Disclaimer: These characters aren't mine. No infringement meant.
Timeline: Post-Mockingjay, Pre-Epilogue.
Summary: A mother ruminates on daughters she barely knows.
A/N: Thank you nebakanezer and jesuschick13 for being very lovely first reviewers.

Chapter 2: Her Father's Daughter

From the moment she was born, she was always her father's daughter. I carried her for nine months, and she suckled at my breast, but from the moment she laid eyes on him, she was his, and he was hers.

How she loved her father! How much she became her father's true daughter - growing into the role as if she were made to be his perfect partner-in-crime and deeds. She took to woods poaching as easily as a dog takes to water, and when she bagged her first rabbit, he was fair walking on air with pride. (Quietly, of course, lest the Peacekeepers should hear.) And when they sang together... the memory of their duets stabs my closed eyes with hot tears that lance down my cheeks.

I never begrudged them their relationship, for you love whom you love. Reason and logic have little to do with the heart: I know this from experience.

I call up a face from the past - the Mellark boy, always hoping to catch my eye as we walked the school halls. He had a nice, kindly face, and always smelled like flour - a nice, homely smell. But those were the hectic days that I was studying with my father in the shop - learning all I could about the herbs that would later fail to save my Prim. I was busy. Life was harsh, but my family was happy.

Happy. Prim. I clutch the hem of my scrubs as a spasm of pure agony lances through me, and I tell myself, hold on hold on hold on here now here now. Because I promised her - Katniss - that I wouldn't go away again. Even though the reason for being totally here is dead and gone. I failed her before. And I promised to stay. Even though I broke my promise by going away from her, from 12, this is the little that I want to remain true to. To stay here, through the pain. Because I promised my Katniss.

How tragicomic, how ironic life is. My Prim - the sweetest of souls that ever lived - being the pebble that started the avalanche downfall of the Capitol. How tragic, how painfully ironic, that she volunteered to save her sister, only to lose her anyway.

Everyday I feel the dilemma of not knowing what to feel about life. Now that she's gone, I can train doctors in a real hospital. Now that she's gone, I can breathe the scent of antiseptic and know that I have saved someone's life today. Now that she's gone, the world has its freedom.

But I am left bereft and adrift in a world without my Prim. My little girl, who precipitated the fall of the Capitol.

Sometimes the pain is unbearable, and I want to pick up the phone and ask her - was it worth it? Saving the world, but losing your sister? Was it worth the anguish?

But I know that the past tense is inaccurate - for I know her pain rivals mine. Katniss may be her father's daughter, just as Prim would always be mine, but their love for each other was undeniable. How could anyone watching that first Reaping (was it only 2 years ago?) doubt anything but love in Katniss' fear-filled eyes as she stepped towards that hateful platform? And for me to ask her - was it worth it? - would be the most heartless, most ridiculous thing to ask.

She finally called the other day. I had left the letter with my telephone number with Haymitch, and despite his abrasive personality, I know he'll get it to her. For all the manipulation that I know went on behind the scenes during the Games, I know he loves her. He just can't tell her. Because he has been Reaped, just like her.

We wept together on the phone. Wept for our mutual loss, the utter desolation in our souls tearing the sobs from our chests as we drowned the world with our tears. Mom? her shaky voice had started. Katniss? I had tried not to hope that she would call, even though I knew she would. I'm so sorry I cou...couldn't... she had started to say.

I'm sorry I couldn't save her! I wanted to hold her so badly at that moment, regrets at staying away from the Seam filling my chest, tightening the band around it that was making it hard to breathe. And I was crying, sobbing with Katniss, telling her that I didn't blame her, nobody blamed her, nobody knew why Prim was even on the frontlines (it was Coin it was Coin it was Coin my mind bleats at me), that it was okay, that I missed Prim too.

We cried for hours on the phone as we told each other stories of Prim. Of how she had the most wonderful healing hands, of how her instinct for herbs and remedies was always spot-on. How her compassion overruled her squeamishness. How she knew exactly what to do with Lady that would heal the goat of her pain. How much she loved learning about the modern medical techniques that District 13 had brought with them.

In a way, this was our wake for her. For my Prim. Remembering her as we both remembered her. At her best, doing what she loved best. It was a long wake, a long phone call, for she was so loved by the both of us. I was perversely glad that the astronomical call charge would be on the new Republic's account sheet, and not mine. Seems to be the least they could do to make it up to us. Not that they could ever repay anything they took from us.

There are other conversations to be be had. More pain to unwind. She's hurting something bad about Gale, and I know there's a story there that she needs to tell (because a mother knows these things), but I also know it can't be rushed. But those are stories to unpack later. For the memory of the price we've just paid is too high, too near for now.

I have things to tell her too. I want to tell her about her father and me. About how we met and how she changed both our lives. How he wasn't the one for me, but you love whom you'll love.

I want to tell her about my best friend Maysilee, and her twin sister Juniper, and the times that we had when we were younger, running about the Seam together after school. About the 50th Quarter Quell. About Maysilee, my best friend who was reaped on the screen for all to see. About Haymitch, the eventual victor.

Most of all, I want to tell her so she can see what she's done. What her mockingjay has wrought for us. What her father's mockingjay pin has wrought upon all of us. Strange, how it found its way into her hands in the end.

I want to tell her about his love for her - a love that has reached past his death, to breathe new life into the people he loved. And I want to beg for forgiveness, for not being there for her in the Seam. I'm so sorry, I think to her. So sorry that I wasn't strong enough to return to 12 for you.

I know the pain will never fade for me and the Seam. A husband lost, a daughter killed, another reaped, and so many friends and neighbours dead - I couldn't go back, because it would destroy me completely. So I ran from it, and set up in D4, surrounding myself with the sharp sting of antiseptic swabs and electronic beeping machines.

I don't know if she'll ever call again. I think she will. When the flowers bloom again, and when she awakens from the hard winter of the soul we are both battling now. And so I wait for the changing of the seasons, and the rebirth of hope in the spring.

I will wait for her. For Katniss. For her to make up her mind about me. To trust me again. For me to prove myself to her once again. And when the pain overwhelms me and threatens to send me away again, I tell myself - I promised her I'd be here. I promised not to go away again. So I will wait for her. For my daughter - for his daughter to come back to us. To wait for Katniss.

A/N 2: I'm considering exploring non-character expositions, starting from Peeta, and now Mrs Everdeen. There are so many more story tails left by Collins to tie up... thank you Suzanne, for letting us play in Panem.