I always thought my family belonged on one of those overly sentimental Hallmark cards—the kind with soft lighting, matching pajamas, and a soundtrack that swells at the right moments. Hayden still slips love notes into my coffee mug after twelve years, and our daughter, Mya, asks the kind of questions that make you fall in love with the world instead of despair over it.
Every December, I throw myself into creating whatever version of magic she still believes in. When she was five, I turned our living room into a snow globe—cotton drifts over every bookshelf, lights tucked into every plant, glitter sprinkled everywhere. Last year, I organized neighborhood caroling and let her lead “Rudolph.” She hugged me afterward and whispered, “This is the best Christmas ever,” like I had personally invented joy.
This year, my secret masterpiece was a pair of tickets to The Nutcracker, wrapped in gold and tucked under the tree. I couldn’t wait to see her face when she found them.
In the days leading up to Christmas, she was her usual mix of curiosity and imagination. One afternoon, as we decorated the tree, she asked, “How do Santa’s reindeer fly without getting tired? Even magical animals have to get sleepy.”
“Santa takes good care of them,” I told her.“Do they get special food? Carrots are okay, but I think they need choices. Like how Daddy likes turkey sandwiches and you like chicken.”
Groceries
Later, at the mall, she repeated the same theory to Santa—and suggested sandwiches for the reindeer. At the time, it struck me as cute. I didn’t realize how seriously she meant it.
Christmas Eve had all the usual shine: our house glowing with icicle lights, the ham baking, Hayden’s famous green bean casserole filling the kitchen with warmth. Mya twirled in the driveway in her red dress, insisting the lights looked like fallen stars that had chosen our street to land on. We put her to bed in Rudolph pajamas by eight.
“This is going to be the best Christmas ever,” she whispered as I kissed her forehead.
I woke up around 2 a.m., thirsty. The house was silent, the kind of quiet that feels hollow instead of peaceful. On my way to the kitchen, I noticed Mya’s bedroom door slightly open.
I had closed it.
I nudged it wide enough to see her bed—and froze. The blankets were pulled back. The pillow was empty.
“Mya?” I checked the bathroom, the guest room, the closets. Nothing. The silence thickened. My pulse thudded in my ears.
I ran to our room. “Hayden,” I gasped, “she’s not in her bed.”
He shot up, pulling on sweatpants. We tore through the house calling for her. When I reached for my keys—always sitting in the dish by the front door—they were gone.
Before panic swallowed me whole, Hayden’s voice drifted from the tree. “There’s a note… you need to read this.”I rushed over. A folded piece of paper leaned against one of her presents. The handwriting was careful and wobbly—her determined, try-hard penmanship.
Dear Santa,
I know your reindeer must get very tired flying all night. So I wanted to help.
When you bring my presents, please go to the abandoned house across the street. I brought blankets and warm clothes so your reindeer can rest.
I also brought sandwiches. Some chicken and some veggie because maybe reindeer like choices.
You’ll find my mom’s car keys too. You can use her car if the reindeer need a break. Just put the keys back before morning.
Love,
Mya
Relief hit so hard my knees nearly buckled. I grabbed my coat. “Stay here,” I told Hayden. “I’m getting her.”The abandoned house across the street had been empty for years. The porch sagged, the yard overgrown. Behind the bushes, I spotted a tiny shape curled under blankets and an oversized puffy coat. A reusable grocery bag sat beside her.
When I crouched, she looked up, eyes bright even in the cold. “Hi, Mommy,” she whispered proudly. “I’m waiting for Santa. His reindeer can nap here.”
I pulled her into my arms despite the freezing air. Her hair smelled like the cinnamon shampoo she insisted on using because “it smells like cookies.” I wrapped my coat around us both. “You brilliant, impossible child,” I murmured. “Let’s go home.”
We gathered everything she had brought: two blankets from our couch, three of my scarves, the sandwiches she’d made with absolute seriousness—some chicken, some labeled “Veggie” in crooked marker. My missing keys sat neatly on top, as if part of some official arrangement.I didn’t mention the note. Some magic deserves to stay untouched.
Back home, I tucked her in without removing her socks. She fell asleep instantly—apparently helping Santa is exhausting work.
Christmas morning, she bolted into the living room and stopped short. Propped against her gifts sat a crisp, new envelope. Her name was written in looping, elegant script.
She tore it open with shaking hands.
Hello, Mya,
Thank you for your thoughtful note. The blankets were perfect, and Vixen especially loved the veggie sandwich. I returned your mom’s car, just like you asked.
You are a wonderful girl. You made our night magical.
—Santahe pressed the letter to her chest, eyes wide with awe. “Vixen ate my sandwich!” she squealed.
Hayden grinned, wiping a quiet tear. I hugged her, feeling her joy vibrate like a tiny engine.
Then she opened the gold-wrapped box. When she pulled out the ballet tickets, she gasped. “We’re going to The Nutcracker?”
“Yes,” I said. “You, me, and Daddy.”
She let out a shriek so pure and delighted it put every twinkle light in the room to shame.
Later, while cinnamon rolls baked and ribbons littered the floor, I stood at the window staring at the abandoned house under a thin blanket of frost. In my mind, I saw exactly what she had imagined—a sleigh idling in the dark, weary reindeer curled under her blankets, a grateful Santa stretching his legs before borrowing a sensible minivan for the last few blocks.For years, I thought it was my job to manufacture holiday magic for her. But watching her that morning, clutching Santa’s letter like it was made of stardust, I finally understood something simple and obvious:
I wasn’t the only one making light in this house.
Our daughter—curious, tender, ridiculously earnest—was already glowing bright enough to warm the whole street.
