Christmas Eve had all the trimmings: icicle lights dripping from the eaves, a ham in the oven, Hayden’s green bean casserole steaming on the table. Mya twirled in her red dress, saying the lights looked like stars that had fallen onto our street. We tucked her into Rudolph pajamas by eight. “The sooner you sleep, the sooner morning comes,” I said. She smiled. “This will be the best Christmas ever.”
At 2 a.m., I woke to a strange quiet and noticed Mya’s door ajar. Her bed was empty. Panic set in. We searched the house, calling her name, until I reached for my keys—and realized they were gone.
Then Hayden spotted a note by the tree. It was addressed to Santa. Mya had taken blankets, sandwiches, and my car keys to the abandoned house across the street so Santa’s reindeer could rest.
I found her there, bundled up and waiting proudly. “The reindeer can nap here,” she whispered.
We brought her home, letting the magic stay intact. In the morning, a thank-you letter from “Santa” waited by the gifts. Watching her joy, I realized Christmas wasn’t something we made for her anymore—she was making it for us.
