Christmas Eve arrived gently, like it was careful not to wake us. The house shimmered with icicle lights. A ham roasted in the oven while Hayden’s green bean casserole filled the kitchen with its familiar comfort. Outside, Mya twirled on the driveway in her red dress, announcing that the lights on our street looked like stars that had fallen down to live closer to people. By eight, she was in her Rudolph pajamas, hair still smelling faintly of cinnamon shampoo because she insisted it smelled “more like Christmas.”
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