Chapter 2
Playing the star collection game made my time in the hospital not so hard anymore.
My star notebook kept filling up—from one star to ten, then to thirty.
Gold, silver, and blue stars all squeezed together, forming a tiny galaxy.
Every time a new nurse came by, she'd pat my head and say, "Angela, you're so brave. You're the star collector champ on our floor."
I'd always puff out my little chest with pride.
Every day, Mom stayed by my side—she read me stories, drew pictures with me, and helped me carefully place every single star I earned into my notebook.
But Dad didn't really seem to care for the game.
Dad wasn't like Mom; he didn't stay with me all the time.
He said he had to go out there and fight big monsters so he could earn money to buy medicine to help me fight off the little monsters in my body.
Every time he came to the hospital, his beard had grown out, and he looked exhausted.
He'd scoop me up in a big, strong hug and lift me way up high, but he never asked how many stars I'd collected that day. 'Does Dad even care about my stars?' I couldn't help but wonder, feeling a little bit confused inside.
Once, I excitedly held up my notebook, already covered in thirty-five stars, and said, "Dad, look! I'm almost halfway there. Did I do great?"
Dad looked at the notebook, but his face stayed serious, not even a trace of a smile.
He just gave a quiet nod, then turned away and walked to the window, his steps heavy and slow.
I saw his shoulders shaking—he was trying hard not to cry.
"Does Dad not like my stars?" I whispered to Mom.
Mom pulled me in for a hug, her voice soft and comforting. "No, it's not that at all. Dad loves you more than anything, Angela.
"It's just... he wishes these days with you wouldn't pass so quickly."
I kind of got it now.
Maybe Dad was just afraid of being lonely.
Our money seemed to be getting tighter and tighter.
Mom didn't buy me new storybooks anymore, and Dad hadn't gotten himself any new clothes in a really long time.
One night, I woke up thirsty and got out of bed, only to hear Mom and Dad whispering quietly in the next room.
"Are you really going to sell it? That camera's your absolute favorite," Mom said, and I could hear the worry in her voice.
It was Mom's voice.
"What else can we do? We're still nowhere close to affording Angela's next round of treatment. It's just a camera—how could that ever be more important than our daughter's life?" Dad replied, his voice rough and strained.
I didn't know exactly what a camera was, but from the way they talked, it sounded like something Dad must love a lot.
*****
The next day, when Dad showed up at the hospital, I noticed his big black bag—the one he always carried—was nowhere to be seen. That made me feel a bit worried, like something important was missing.
He looked really sad, just sitting quietly by my bed all by himself. He didn't say anything for what felt like forever.
That night, I woke up again.
I sneaked out of bed for a drink of water, but saw Dad sitting all alone on a chair, with no lights on—just moonlight spilling in through the window.
He was holding nothing but an empty camera bag in his hands, quietly crying without making a sound.
I'd never seen Dad cry before.
To me, he was like Superman—he was never afraid of anything.
Maybe Dad just wanted to take some photos.
On my tiptoes, I fished out a box of crayons and a blank sheet of paper from my little backpack, crept over, and gently tucked them into his hands, hoping it might cheer him up a little.
Dad froze for a moment, then looked down at me.
Trying my best to imitate Mom's comforting voice, I whispered in a tiny voice, "Dad, don't cry. If you don't have a camera, Angela will draw pictures for you.
"When I finally get to go home, I'll send you tons and tons of beautiful star photos from up in the sky—wouldn't that be nice?"
As soon as I finished speaking, Dad suddenly swept me up in a fierce hug, holding me tight like he never wanted to let go.
He couldn't hold back anymore—he broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.