Chapter 2
From that day on, I wasn't scared of getting shots anymore.
I wasn't afraid of those horribly bitter medicines either because deep down, it didn't feel like suffering to me.
To me, it was like collecting stars.
Every time it hurt, I imagined a star calling out to me.
I couldn't wait to fill up my little blue notebook because I really wanted to go home.
The star-collecting game made staying in the hospital not so bad anymore.
My star sticker notebook kept getting fuller—first one star, then ten, and soon thirty.
Gold, silver, and blue stars crowded together, forming a tiny Milky Way.
Every time a new nurse came by, she'd pat my head and say, "Daisy, you're so brave! You're the star-collecting champion on our floor."
I'd always puff out my chest with pride.
Mom was with me every single day. She read me stories, drew pictures with me, and helped me carefully place each star sticker in my notebook.
But Dad didn't seem to like the game.
Unlike Mom, he wasn't always by my side.
He said he had to go fight the big monsters out there so he could earn money to buy the medicine that would help me beat the little monsters inside me.
Every time he came to the hospital, his beard was scruffy, and he looked really tired.
He'd hug me tight and lift me up high, but he never asked me how many stars I'd gotten that day.
One time, I proudly held up my notebook, already covered with thirty-five stars, and said with a big smile, "Dad, look, I'm almost halfway there. Am I doing great?"
Dad looked at the notebook, but he didn't smile.
He just gave a silent nod and then turned and walked over to the window.
I saw his shoulders trembling.
"Dad doesn't like my stars, does he?" I whispered to Mom.
Mom hugged me, her voice soft as she said, "No, Daisy, that's not it. Dad loves you so much. That's why he doesn't want you to go home so soon."
I thought I kind of understood.
So Dad was just scared of being alone.
Money seemed to be getting tighter and tighter.
Mom stopped buying me new storybooks, and Dad hadn't gotten any new clothes for himself in a long time.
One night, I woke up thirsty in the middle of the night and heard Mom and Dad whispering to each other.
"Do we really have to sell it? That's your favorite thing in the world," Mom said softly.
"What else can we do? We're still way short for Daisy's next round of treatment. It's just a camera. Is that really more important than our daughter's life?" Dad's voice was rough and tired.
I didn't really know what a camera was, but it must have been something Dad really loved.
The next day, when Dad came to the hospital, the big black bag he always carried was missing.
He looked so sad, just sitting by my bed quietly for what felt like forever.
That night, I woke up again.
I quietly slipped out of bed to get some water, but I saw Dad sitting alone in a chair, with only the moonlight coming in.
He was holding an empty camera bag, silently crying.
I'd never seen Dad cry before.
To me, he was like Superman—nothing ever scared him.
I thought he wanted to take pictures.
I tiptoed to my little backpack, took out a box of crayons and a sheet of white paper, then carefully walked over and placed them gently in his hands.
Dad froze, looking down at me.
I whispered in my tiniest voice, trying to sound just like Mom when she comforted me, "Dad, don't cry.
"If you don't have a camera, I will draw for you. When I get home, I'll send you tons of beautiful pictures of the stars in the sky, okay?"
Before I could even finish, Dad swept me up in his arms and hugged me so tight, like he was afraid to ever let go.
He finally broke down and sobbed out loud, not caring who heard him anymore.
Ever since Dad cried, he started coming to the hospital less and less.
Mom said the big monsters out there were getting even stronger, and Dad needed to spend more time fighting them.
I knew Dad was doing it all for me.
Little by little, things at home started to disappear.
One night, while Mom was telling me a story, I realized the shiny bracelet she always wore on her wrist was missing.
The big TV on the living room wall—the one we used to watch cartoons on—was gone too, leaving nothing but a blank, empty wall.
I asked Mom, "Mom, is our house playing a magic disappearing game?"
Mom hesitated for a second, then she smiled and gently patted my head.
She said, "That's right, Daisy. Your star castle is being built, and everything in our house is turning into bricks, flying up to the sky to help build your home."
Hearing that made me so happy. So it turned out, my home in the sky was being built, little by little, by Mom and Dad.
But I never imagined that even my friend would have to become a building block for my star castle.
My friend was a giant, fluffy white teddy bear.
It was just as tall as me, and its belly was super soft and squishy. I called it Whity.