I always thought of us as a Hallmark family—warm, sentimental, and devoted to making holidays magical for our daughter, Mya. Each year, I filled
the season with lights, cotton “snow,” and caroling. That Christmas, I planned something special: tickets to The Nutcracker tucked beneath the tree.
On Christmas Eve, the house glowed with decorations and the smell of ham and casserole. Mya, dressed in Rudolph pajamas, went to bed excited.
But at 2 a.m., I woke to find her missing. Panic rose until Hayden spotted a note under the tree. Mya had written to Santa, explaining she’d gone across
the street to the abandoned house to let the reindeer rest. She’d left blankets, clothes, sandwiches—chicken and vegetable—and even my car keys.
We rushed outside to find her bundled behind bushes, proud of her mission. After bringing her home, she fell asleep content. In the morning, she found a
letter from Santa thanking her—and noting Vixen enjoyed the veggie sandwiches.
When she discovered the Nutcracker tickets, her joy spilled over in shrieks of laughter.
That Christmas, Mya reminded us the true magic isn’t in gifts or lights, but in kindness, imagination, and love.
