I used to think our family was the kind that belonged in a Hallmark movie—perfect and glowing from the inside out. Hayden still slipped love notes into my coffee after twelve years of marriage, and our daughter, Mya, had a way of seeing the world that made you believe in wonder again.
Every December, I tried to make a little magic for her. One year, the living room became a snow globe, drifts of cotton and string lights everywhere. Another year, she led caroling around the neighborhood, red mittens bright against the winter air. “This is the best Christmas ever,” she whispered afterward, hugging me like I’d given her the world.
This year, I’d hidden golden tickets to The Nutcracker under the tree. I couldn’t wait for her to open them.
A few days before Christmas, she was full of questions, as always. “How do Santa’s reindeer fly all night without getting tired?” she asked. “Do they eat sandwiches? People like choices—like how Daddy likes turkey but you like chicken.” At the mall, she told Santa the same thing, suggesting he try sandwiches instead of carrots. I laughed, unaware that this conversation would matter more than I could imagine.
Christmas Eve was perfect. The house sparkled under icicle lights, the oven smelled like ham, and Hayden’s green bean casserole steamed on the table. Mya twirled in her red dress, exclaiming that the lights looked like stars had fallen to live on our street. We tucked her into bed in her Rudolph pajamas. “The sooner you sleep, the sooner morning comes,” I told her, echoing my mother’s old words. She hugged me tight. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”
At 2 a.m., I woke thirsty and noticed Mya’s door was cracked open. My heart stopped—her bed was empty. Panic surged as I searched every corner. Hayden jolted awake, and we tore through the house. Then we found a note near the tree, in Mya’s careful handwriting:
Dear Santa,
I know your reindeer must be tired on Christmas night. I decided to help. Please visit the abandoned house across the street—I brought blankets, warm clothes, and sandwiches for them. You can use Mom’s car if you need, just return the keys before morning!
Relief hit me in waves. I pulled on my coat and crossed the street, finding Mya bundled behind the bushes of the old, abandoned house, proud and smiling. “Hi, Mommy,” she whispered. “I’m waiting for Santa. The reindeer can rest here.”
We brought her treasures back home—blankets, scarves, sandwiches, and the car keys. Some kinds of magic don’t need parental interference. I tucked her back into bed and promised to listen for reindeer hooves.
Morning arrived, and she froze at the gifts, noticing a small envelope. Carefully, she opened it:
Hello, Mya!
The reindeer loved the blankets and sandwiches—especially Vixen, who adores vegetables. I returned your mom’s car as requested. You are wonderful and made this Christmas magical.
Love, Santa.
She squealed with delight, hugging me and spinning across the living room. The Nutcracker tickets were her final surprise, and her joy filled the house completely.
As cinnamon rolls baked and wrapping paper scattered, I watched the street outside, imagining reindeer curled in borrowed blankets and Santa slipping behind the wheel of a borrowed car. For years, I thought it was my job to create Christmas magic—but Mya had written her own script, showing me that the real magic lived in her: curiosity, kindness, and a belief fierce enough to make the impossible real.
That morning, I realized the glow of Christmas didn’t come from me anymore. It came from her. She was already lighting the world from the inside out.