I always thought we were a Hallmark family—Hayden still hides love notes in mugs, and our daughter Mya sees the world like it’s made of magic.

Every December, I build Christmas around her. One year, I turned our living room into a snow globe. This year, I wrapped tickets to The Nutcracker in gold paper beneath the tree.

On Christmas Eve, she asked if Santa’s reindeer ever get tired. “Even magical ones need rest,” she said.

That night, I woke to find her gone. A note on the table, written in careful loops:

Dear Santa,
I left blankets and sandwiches for your reindeer at the abandoned house across the street. They can nap there. You can use Mom’s car if you need it. Please return the keys.

I found her there—bundled up, glowing with purpose. “They’ll be comfy here,” she whispered.

I brought her home, heart full. The next morning, she found a letter from Santa, thanking her—especially from Vixen, who loves veggies.

As she traced the signature with awe, I realized: I’d spent years creating Christmas for her, but this year, she created it for all of us.

Magic, it turns out, isn’t built. It’s passed on—and she’s already shining.