"Momma, come over," Amy called.

"What is it, love?" I asked as I took the empty space next to her on the bed.

"When I grow up, I want to be Mrs Horan!" she told me, excitedly.

I looked down to my three year old daughter. I swallowed the lump that was forming in my throat, knowing that my daughter should never see me cry.

I smiled and replied, "If you want to be Mrs Horan, then who would be Mr Horan?"

"I'll show you a video, wait," she told me and grabbed my iPhone on the nightstand and went on youtube. She keyed in a tittle and loaded a video before shoving it in front of my face, "Look look, he's that one with the blonde hair. Same like mine!"

I felt myself died a little when she mentioned about their hair. Soon, she wouldn't be able to admire her own beautiful blonde hair. I watched as she jumped on the bed, telling me about some boy band that Mr Horan was in. I loved her smile.

"Momma, are you listening?" she asked as she tapped on my cheeks.

"Yes, I am sweetie. He has the same hair color as yours," I told her.

"We have blue eyes too," she informed me and I admired her eyes that was inherited from her daddy.

"So can I become Mrs Horan?" she asked.

"Well it depends if Mr Horan wants to be with you," I answered.

"I'm sure he wants to be with me!" Amy told me as she folded her arms and took a seat on my lap.

I laughed at her confidence of being Mrs Horan but didn't comment on anything because being confident is the one thing that I needed her to be, and fearless.

"You know," I said, "When you grows up, you're gonna be cheeky as I am."

"Why are you cheeky, Momma? Did you want to be Mrs Horan too?"

"No. When I was about 13 years old, just a couple of years before you were born, I kept telling myself that I wanted to be Mrs Jonas," I told her.

"If you want to be Mrs Jonas, then who is Mr Jonas?"

For some people, they would have told Amy to keep her mouth shut because she was asking a lot of question but I let her be, because I was afraid that I'm gonna miss her voice.

"He's a singer from a band called Jonas Brothers," I informed. She nodded a few times and just before she started to talk about her Mr Horan, I told her it was time to sleep. "Come on sweetie, let's put you in bed. It's getting late."

"Five more minutes?" she bargained.

"Nope, it's getting late. Come on, let's have your medicines first," I said and pulled her to my hips and carried her out of my room, to her room. I fed her her medicines and she swallowed them with a sulky face. 

I tucked her under the covers and kissed her forehead, "Have a goodnight, love."

"Goodnight, Momma. I love you."