When she was five, I turned our living room into a snow globe. I draped twinkle lights through every plant, pulled cotton batting into soft white drifts, and let the windows glow as if winter had decided to move indoors. She spun in the middle of the room, arms out, eyes wide, convinced she had stepped into another place entirely. Last year, I organized a neighborhood caroling group and let her lead “Rudolph,” her small voice clear and confident in the cold night air. When it was over, she hugged me hard and whispered, “This is the best Christmas ever,” like I had handed her something precious and fragile.
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