For most of my life, I believed our little family could have stepped right out of a Hallmark movie. Hayden, my husband, still slips love notes into my coffee mug even after twelve years of marriage. Our daughter, Mya, asks the kind of questions that turn ordinary moments into little epiphanies—questions about stars, reindeer, and why sandwiches are far superior to plain carrots. Life, with all its imperfections, felt magical because of them.
Every December, I tried to capture that magic for Mya and hold it close, if only for a few weeks. One year, I transformed the living room into a snow globe, with cotton for snowdrifts and twinkling lights strung through the houseplants. Another year, we organized neighborhood caroling, with Mya front and center leading “Rudolph” like a tiny conductor, her entire heart in every note. I thought I was the one creating the wonder—but that Christmas taught me how wrong I was.