Christmas has always been magical for me — the lights, the carols, and the smell of pine and gingerbread. More than just a holiday, it’s a tradition that binds family together. But last year, that magic cracked when a request to my eldest daughter, Jane, turned into a painful feud.

Jane is 25, from a relationship I had before marrying my husband, David. She has a son, Liam, who’s four. My younger children, Emma and Noah, are 9 and 7, and still believe in Santa. I worried that Liam, who wasn’t raised with that tradition, might spoil the magic for them. So, I asked Jane to gently remind him not to talk about Santa being pretend. To me, it was a small favor — to her, it was unreasonable.

“Mom, I’m not making Liam lie,” she said sharply. “He’s just a child. If he says something, that’s on you to explain.” Her words cut deeper than she knew, making me feel as if Emma and Noah weren’t her siblings at all. On Christmas Eve, my fears came true when Liam loudly whispered to Jane that the gifts weren’t really from Santa. Jane met my eyes defiantly, and later, our argument boiled over.

She accused me of prioritizing Emma and Noah, while I accused her of being selfish. In my anger, I told her not to stay for Christmas. Jane left with Liam, slamming the door, and the house felt painfully quiet without them.

In the weeks that followed, guilt gnawed at me. Eventually, I called Jane to apologize. She admitted she was raising Liam differently, wanting him to face reality early. I realized I had been so focused on preserving tradition that I’d hurt my daughter.

We’re still rebuilding, but I’ve learned something: Christmas magic is precious, but it should never come at the cost of family. Next year, I hope love matters more than Santa.