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I have everything I could possibly want right now. Two perfect kids, Maple and Ember. And the best husband anyone could ever wish for. Peeta. I love them more than anything else in the world.
Of course, nothing's perfect.
From time to time I have to sit down and clench Peeta's hand or the leg of a table or the post of the bed while my mind flows with memories. Memories of Prim. Or the games. Or the war. Or Gale. Some times are worse than others. Sometimes I just freeze, squeezing my eyes shut, while I breathe deeply and concentrate on not falling to pieces. Other times I fall to the ground hyperventilating, my body convulsing. Often that leads to me screaming. Peeta's good at calming me down, but sometimes it can take a while. But those tend to only happen when the kids aren't in the house. When they are in the house, I can usually control it by biting down on something, tying knots in a piece of rope, while Peeta wraps his arms around me.
And even though it's been many years since Peeta was tortured and hijacked by the Capitol, he still has an episode now and then. His muscles get taught and he grabs the back of a chair - or whatever happens to be nearby - and a wild look enters his eyes. It usually only lasts a few seconds, but when it goes on for longer, I go over to him and gently talk him out of it. It never lasts too long and he's always able to control it, so it's not a problem.
At thirty four, I still love to hunt. It's not for survival anymore, but we do eat the meat that I don't sell at the Hob. My children beg the same thing they've been asking since they could talk. They want to go into the woods and learn how to hunt. I tell them I will, someday. But I keep putting it off. I know I was very young when my father taught me my skills with a bow, but circumstances are different now. They don't have to fight to keep their family's alive all by themselves.
Even if they can't hunt yet, they've been baking since they knew not to eat the raw eggs. Peeta bakes more than ever, but it's not a solitary thing anymore. He bakes with all of us. It becomes a sort of a project for all of us. Cupcakes today. Cookies tomorrow. I smile.
Just then Peeta comes up stairs into our room. He grins.
"The kids wanted to bake a cake today. You up for it?" He asks.
In response I run down the stairs two at a time. He follows me, much slower, due to his prosthetic leg. My two children squeal with delight.
I'm really NOT a baking person, but it makes Peeta so happy when a pitch in, even if it's only a little. This is where he's the happiest. Baking in the kitchen with me and our two kids. Smiling that goofy grin of his. And seeing him so happy makes me happy too.
After much debate, a chocolate cake is decided on, so we get straight to it. I don't know much - well, anything - about baking. So I just play along and help pour in the flour or separate the egg yolks or whatever. And I have to admit, it is actually rather fun.
Maple wants the cake to be perfect. She's making sure that everything that goes in the batter is exactly the right amount. That it's stirred exactly the right amount, not too little, not too much.
Ember's playing with the measuring cups instead of using them to put the ingredients into the shiny silver bowl. If I were the baker, I would probably be losing my temper. But it's Peeta, so he's just laughing and smiling as he waltzes around the kitchen with the mixing bowl with Ember chasing after him. I grin, my eyes dancing with happiness. Peeta looks over at me, a loving smile on his lips. He dances over and gives me a light kiss on the cheek.
"Maple, could you get me the brown sugar please?" He asks, tousling her hair as he says it. She skips off to get the sugar. When she returns he plants a kiss on her forehead and takes the sugar from her, placing the bowl back on the counter.
"How many cups of sugar?" He asks. She pauses, unsure. He winks at her. "I believe it's three. A sweet cake!" I convince Ember to give up one of the measuring cups, but before I can hand it to Peeta so he can scoop up the sugar, he gasps, frozen in place.
I set the cup down.
"Daddy?" My daughter asks.
I gulp. This isn't good. Peeta has gone back to his torture at the Capitol. Back to tracker jacker venom. Back to confusion.