I always thought we were one of those Hallmark families—simple, glowing, maybe a little too perfect. Hayden, my husband, still hides love notes in my coffee mug, little reminders of how quietly he loves me. And Mya… well, Mya has a way of seeing the world that makes everything feel brand new. Every December, I try to bottle that magic: cotton snow globes, twinkling lights on every plant, paper chains snaking across the ceiling, little traditions I hope she’ll remember when she’s grown. And every year, she whispers with pure joy, “This is the best Christmas ever.”
But this year, that “best Christmas ever” nearly made my heart stop.
It was past midnight when I woke. The house was silent—too silent. My eyes scanned Mya’s bed. Empty. My chest dropped. Then I noticed my car keys were missing from the counter. Panic surged like ice water.
On the living room floor, I found a tiny note in Mya’s handwriting:
“Hi Mommy, I took sandwiches and blankets to the abandoned house across the street so Santa’s reindeer would be warm.”
I froze for a second, half laughing, half terrified. She was six. Six! And she’d disappeared into the cold night with nothing but scarves and mittens.
I bolted into the freezing darkness, sneakers crunching over frost-hardened grass, breath puffing out in clouds. And there she was, standing on the porch of the old, abandoned house, bundled in layers, cheeks glowing red, holding a small stack of sandwiches like treasures. She smiled when she saw me.
“Hi, Mommy,” she whispered, like nothing was wrong. “I’m waiting for Santa.”
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