I used to think we were one of those perfect Hallmark families—the kind that glowed from the inside out. Hayden still slipped love notes into my coffee mug after twelve years of marriage, and our daughter, Mya, had a way of asking questions that made you see the world with wonder again.

Every December, I tried to build a little magic for her. One year, I turned our living room into a snow globe—cotton batting drifts, string lights wound through every plant. The next, I organized neighborhood caroling, and Mya, in her red mittens, led “Rudolph.” She hugged me afterward and whispered, “This is the best Christmas ever,” as if I’d given her the world.

This year, I’d hidden tickets to The Nutcracker under the tree, wrapped in gold. I couldn’t wait to see her face when she opened them.

A few days before Christmas, she was her usual bright, curious self. As we hung ornaments, she asked, “How do Santa’s reindeer fly for so long without getting tired? Even magical reindeer must get sleepy.”

“Santa takes care of them,” I said. Continues…