Christmas has always held a special place in my heart, filled with traditions and magical moments shared with my husband, Jerry, and our eight-year-old daughter, Ruth. Every year, Ruth writes her letter to Santa, carefully folds it, and places it in the freezer—her unique way of ensuring the letter reaches the North Pole.
This year, as always, she sat at the dining table, her brow furrowed in concentration, sketching her wishes with colorful markers. After sealing her letter with an air of triumph, she ran to the freezer, tucking it in with great care.
“It’s the only way Santa will get it, Mom!” she said with absolute conviction.
That night, once Ruth was asleep, I retrieved the letter from the freezer. It had become my own little tradition to read her wish list before Christmas, a glimpse into her innocent heart and the magic she believed in. But this time, as I unfolded the paper, my world shifted.
