This year, I was convinced I’d finally outdone myself.
Hidden beneath the tree, wrapped in thick paper and tucked far back where curious hands wouldn’t wander, were tickets to The Nutcracker. I’d imagined her face a hundred times—shock first, then joy, then that quiet moment where she presses the gift to her chest as if she needs to feel it to believe it’s real.
Christmas Eve unfolded exactly the way I’d pictured it. The house glowed softly, lights reflected in windows like stars. The oven hummed with the slow roast of ham. Mya twirled through the living room in her red dress, laughing as the skirt flared around her knees. Later, she climbed into bed wearing her Rudolph pajamas, cheeks flushed, eyes heavy but refusing to close.
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