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Three months after my divorce, I made a promise to my five-year-old daughter that mattered more than anything else: Christmas would still feel like Christmas. Our lives had changed overnight—new house, new routines, and a silence that hadn’t existed before. Every evening after work, we decorated together. She stood on the porch like a tiny supervisor, reminding me that lights should never be lonely.
I wanted her to feel safe, hopeful, and loved. That illusion shattered the night I came home and found every decoration ripped down, broken, and scattered across the yard. It felt personal, cruel, and devastating. Anger surged through me. I was ready to call the police when I noticed something strange—a small wooden angel placed carefully on the porch steps.
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