For most of my life, I believed our little family was straight out of a Hallmark movie. My husband, Hayden, still tucks love notes into my coffee mug even after twelve years of marriage. Our daughter, Mya, asks questions that turn everyday moments into tiny wonders—about stars, reindeer, and why sandwiches are sometimes better than carrots alone. Life, with all its imperfections, felt magical because of them.
Every December, I tried to capture that magic for Mya and hold it in my hands, if only for a few weeks. One year, I transformed the living room into a snow globe, with cotton snowdrifts and twinkling lights draped through the plants. Another year, we organized neighborhood caroling, with Mya front and center, leading “Rudolph” like a tiny conductor. I thought I was creating the wonder—but that Christmas, she taught me otherwise.
This year, I hid something special under the tree: tickets to The Nutcracker, wrapped in golden paper. I couldn’t wait to watch her open them.
All December, Mya bubbled with questions.
“How do Santa’s reindeer fly so long without getting tired?” she asked one evening.
“Even magical reindeer must get sleepy,” I answered.
“But maybe they’d like sandwiches,” she insisted. “Daddy likes turkey, you like chicken. Even reindeer deserve choices.”
At the mall, she told Santa herself, and I smiled at her innocence, not realizing how seriously she believed her own words.
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