My heartfelt thanks for your reviews on the last chapter. I always look forward to hearing what you think.

Quick note: the song "End of the World" from the Beasts of the Southern Wild soundtrack served as my inspiration for this chapter - so much so that it made it into the chapter (though not by name). I really feel it adds something to the chapter, so I encourage you to give it a listen.

Happy reading =)

"Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you." – John Green, The Fault in Our Stars

I scroll through my contacts on my phone until I reach her name and select the option to call. No answer, of course, but I decide to leave a message. After the familiar greeting and request to leave a name and number, I take a deep breath and begin my efforts of mending the terribly broken relationship I have with my daughter.

"Emily, it's your mother. I'm in town this week and was hoping to meet up with you for lunch. I know you and your team are likely busy, and I don't want to interfere with that, but I would love to see you."

I pause for a moment, remembering that she, now more than ever, probably doesn't even want to hear my voice. What I wouldn't give to be able to explain everything.

"I know our last conversation was…tense. But a lot has happened since then," I say, noting the somewhat surprising vulnerability in my tone.

I take another deep breath and continue, "There are some things I owe you an explanation for, and many more that I owe you an apology for. I'd like the opportunity to give you those explanations, and express my apologies. After that, I won't bother you. Just…give me a call. Please, Em."

I try for a moment to think of something to say in closing, but decide against saying anything else. I end the call and let out a heavy sigh. I sit for nearly 10 minutes lost in my own thoughts, before diving back into the headache-inducing reports that are piled on my desk. Every so often, I catch myself glancing at my phone, hoping it will ring. It doesn't.

A few days pass, and my limited time in the U.S. continues to dwindle. My mind is surprisingly far from the piles of paperwork and call sheets that still sit on my desk, demanding my attention. Instead, my thoughts are focused on her.

I can't recall the exact details of the call, the time of day it came at, or even where I was when it came. But I do remember finding it incredibly hard to breathe, and feeling overwhelmingly sick. My assistant told me I sat and stared at the wall for almost an hour with what she described as a "dead expression" on my face. I don't remember that, but I do remember the feeling of emptiness that took hold and the fierce denial that came afterward.

Agent Jareau called again a few days later with details of her funeral, and I set about trying to get to the U.S., a process made incredibly difficult by the political instability of the region I had been visiting as an Ambassador. Demonstrations and violent protests kept me from leaving for over 2 weeks. To have to bury your daughter is one thing, but to not be able to do so because you're stuck in a foreign country, unable to leave, is quite another. The day of her funeral, I locked myself in my bathroom and sobbed. It was uncharacteristic of me – the last real tears I'd shed were many, many years before – but something in me shifted. In a cruel twist of fate, that day I felt more like a mother than I had in a very long time.

When I finally did manage to make it to the U.S., I visited her final resting place and wasn't surprised to see a plethora of bright flowers arranged, no doubt courtesy of the technical analyst in the BAU. Emily really was closer to her team than to anyone in her biological family. I stood, unmoving and silent, in front of her grave. I tried to find words of some kind – any kind, really – but as had been typical for my interactions with her over the past few years, I wasn't able to. After a while, I placed the flowers I'd brought with me down gently, squeezed my eyes shut, and breathed deeply.

I remember that the only words that eventually came to mind were so woefully inadequate, but they were all I had, and so, in a tiny whisper I forced them out, "I'm sorry."

I retreated to my car, directed my driver to our old summer house, and stared out the window at the passing scenery. A couple of hours later I found myself climbing the stairs to her old room…

There was nothing left in the house except some sheets covering a few lonely pieces of furniture, and a few odd knick-knacks here and there. For the most part, the house feels empty and barren, but I can't help but feel a spark of something that I can't quite describe when I enter her room.

Dust had long since settled on the surfaces of the room and still hangs heavily in the air, clearly visible in the streaks of sunlight streaming into the room through the window. Her closet door is slightly ajar, and curiosity – or perhaps hope – gets the better of me as I pull it open carefully. My eyes immediately fall on a loose floorboard in the back corner, and again with curiosity and hope rising in me, I pry it up.

Inside the small hiding spot I find a few things: a small music box, her copy of 'The Wonderful Wizard of Oz', a dream catcher, and a broken pocket watch that used to belong to my father. I smile and feel emotions deep within me stir as I gaze at the objects and run my fingers over them. I open the music box, wind it, and let the music play. Its notes carry throughout the empty house, and I'm flooded with memories of the song repeating over and over again for hours on end, emanating from her room. The song continues its hopeful, yet mournful tune as I continue my examination of the most precious items of her childhood.

I carefully open the book, and I'm surprised when my own writing jumps out at me on the first page,

To Emily, my little bookworm.
This was one of my favorites when I was your age.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
Love, always,
Mom

I had forgotten I'd given her this. My fingers trace the writing as tears form in my eyes, and the music box's sorrowful song continues. It was from a time when she had been more important to me than my career. A time when we were both happy, and laughed together. A time when she didn't resent my very existence. A time when she was alive in more ways than one.

I close the book gently, place it on the ground beside the music box and pick up the dream catcher. The intricately woven web and feathers are dull in colour after all these years, but their beauty is still clear. I wonder absently whether this would have helped with the nightmares she faced everyday in her job and no doubt followed her home at night as well.

The song has stopped and so I wind the music box again, allowing its sounds to fill the house once more. I pick up the pocket watch and flip it open, noting its time is still frozen at 3:51, as it has been for many decades. My father had never gotten around to getting it fixed, and instead carried it around broken. Emily had always been fascinated with it as a child, laughing whenever she asked him what time it was and he responded with, "3:51! It's always 3:51!"

I'm startled out of my memory by the ringtone of my phone. I glance at the screen and smile as her name appears on the display.

"Hello?"

"Mother. Hello." Her tone is sharp and her words quick – she's expecting a fight, and given our history I can't blame her.

"You got my message then?" It's a foolish thing to say, but the awkwardness and strain permeates between us, so we're both reduced to saying redundant things.

"Yes. You said you wanted to do lunch?"

I pause before answering, considering how the lunch will go if she feels she's been forced to be there.

"Only if you'd like to. I know you and I don't see eye to eye on many things, and it can make for some strained conversation and awkward silence. But I really would like to explain some things to you. And of course apologize."

I can tell she's assessing the truth of my words and tone by her lack of immediate response. I hold in a sigh, and close my eyes, hoping she'll accept.

"Does tomorrow around 1 work for you?"

My eyes fly open and I glance at my day planner - a meeting at 1:15pm. I open my mouth to suggest another time, but close it quickly, realizing that at some point she needs to take priority in my life again.

"That's perfect. Any place you'd like to go? My treat, of course."

"Hmm. How about that Italian place we went last time? The food was excellent."

"Yes, it was. That sounds perfect, I'll make reservations."

"Okay."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Emily."

"See you tomorrow, Mother."

I put down my phone and can't help but smile widely. Even if her walls and guards are up, it's the opportunity I'd hoped I would get.

I arrive a few minutes early, and sit down at our table, anxiously awaiting her arrival. 10 minutes pass before I see her enter the restaurant, her face full of frustration. She makes her way to the table, her pace quick. She shrugs off her coat, hangs it up, and hangs her purse on her chair. I stand and we face each other, neither of us quite sure how to proceed. I smile and gesture for us to sit, she nods in response.

"Sorry I'm late, traffic was a bi- Traffic was really heavy through the city."

"It's fine, you're here now, that's what matters," I say, a smile appearing on my face.

She regards me with a scrutinizing look, "Did you order?"

"No, I thought I'd wait for you," I reply with another smile. I can't help the smiling – it's so good to see her alive.

"Ah, well thank you."

"Of course."

We settle into a silence as we read the menu, which hasn't changed drastically since our last visit here a few years ago.

The waiter comes by, takes our orders, and disappears to fetch our wine.

She avoids my gaze for a few minutes, examining the silverware on the table and the paintings that hang on the wall in great detail. When her eyes finally meet mine, I smile once more.

"So Emily, how are you settling back into the BAU?"

"Fine." Her response is quick and pointed, she's expecting a fight, just as she did on the phone yesterday.

"And you've found a place to stay?"

"For now, yes."

"All the requisite paperwork is in order? I'd imagine coming back from the dead is a paperwork nightmare," I chuckle lightly, making an attempt at humour. Her lack of response prompts me to step back onto a more serious conversation track, "If there's anything you need pushed through the system, I could make a few calls to fast track it."

"Everything's being looked after, thank you."

I sigh, "Emily, I didn't call you to pick a fight or dredge up old arguments. I really did want to see you."

"Of course," she replies, her tone even. "Can I ask you a question?"

I nod in response.

"Did you ever love me? Was I ever wanted? Or was I just a colossal waste of time for you?"

Both the bluntness and implications of her words cut straight to my heart, and the look in her eyes makes me close my own to stem the flow of tears I feel forming. Her tone is harsh, and I can tell she's been letting this frustration stew for months. So this is the fight she wants to have.

I open my eyes and find her hurtful gaze still on me.

"Of course I love you. You're my daughter."

"Really? Because your actions tell a different story."

"Emily, I know I haven't been the perfect mother-"

She scoffs, interrupting my response, but I continue.

"I made mistakes, and made the wrong decision on many occasions, all of which I regret. And yes, maybe I put my career ahead of you and didn't try hard enough to balance work and family. And if I could go back and change that I would. But I have always loved you. I will always love you, even if you decide you don't want to stay in contact. You are my daughter," I say, my voice cracking with emotion and tears threatening to fall. She may think me an ice queen, but things have changed.

Her expression changes as her eyes flit to the moisture in the corners of my eyes, and she hears the cracks in my voice. I can see the moment she believes what I'm saying is genuine. Her gaze softens, and she tilts her head ever so slightly. I take this as a sign to push on.

"When Agent Jareau called and told me you had died... It sounds clichéd, but a piece of me really did die. It's hard to explain, especially given our difficult relationship, but when you're a mother, it doesn't matter that you're not speaking to your child, it still hurts. Something switched off in me. I took leave for a few months to try and get a handle on things, but until I got the phone call explaining that you were alive, I felt broken and incomplete."

"Why weren't you at my funeral then?" she asks quietly, her gaze fixed on the table in front of her. It's the question she really wanted to ask. It's the subject she was ready to argue about.

At her question I feel the dam break and tears make their way down my face. Her expression turns to shock.

"I couldn't get there. I tried for days to get on a flight, and I very nearly paid out my entire bank account by trying to get tips and information that would help me fly out. But the uprising was at its peak and the violence and demonstrations kept me grounded."

"You weren't just busy?"

"Em, I couldn't do anything that week. Ask my assistant – I was completely useless. The day of your funeral I was inconsolable. They had to sedate me to calm me down."

Her expression is a mix of shock and guilt. Her mouth opens to say something, but it seems she can't find the words. Moments pass before she can croak out anything in response, "I'm sorry."

I shake my head, "I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you before it all happened. I'm sorry I put my career first, and ignored you completely. I'm sorry I wasn't a better mother."

We reach a silent understanding of some kind and she takes a sip of the wine the waiter had brought around the time we were discussing her reintegration into the BAU. I excuse myself to freshen up a bit, and attempt to get a handle on my emotions. After a few minutes, I return to find our food had been brought out.

I sit down, and we eat in silence. We finish our meal and enjoy dessert before I finally break the silence.

"When I finally got to the U.S., I went to our old summer house."

"I thought you'd sold the place when we left for Europe," she says in surprise.

"Just emptied it out and sold most of the furniture."

"Oh."

"Anyway, I spent some time in your old room and found a few things in there. I thought you might like to have them."

She nods in response.

I grab my bag and retrieve the four items, placing them on the table in front of us. She reaches her hand out to gently trace the edges of the music box.

"I remember this. Does it still work?"

I nod, "Yes."

She opens the pocket watch and chuckles lightly.

I smile knowingly, "Still 3:51, right?"

"Always," she says in response, echoing the oft-repeated conversation.

Her attention shifts to the dream catcher, her fingers examining the intricately woven web and still soft feathers.

"It's funny, after we left that house and I left this behind, my nightmares did come back," she muses.

Her eyes turn to the book, and I hear her let out a long breath. She opens it, and her eyes are drawn to the inscription on the first page. Just as I had done all those months ago, she traces the words with her fingers. A small smile plays on her lips as she reads it, and her gaze lifts to meet mine. I see tears in the corner of her eyes.

"It wasn't all bad."

"No," I agree. "It wasn't."

If you have a spare moment, I'd love to hear what you think! :)