I always thought we were one of those Hallmark families—glowy and a little ridiculous. Hayden still tucks love notes in my coffee mug after twelve years, and our daughter, Mya, asks questions that make you fall in love with the world again.

Every December, I try to bottle magic for her. When she was five, I turned the living room into a snow globe with cotton snow and twinkle lights. Last year, I organized neighborhood caroling and let her lead “Rudolph.” She hugged me and whispered, “This is the best Christmas ever.”

This year, I had tickets to The Nutcracker wrapped in gold under the tree, eager to see her reaction.

In the days before Christmas, Mya was her curious self. “How do Santa’s reindeer fly so long without getting tired?” she asked while we hung ornaments. She worried maybe they needed sandwiches, just like people have food choices.

On Christmas Eve, our house was glowing with icicle lights, ham in the oven, and Hayden’s green bean casserole on the table. Mya spun on the driveway, calling the lights stars come to live on our street. After tucking her into pajamas, I told her to sleep early. She hugged me tightly, “This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”

But at 2 a.m., I found her bed empty. Panic flooded me as Hayden and I searched the house. Our keys were missing. Then Hayden found a note from Mya for Santa, explaining she left the house across the street so the reindeer could rest—and that she left sandwiches and Mom’s car keys for Santa to use if the reindeer got tired.

I found her bundled in the cold but glowing with pride. We brought her back, and the next morning, she found a letter from Santa thanking her for the blankets and sandwiches and returning our car keys.

That Christmas, I realized the magic isn’t just what I create—it’s in her kindness and wonder, lighting up our home from the inside out.