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In the morning, she barreled into the living room and stopped short at the sight of a small, new envelope propped against her gifts. I felt Hayden’s hand find mine and squeeze. She opened it with reverence, eyes flicking across the page.
Hello, Mya!
Thank you for your thoughtful note. My reindeer are indeed grateful for the blankets and sandwiches—especially Vixen, who loves her vegetables. I returned your mom’s car just as you asked. You are a wonderful girl, and you made this Christmas magical.
—Santa
She clutched the letter to her chest. “He used the blankets,” she gasped. “And Vixen ate my sandwiches!”
I hugged her until her laugh came out muffled against my sweater. Hayden knelt and kissed her hair. We watched her unspool ribbon and squeal over the game she’d asked for, and then the gold paper with The Nutcracker tickets inside. Her mouth made a perfect O. “We’re going to the ballet?”
“We are,” I said. “Just you, me, and Daddy. Ballet buns and everything.”
She screamed, the kind of sound joy makes when it is still new enough to surprise itself.
Later, while the cinnamon rolls baked and the dog nosed at abandoned scraps of wrapping paper, I stood at the sink and looked a long time at our little street. Every house was wrapped in lights. The abandoned place across from us, that temporary stable in my daughter’s mind, sat quiet under a dusting of frost. I imagined a sleigh idling, reindeer sighing into blankets that smelled faintly like our laundry, a man in red exhaling gratefully as he switched to a sensible sedan for a few blocks.
I’ve always believed my job was to make Christmas for her, to stage the wonder and cue the music. But this year, she scripted something I never could have planned: a midnight rescue mission disguised as compassion, a love letter to creatures that were real only because she insisted they were, and a reminder that the best kind of magic is simply kindness dressed up in bells.
That morning, while she traced Santa’s signature with her finger and asked if Vixen might like peanut butter next year, I realized the truth I should have known all along. I didn’t need to be the only one making the holiday glow. Our child—curious, relentless, tender—was already lighting the whole house from the inside.
