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 the kind of questions that make you fall in love with the world again.

I spend December trying to bottle magic for her. When she was five, I turned the living room into a snow globe—cotton batting drifts, twinkle lights threaded through every plant. Last year, I organized neighborhood caroling and let her lead “Rudolph.” She hugged me afterward and whispered, “This is the best Christmas ever,” like I’d handed her the moon.

This year, I had tickets to The Nutcracker wrapped in gold beneath the tree. I couldn’t wait to watch her face when she lifted that paper.

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

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

“Do they get special food?” She considered. “Carrots are fine, but maybe… sandwiches? People need choices. Like how Daddy likes turkey but you like chicken.”

At the mall, she told Santa exactly that—maybe try sandwiches for the reindeer. I smiled, not knowing how important that thought would become.

Christmas Eve had all the trimmings: our house dripping with icicle lights, a ham in the oven, Hayden’s green bean casserole on the table. Mya spun on the driveway in her red dress, declaring the lights looked like stars that had come down to live on our street. We tucked her into Rudolph pajamas by eight. “The sooner you sleep, the sooner morning comes,” I told her, repeating my mother’s line. She hugged me tight. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”

I woke at 2 a.m., mouth dry, the house a hushed, sleeping thing. On my way to the kitchen, I noticed Mya’s door ajar—odd. I had shut it. I pushed it open, expecting to find her a starfish in the sheets.

The bed was empty.

“Mya?” I checked the bathroom, the guest room, the closets. Nothing. The quiet turned peculiar, heavy. I ran to our room. “Hayden!” My voice cracked. “She’s not in her bed.”

He sprang up, pulling on sweatpants. We tore through the house calling her name. In the entryway, I reached for my keys on the little dish by the door.

They were gone.

I was pulling my phone out to call the police when Hayden’s voice carried from the tree. “Babe… there’s a note.”

It was propped against a present, fat letters looping across the page in careful concentration.

Dear Santa,

I know you and your reindeer have a very hard time on Christmas night. It must be so difficult to visit every child in the world and bring them a gift. I think your reindeer must be very tired, so I thought I’d help.

When you come to my house with the games I asked for, please go to the abandoned house across the street so your reindeer can rest there. I brought them warm clothes and blankets so they could take a nap.

I also brought some sandwiches for them. Mom made these for me and kept them in the fridge. I’ve also made some vegetable sandwiches in case your reindeer don’t like the chicken ones.

You’ll also find Mom’s car keys there. You can use the car in case the reindeer feel tired and you still have to deliver more gifts.

Just return the keys before dawn, please!

My tears dropped onto the paper. Relief flared so bright it made me dizzy. “Stay here,” I told Hayden, already shrugging into my coat.

The abandoned house across the street had been empty for years, its porch sagging, its yard a tangle. Behind the bushes, I found a small, bundled lump in a puffy coat, a reusable grocery bag at her side. When I crouched, Mya’s face tipped up from the blanket she’d pulled over her knees. Her cheeks glowed. “Hi, Mommy,” she whispered, pleased with herself. “I’m waiting for Santa. The reindeer can nap here.”

I sat in the cold and pulled her into me. Her hair smelled like the cinnamon shampoo she’d insisted on using because “it smells like cookies.” “You brilliant, ridiculous child,” I said into her hat. “Let’s go home.”

We gathered her things: two throw blankets from our couch, a stack of my folded scarves, the sandwiches she’d so carefully prepared—some chicken, some sliced peppers and cheese and lettuce labeled “Veggie.” My keys lay atop the bag like a seal of official business. I pretended I’d never seen the note. Some spells don’t need adults meddling.

Back at home, I tucked her into bed with her socks still on and promised to keep an ear out for hooves. She slept like she’d finished a very important shift.

In the morning, she barreled into the living room and stopped short at the sight of a small, new envelope propped against her gifts. I felt Hayden’s hand find mine and squeeze. She opened it with reverence, eyes flicking across the page.

Hello, Mya!

Thank you for your thoughtful note. My reindeer are indeed grateful for the blankets and sandwiches—especially Vixen, who loves her vegetables. I returned your mom’s car just as you asked. You are a wonderful girl, and you made this Christmas magical.

—Santa

She clutched the letter to her chest. “He used the blankets,” she gasped. “And Vixen ate my sandwiches!”

I hugged her until her laugh came out muffled against my sweater. Hayden knelt and kissed her hair. We watched her unspool ribbon and squeal over the game she’d asked for, and then the gold paper with The Nutcracker tickets inside. Her mouth made a perfect O. “We’re going to the ballet?”

“We are,” I said. “Just you, me, and Daddy. Ballet buns and everything.”

She screamed, the kind of sound joy makes when it is still new enough to surprise itself.

Later, while the cinnamon rolls baked and the dog nosed at abandoned scraps of wrapping paper, I stood at the sink and looked a long time at our little street. Every house was wrapped in lights. The abandoned place across from us, that temporary stable in my daughter’s mind, sat quiet under a dusting of frost. I imagined a sleigh idling, reindeer sighing into blankets that smelled faintly like our laundry, a man in red exhaling gratefully as he switched to a sensible sedan for a few blocks.

I’ve always believed my job was to make Christmas for her, to stage the wonder and cue the music. But this year, she scripted something I never could have planned: a midnight rescue mission disguised as compassion, a love letter to creatures that were real only because she insisted they were, and a reminder that the best kind of magic is simply kindness dressed up in bells.

That morning, while she traced Santa’s signature with her finger and asked if Vixen might like peanut butter next year, I realized the truth I should have known all along. I didn’t need to be the only one making the holiday glow. Our child—curious, relentless, tender—was already lighting the whole house from the inside.