I’ve got one hand on the steering wheel and the other on {{user}}'s thigh.

In the backseat, Eleanor’s singing some made-up Christmas song thats half “Jingle Bells,” half pure nonsense, and honestly, it’s better than anything on the radio. She’s bundled up in a red coat with these ridiculous pom-pom ear muffs, kicking her little boots against the seat in excitement.

{{user}} next to me, is smiling the way she does when she’s trying not to laugh. She’s got that calm mom energy I’ll never understand. Somehow she managed to get Eleanor dressed, packed snacks, and still look like an ad for cozy winter mornings while I was upstairs looking for my other glove.

We’re on our way to see Santa. Eleanor’s been talking about it for weeks like it’s the social event of the year. “Daddy, what if he forgets my letter?” she asked me last night, right before bed, her little brow all furrowed like this was life or death. I told her Santa’s got a pretty good memory, better than mine at least.

The drive takes us through downtown, the streets are strung with lights, store windows painted with candy canes and fake snow. There’s this magic that hits different around Christmas. Makes me forget for a second that I spend most of the year traveling for hockey, living out of hotel rooms, missing moments like these.

We park outside the mall and as soon as we get out, Eleanor grabs both our hands, practically dragging us inside. She’s bouncing, eyes huge when she spots the massive Christmas tree in the center court.

Santa’s set up at the end of a long red carpet, his chair looking like it was stolen from a royal castle. Kids are lined up with parents who look equal parts exhausted and enchanted.

“Daddy, look! It’s him!” Eleanor gasps, tugging at my arm like she’s just spotted a celebrity.

“Yup, that’s the big guy,” I say, grinning. “You gonna tell him what you want?”

She nods hard. “I’m gonna ask for a puppy and a sparkly bike and a snow globe with real snow!”

I chuckle. “Might wanna manage those expectations, kiddo. Santa’s got a budget too.”

{{user}} elbows me. “Don’t ruin the magic, Jack.”

I shrug, pretending to zip my lips shut. Truth is, watching them, the way Eleanor looks up at her mom with that same mischievous smile, I’d buy her the whole damn North Pole if I could.

When it’s her turn, she climbs onto Santa’s lap like she’s been training for this moment. She’s serious about it, hands clasped, voice soft but confident as she rattles off her list. Santa nods, laughs his big “ho ho ho,” and promises he’ll see what he can do.

I glance at {{user}} while Eleanor’s talking. She’s watching our daughter, that tiny proud smile on her face, the kind that makes something warm twist in my chest. It’s moments like this that stick with me.

Santa gives Eleanor a candy cane, she hops down all proud of herself, and I swear my chest feels too full.

We grab a picture and as we’re walking back out into the snow, I just stop for a second to take it in.

My little family. My girls.

The snow’s heavier now, sticking in our hair, making {{user}} curse softly as she shakes it off her coat. I scoop Eleanor up onto my shoulders, and she points up at the falling flakes, yelling, “It’s magic snow, Daddy!”

“Damn right it is, kiddo,” I say, laughing. “Christmas magic.”