I'm so, so sorry about how late this is! This week has been absolutely insane, I'm so swamped right now. This drabble hasn't been looked at by my beta or anything yet, so if there's big mistakes, mention them in your review and I'll fix them. I'm not so sure about this drabble...it was harder to do Mrs. Mellark than any of the other characters, since it's really hard to be sympathetic towards her. And originally this was about two hundred words longer, but it was getting too long, so I cut it down to this. I hope it's good, it's not my best work, but hopefully you guys all enjoy it. Up next is Gale, then Caesar Flickerman. I haven't decided if I want to do Madge or Prim or Peeta's brothers or Haymitch after that, so you guys can pick. Thank you for all your great reviews, and I hope you enjoy this! BTW, I'm dedicating this chapter to my real-life best friend, WootWoot, for being awesome for the last...four years, I guess it is.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

I hate that little bitch.

I know that sounds harsh, but it's true. Ever since she first came into my life, I've hated her. You must think me despicable for hating an innocent child so much, but before you judge, let me tell my side of the story.

Granted, her mother and I didn't have the best history. How would you expect me to feel about the woman my husband was and always would be in love with? His parents more or less forced him to marry me, and even though he was kind, it was more a civil politeness than any kind of real affection. But my mother, my stupid, hateful mother, said that in marriage, respect comes first. Then, maybe, love will grow. And besides, it was a good match, and with my looks, it's not like I was going to do any better.

So I stayed with him, year after year. Can you imagine how that feels, slaving away as a loyal wife in his bakery, working constantly, having eventually three of his children, and still being treated as the consolation prize?

It's awful, that's how it is.

But I started to tell myself that maybe, life like this wouldn't be so bad. I had three handsome, strong sons, ones who would undoubtedly marry well and hopefully make it so I could retire in my old age. Perhaps one of them could appreciate and love me the way no one else had. That's all I wanted to be happy, but as it turned out, even that would be denied of me.

I remember the first time I heard her name. It was the first day of school for my boys. Edan, who was the middle child at age seven, had come running in the door, shouting about his new teachers and his new friends and what a great year it was going to be to his brother, Leon, a nine-year-old acting like he was far too mature for any of this. Peeta was last, coming in alone. I don't know where his father was.

"Mommy, Mommy!" He exclaimed, tugging at my sleeve persistently.

"What is it, Peeta?" I didn't look up from the dough I was kneading.
"I met…I met…" He did a nervous little toddler dance in place, jumping up and down.

"Just say it, honey."

"I met a girl today!" How cute. A little kindergarten crush.

"What's her name?" I prompted him.

He struggles with it for a moment. "Ka-Ka-Katniss. Katniss Everdeen."

Everdeen.

It's her daughter. I knew they had a girl about Peeta's age, but I never thought…

A pure, icy rage swept through me, and before I knew what I was doing, my hand had flown towards his face and smacked him, hard.

He didn't cry. That surprised me, even now, eleven years later. He stared up at me with those huge blue eyes-all his father's-and ran from the room. But not before I saw the red welt growing on his right cheekbone.

I felt sick. Not because of what I had just done, but because of what Peeta had told me. But even worse than anything I could ever do to him, I knew, even then, that he was going to be her creature, probably for the rest of his life. He was his father's son, through and through. Never calling me out when I did something bad, but stared at me with such intensity I almost felt remorse. Almost.

I had hoped that he would grow out of it, that with time, he would move on, but he didn't. Every time I saw him, I thought of her, and I began to hate him.

You may be wondering how a mother can hate her own child, but the answer is simple: When that child ceases to be yours, it's the easiest thing in the world.