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.”
