I used to think of us as one of those Hallmark families—maybe a little sentimental, maybe a little over the top, but full of warmth. Hayden still slips love notes into my coffee mug after twelve years of marriage, and our daughter Mya asks the kind of wide-eyed questions that remind you why the world is worth loving. Every December, I pour myself into making the holidays magical for her.
When she was five, I transformed our living room into a snow globe. I strung twinkle lights through every plant, scattered cotton batting for snowdrifts, and watched her spin with wonder as if we’d been transported into another world. Last year, I organized a neighborhood caroling group and let her lead “Rudolph.” When it was over, she hugged me and whispered, “This is the best Christmas ever,” as though I had handed her the moon.
This year, I had something extra special planned: tickets to The Nutcracker tucked in gold paper beneath the tree. I couldn’t wait to see her face when she opened them. In the days leading up to Christmas, she was her usual curious self. While we hung ornaments, she asked, “How do Santa’s reindeer fly so long without getting tired? Even magical reindeer must get sleepy.” I told her Santa takes good care of them. She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Do they get special food? Carrots are fine, but maybe… sandwiches? Like how Daddy likes turkey but you like chicken.”
At the mall, she climbed onto Santa’s lap and suggested exactly that—maybe the reindeer would enjoy sandwiches. I laughed, not realizing how important that idea would become.
Christmas Eve unfolded like a dream. The house sparkled with icicle lights. A ham roasted in the oven while Hayden’s green bean casserole filled the kitchen with its familiar scent. Outside, Mya twirled on the driveway in her red dress, declaring the lights looked like stars that had drifted down to live on our street. By eight o’clock, we had her tucked into Rudolph pajamas. I repeated the same line my mother had used: “The sooner you sleep, the sooner morning comes.” She hugged me tightly. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever.”
At two in the morning, I woke up thirsty. The house was still, the kind of quiet that hums in your ears. Passing by Mya’s room, I noticed her door ajar. Odd. I had closed it. I pushed it open and froze. The bed was empty.
Panic spiked through me. “Mya?” I searched the bathroom, the closets, every corner of the house. Nothing. My chest tightened as I shook Hayden awake. “She’s not in her bed!” He leapt up, pulling on sweatpants, and together we tore through the house calling her name.
In the entryway, I reached for my keys—and realized they were gone. I grabbed my phone, ready to dial the police, when Hayden’s voice stopped me. “There’s a note.”
Propped against a gift beneath the tree, her handwriting sprawled across a sheet of paper.
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