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.

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

This year, I wrapped Nutcracker tickets in gold beneath the tree, eager to see her face.

Days before Christmas, Mya was her curious self. “How do Santa’s reindeer fly so long without getting tired?” she asked. “Even magical reindeer must get sleepy.”

“Santa takes good care of them,” I said.

“Do they get special food?” She thought hard. “Maybe sandwiches? People need choices. Like Daddy likes turkey but you like chicken.”

At the mall, she told Santa just that.

On Christmas Eve, the house sparkled with icicle lights. Mya spun in her red dress, declaring the lights looked like stars come to live on our street. We tucked her into pajamas early. “The sooner you sleep, the sooner morning comes,” I told her.

But at 2 a.m., I woke to find her door ajar—and her bed empty. Panic hit. Hayden and I searched, then found a note by a present.

Dear Santa,
Your reindeer must be very tired, so I left blankets, sandwiches, and Mom’s car keys at the abandoned house across the street. Please let the reindeer rest there.

Outside, I found Mya bundled on the porch, waiting. She smiled, proud of her rescue mission.

Back home, she slept deeply. In the morning, a letter from Santa thanked her for her kindness, mentioning Vixen loved the vegetables.

That Christmas, I realized Mya’s kindness was the real magic—lighting our home from within.