you do anything to deserve being called naughty."

The tension in their shoulders eases, and they share a small, hopeful smile.
"But I didn’t bring you here just to tell you that," I continue. "I brought you here because I want to give you both a very special gift. These aren’t gifts you’ll find under a tree. They’re gifts that will change your lives forever."

"What kind of gifts?" Max asks, his voice filled with wonder.

I smile warmly. "Max, I’m giving you the gift of boyhood. From this moment forward, you’ll be a real boy. And Chelsea, I’m giving you the gift of girlhood. You’ll be a real girl."

Their faces light up with joy. For the first time, they look truly at peace.
"But what about our parents?" Max asks hesitantly.

"Your parents won’t remember you," I explain gently. "You’ll go to a new family, one that loves and supports you for who you are. They’ve been waiting for you, and they’re ready to welcome you with open arms."

Tears of relief stream down their faces, but I hold up a hand. "There is one condition. Before I give you these gifts, I need your help."
"What kind of help?" Chelsea asks.

I point to a screen showing a boy named Jeremy. "He’s been on the naughty list for four years. I want you to help him change his ways."
"How can we do that?" Max asks. "Christmas is only eighteen days away."

I grin. "Haven’t you ever wondered how I deliver all those presents in one night? I have a time machine. You’ll use it to go back and make a difference in Jeremy’s life."

"What if we can’t do it?" Chelsea asks nervously.

"If you try your best, that’s all I ask," I reassure them. "But I believe in you."
I lead them to the time machine, handing each of them a bracelet. "These will keep you together and bring you back when the job is done. Are you ready?"

They nod, determination in their eyes. As the machine hums to life, I wave them off with a hearty, "Good luck!"
And with that, their adventure begins.