When she was five, I transformed our living room into a snow globe. Cotton batting became drifts along the baseboards. White lights twinkled softly from corners and shelves. Music played low and gentle, the kind that feels like memory before it feels like sound. Mya sat cross-legged on the rug, eyes wide, whispering as if the room itself might hear her. Last year, I organized a neighborhood caroling night. She stood front and center, singing “Rudolph” at the top of her lungs, not caring who was off-key or who was watching. When it ended, she squeezed my hand and whispered, breathless, “This is the best Christmas ever.”
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