I used to think our family was ordinary—the kind of home where love didn’t need to shout, it simply lingered. Hayden, even after twelve years of marriage, still tucked handwritten notes into my coffee mug, tiny reminders that care is something you practice every day. And Mya, our daughter, had a curiosity that could stop a room. Her questions weren’t clever; they were honest, the kind that made adults remember what wonder felt like.
Every December, I made it my mission to give her a Christmas that felt alive. When she was five, I turned our living room into a snow globe: cotton batting for snow, white lights twinkling softly, music low and gentle. Mya sat cross-legged on the rug, eyes wide, whispering as if the room itself might hear her. Last year, we hosted a neighborhood caroling night. She stood front and center, belting out “Rudolph” with joy, unbothered by off-key neighbors or watching adults. When it ended, she squeezed my hand and whispered, “This is the best Christmas ever.”
This year, I thought I had outdone myself. Hidden beneath the tree, wrapped in thick paper and tucked far back, were tickets to The Nutcracker. I’d pictured her face: shock first, joy next, then that quiet moment pressing the gift to her chest as if she needed to feel it to believe it was real.
Christmas Eve unfolded perfectly. The house glowed softly, lights reflecting in windows like stars. The oven hummed with a slow roast. Mya twirled in her red dress, laughing, skirt flaring. Later, she climbed into bed in her Rudolph pajamas, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy but refusing to close.
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