Dear Santa

Emma wrote her letter on the first day of December, her small fingers gripping the pencil with the kind of determination that comes from knowing exactly what your heart wants. She folded it carefully, slipped it into an envelope, and walked it to the mailbox herself, standing on tiptoe to make sure it dropped all the way down.

“What did you ask Santa for, sweetheart?” her mother asked that evening as they hung ornaments on the tree.

Emma simply smiled. “He’ll know when he reads my letter.”

Her father tried the next morning over pancakes. “You know, sometimes Santa’s elves need a little help. Maybe you could give us a hint?”

But Emma just shook her head, her eyes bright with certainty. “Santa will read my letter,” she said, as if this explained everything.

The weeks passed like a slow procession of calendar squares. Her parents grew increasingly anxious, whispering to each other after Emma went to bed. They bought dolls and games, art supplies and books, casting wide nets in the hope that something would be the mysterious wish their daughter had sent to the North Pole.

Emma remained serene through it all. While other children buzzed with anticipation and constantly revised their wish lists, she simply waited, her faith as steady as starlight.

On Christmas morning, snow fell like a benediction. Emma woke to the soft white light filtering through her curtains and padded downstairs in her pajamas. Her parents waited by the tree, surrounded by carefully wrapped packages, but Emma walked past them all. She opened the front door and stood there, looking out at the snow-hushed dawn, breathing in the clean, cold air.

“Emma, honey,” her mother called gently. “Come see what Santa brought.”

And she did come, settling cross-legged on the floor, opening each gift with genuine delight. Her parents watched her face like hawks searching for any shadow of disappointment. But there was none. She exclaimed over the art set, hugged the new doll, laughed at the puzzle—every bit of it received with joy.

When the last piece of wrapping paper had been crumpled and smoothed and folded, her father asked, as casually as he could manage, “Did you get everything you wished for?”

“Not yet,” Emma said simply. “But Christmas isn’t over.”

All day she carried this quiet hope with her. At church, during the candlelit service, she sang with extra fervor. At her Aunt’s house, she helped set the table with special care. Through Christmas dinner, she was present and happy, but also waiting—like someone expecting a dear friend who had promised to arrive.

As darkness fell and the day began to wind down, her parents exchanged worried glances. When they finally tucked her into bed, they sat on either side of her, prepared to gently explain how the world really worked, how sometimes wishes don’t come true exactly as we hope, how love matters more than presents.

Her father had just opened his mouth to speak when they heard it—a firm knock at the door.

Emma was out of bed like a shot, her parents hurrying after her. She flung open the door to find a postal worker standing on the porch, his breath making clouds in the cold air.

“Special delivery,” he said, smiling. “Sorry for the late hour. This one got delayed, but it was marked urgent.” He handed her a small package, no bigger than a shoebox. “Merry Christmas.”

“Thank you,” Emma whispered. “Merry Christmas.”

She carried the package to the couch and sat down, her parents on either side of her. Her small fingers worked at the tape until the brown paper fell away, revealing a simple white box. She lifted the lid.

Inside was a photograph—old and faded, showing a young soldier in uniform, smiling at the camera with Emma’s same bright eyes.

Beneath it lay his Silver Star, his Purple Heart, and a letter, written in her grandfather’s handwriting, addressed to “My future grandchild.” Words he’d written before deploying, before he’d never made it home, words her grandmother had saved and finally, after years of grief, found the strength to share.

She traced the edge of the worn photograph with one small finger, then held the letter against her heart. For a long moment, the only sound was the ticking of the mantel clock and the soft whisper of snow against the windows.

Emma looked up at her parents, tears streaming down her face, but smiling. “I asked Santa to help me know my grandpa,” she whispered. “The one Daddy talks about. The one who was brave.”

Her father pulled her close, unable to speak. Her mother wiped her own eyes.

Sometimes, the things we wish for most aren’t things at all. Sometimes they’re connections that bridge the distance between past and present, between loss and love, between heaven and earth. And sometimes, on Christmas night, those wishes find their way home.