My Little Daughter Prepared a Wishlist for Santa but Her Last Wish Made Me Question My Marriage

When my 5-year-old daughter, Lily, handed me her letter to Santa, I expected the usual: toys, gadgets, and sparkly things. But her final wish made my stomach drop. It wasn’t for her. It was about her grandma and my husband. Her innocent words unraveled a thread that left me questioning my marriage and wondering what was happening behind my back.

There’s something magical about raising a 5-year-old. Lily is the light of my life. Her curiosity turns every day into an adventure—whether it’s her endless questions about why the sky is blue or her fascination with how cookies bake in the oven. She fills our home with laughter and wonder.

I’ve been married to Jeff for six years, and we’ve built a pretty good life together. He’s a great dad, and Lily adores him. Watching him play tea party with her or read bedtime stories makes me feel like I hit the marriage jackpot.

As Christmas approached, Lily buzzed with excitement over writing her annual letter to Santa. It’s a tradition we started when she was too young to even hold a crayon. This year, she insisted on doing most of it herself.

“I’m a big girl now, Mommy!” she declared, brandishing a red marker with exaggerated determination.

I sat with her as she wrote, ready to help brainstorm her wishes. Her requests were mostly predictable: a kitchen set, a camera like her friend James’s, and a smartwatch like Pam’s. But then she added something that made me freeze.

“I want Grandma to play with me, not with Dad.”

Her words felt like a bucket of cold water.

“Grandma?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “Do you mean my mom or Daddy’s mom?”

“Yours,” Lily replied matter-of-factly. “She comes when I’m usually asleep, around three. One time, I woke up and heard her voice in your bedroom. Daddy was putting on his shirt, and when I asked Grandma to play, they said they’d already played, and she was leaving.”

I forced a laugh, trying to brush it off. “Honey, you must’ve dreamed that. Grandma doesn’t—”

“No, I saw her,” Lily interrupted firmly.

Her innocent conviction planted a seed of doubt.

Over the next few days, Lily’s words replayed in my mind. It couldn’t be true. My mom and my husband? The idea was absurd. But little things began gnawing at me.

For one, my mom had been dropping by more often in the afternoons—when I wasn’t home. I called her to ask about it.

“Why don’t you visit when I’m around, Mom?” I asked casually. “It’s been weeks since I’ve seen you.”

“I just stop by on my way home from work,” she replied lightly. “We’ll meet soon, honey.”

Her answers seemed normal, but her visits coinciding with my absences felt… off.

Then there was Jeff. He’d been complaining of back pain lately but always brushed it off as nothing serious. One day, while cleaning out a drawer, I found a nearly empty bottle of lavender massage oil tucked behind some socks.

“Where’d this come from?” I asked him.

“Oh, that’s your mom’s,” he said with a shrug. “She left it here.”

“For her back?” I repeated skeptically.

“Yeah,” he said nonchalantly, walking away.

The pieces didn’t fit. My mom’s recent casual outfits, their whispered conversations that stopped when I walked in, Jeff’s sudden attentiveness—it all made me feel like something was being hidden.

When Lily mentioned Grandma always came on Tuesdays, I decided enough was enough. I left work early that Tuesday to see for myself.

Pulling into the driveway, my heart pounded. The house was quiet when I entered, but faint murmurs came from upstairs. I crept up and paused outside our bedroom door.

“That’s perfect,” I heard Jeff say softly.

I flung the door open, bracing for the worst.

What I saw wasn’t what I’d imagined.

Mom was perched on the edge of the bed, hands pressing into Jeff’s back. His shirt was off, but it wasn’t the scandalous scene I’d feared—it looked like a massage.

They both turned to me, startled.

“What are you doing here, Mom?” I demanded.

Mom fumbled with the small bottle of lavender oil. “Brisa, it’s not what it looks like,” she stammered.

“Oh, so it’s not you sneaking into my house every afternoon to… play with my husband?” I shot back.

“Brisa, calm down,” Jeff said. “It’s nothing like that.”

Mom sighed. “Okay, I’ll explain. I’ve been thinking about a career change. I want to become a massage therapist. Jeff’s back has been hurting, so he agreed to let me practice on him.”

“What?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“I didn’t tell you because I thought you wouldn’t understand,” she said. “When I told you I wanted to leave law, you dismissed it. Jeff was the only one who supported me.”

I felt a mix of relief and embarrassment.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I asked.

“I didn’t think you’d believe in me,” Mom admitted.

“And I didn’t want to stress you out,” Jeff added.

I laughed nervously, feeling like the world’s biggest fool. “Well, you could’ve saved me a lot of sleepless nights by just being honest.”

Mom squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry, honey. I never meant to worry you.”

In that moment, I realized how quick I’d been to jump to conclusions. My mother wasn’t sneaking around—she was chasing a dream. And my husband wasn’t betraying me—he was helping her.

That Christmas, we celebrated new beginnings. Mom proudly announced she was enrolling in massage therapy school, and we all cheered her on. Lily got her dream kitchen set, and as we sat by the tree sipping hot cocoa, I felt grateful for the love and trust that kept our family strong.