Little Girl Wrote to “Santa at the Corner Office”—The Widowed CEO Knocked on Their Door

The Letter to the Corner Office

The corner office on the 42nd floor of the Sterling building had floor to ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the city. From here you could see everything. The river, the bridge, and the neighborhoods spread out in every direction, with tiny cars moving through streets far below.

From this height, the world looked manageable, ordered, and controllable. Julian Carter stood at those windows most evenings, long after everyone else had gone home. At 38, he had been CEO of Carter Industries for six years.

Ever since his father retired, the company manufactured high-end furniture and employed over 2,000 people across three states. It was successful, profitable, and growing. It was also increasingly the only thing in Julian’s life. His wife Grace had died three years ago. Cancer was sudden and aggressive, taking her in eight months from diagnosis to death. They had had no children.

After she passed, Julian had thrown himself into work with single-minded intensity. It was the only way he knew to cope. He filled every hour so there was no time to feel the emptiness. The office became his home. The business became his family. The corner office with its view of the entire city became his refuge, his throne, and his cage.

It was mid-December, two weeks before Christmas, when Julian’s executive assistant knocked on his door. “Mr. Carter, the mail has come. There is something unusual.” Patricia was in her 50s, unflappable and efficient. For her to describe something as unusual meant it truly was.

“What is it?” Julian asked without looking up from the contract he was reviewing. “A letter addressed to Santa at the corner office, Sterling Building. It came through our regular business mail.” Julian glanced up. “Someone sent a letter to Santa at our address?”

“Apparently.” Patricia held out an envelope. It was child-sized, the kind sold in packs at drugstores, with a slightly crooked stamp and an address written in careful, uneven handwriting. Julian took it, curious despite himself. The return address showed an apartment building in the industrial part of town, not far from one of their manufacturing facilities.

He opened it carefully. Inside was a letter written on lined paper, the kind from an elementary school notebook. “Dear Santa, my name is Mia Chen and I am 6 years old. My teacher said Santa lives at the North Pole, but my mom said you live in the corner office of the big building downtown.” “She said you make decisions about people’s lives from up there.”

“Santa, my mom works at the furniture factory. She works really hard, but she is so tired all the time.” “She cries sometimes when she thinks I’m asleep because we don’t have enough money for things.” “The heat in our apartment doesn’t work good, and it’s cold for Christmas.”

“I don’t want toys. I want my mom to not be so sad and tired. I want her to not cry.” “I want our apartment to be warm. My mom’s name is Lynn Chen. She works in section C at the factory.” “Can you help us, Santa? Love, Mia.”

“PS: I have been very good this year. I help my mom, and I do my homework, and I don’t complain even when I’m cold.” At the bottom of the letter was a drawing. It was a child’s sketch of a tall building with windows reaching to the sky and a stick figure labeled “Santa” looking out from the top floor.