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I always believed we were the kind of family people secretly hoped to have. A little sentimental, maybe even a bit excessive, but rooted in warmth and affection. After twelve years of marriage, Hayden still slips handwritten notes into my coffee mug—tiny reminders that love doesn’t fade when it’s cared for. And our daughter, Mya, asks the kind of earnest, wide-eyed questions that stop me mid-sentence and remind me why the world is still worth loving.

Every December, I pour myself into making Christmas feel magical for her.