On Christmas Eve, I woke to an eerie silence in the house. Something felt wrong. I crept to Mya’s room, expecting to find her asleep, but her bed was empty. My car keys were gone. Panic set in.
Our family had always felt like something out of a Hallmark movie. Hayden, my loving husband, still leaves sweet notes in my coffee mug after twelve years, and Mya, our bright, curious daughter, fills our lives with joy. But nothing could prepare me for what happened this Christmas.
Each year, I’ve gone all out to make Christmas unforgettable for Mya. When she was five, I turned the living room into a winter wonderland. Last year, she led the neighborhood carolers in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, declaring it the best Christmas ever. This year, her curiosity about Santa and his reindeer was at its peak.
Christmas Eve was magical—Mya spun in her red dress, and dinner was perfect. Afterward, she begged to open a gift early, but soon fell asleep, whispering, “This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”
At 2 a.m., I woke to find Mya’s bed empty. I searched the house, my heart racing. Then, I found a note under the tree in Mya’s handwriting:
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