Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Jennifer

The words THE IMPORTANCE OF PERSPECTIVE glare at the comfortably seated students from the chalkboard in the classroom. I'd ignore this flashing warning sign and go right back to sleep, except I'm one of those students. I hope the teacher can't see in my face that I didn't study last night.

Heck, I can't even remember my teacher's name. What'll I do if he calls on me?

"Okay," my teacher says, his brisk voice telling us that he's about to get down to business. "So what did we see on the screen just now?" He scans the group of kids in front of him, looking for someone to call on. I'm feeling a little nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, it's not me, it's not me.

"Jennifer." Darn it!

I sit up as straight as I can, folding my hands in front of me. I may have slept through most of the video, but I can remember vaguely what I saw. "The same thing we saw before," I say. "A war."

"More specific than that," the teacher chides me. I grimace, but he's already shifted his gaze toward some of the other students. He sets his sights on the blond-haired boy sitting next to me. "Josh."

My best friend puts on a show of thinking hard. "An assault. During the war."

That's specific enough for me. But not enough to satisfy our teacher. "You're killing me," he says sarcastically. "Details, details." Josh shoots me a glance, but by then, our teacher's moved on to his next victim. "Liam?"

Now here's someone I'm glad to see on the chopping block. Liam's the class clown, always up for a prank. Once or twice, he's even pranked me. At the moment, though, he doesn't look in the mood for a joke. He twists his fingers together, trying to come up with a good answer. "Uh, we saw an air assault. With helicopters. On a sort of…village. And, uh, I think the people in the helicopters were the main characters."

"And the villagers?" questions the teacher.

"Well…I don't know. They were kinda just…there."

"Good. That's absolutely correct." Liam looks smug, and for a second, I think our teacher might be done. Then he goes off again. "And how do you know that?"

This time, poor Liam's stuck. "Um…"

Our teacher won't wait, just calls on the next kid. "Woody?"

Liam's neighbor, a jock with rust-colored hair, speaks up. "The camera was focused on them. Like, you could see their faces and everything. The villagers were kinda…in the background? Like, part of the background shot?"

"Yes, that's it!" For the first time since the class started, our teacher actually looks proud. "We call that…"

"Perspective," finishes Woody.

"That's correct," the teacher affirms. I'm starting to think we might get a break, then he starts up once more, pointing at a yawning kid in the back. "Francis! Don't go to sleep just yet. What did we see on the screen before that? The first clip I showed you. What was that?"

Francis freezes, his mouth still half open. He fumbles for an answer. "Uh…I don't remember, but it was something really terrible."

Our teacher sighs in exasperation. "C'mon, you're a Language student. Use your words." He makes an expectant gesture with his hand, and we all look at Francis, feeling the pressure. "A terrible what?"

Poor Francis doesn't react fast enough. The teacher picks his next victim. "Nina."

The curly-haired blonde sitting two rows down from me replies smoothly. "A massacre."

"That's right," says the teacher with a quick nod. Then he hits us with this sudden curveball. "And why'd you call it that?"

Nina just stares at him, a puzzled expression on her face. "Well, um…that's what it was. We saw some innocent people in a village get killed." In my mind, I add, Duh!

"Wasn't that what we saw in the second clip?" asks the teacher.

Now Nina's even more confused. "Yeah…"

Our teacher makes a little gesture with his finger, connecting Liam and Nina. "So why did you call it an assault, when you called it a massacre?"

"Because Liam's an idiot," my best friend chimes in. He gets several hoots and muffled laughter in response.

The teacher doesn't even crack a smile. "Don't try to be funny, Josh," he warns. "You used that word, too." At that, my best friend falls silent. Soon, our teacher's moved away from him and is scanning the classroom, seeing who else will get picked on. "So what do you think? What made you choose the words you chose?"

He zeroes in on a dark-skinned boy sitting close to the front. "Lenny."

"Perspective?" the boy guesses, lamely. Dang, I think, for a straight-A student, he sure isn't trying that hard.

Our teacher agrees. "More specific," he scolds. He points at another kid sitting in the back. A girl, so pale and skinny she could easily slip under the radar. "Paula."

The girl clears her throat before she goes off. "Well," she says, with an air of superiority, "in the first clip, we saw it from the perspective of the villagers. The camera was focused on them. They shot it in the church, where the villagers were standing. It was almost like you were there with them."

Josh and I exchange eye rolls.

Fortunately, the teacher doesn't notice. "Good, yes," he praises Paula. Little brownnoser. "And what about the second clip?"

"It was shot from the perspective of the people waging war," Paula explains. "We know who the people in the helicopters are, but we didn't get to know the villagers. That's because the people waging war didn't really see them as people. Just targets to be mowed down. So, because the scene was shot from their perspective, we see the villagers as they did."

All around us, I hear students mutter, "Oh!" and "Oh, yeah." Even class-clown Liam's heard saying, "Now that makes sense."

"Show-off," Josh whispers in my ear. But I have to admit, I am impressed. Paula has a way of explaining things so you understand immediately.

The teacher's just as impressed. "Very good," he compliments Paula. "But you gotta be more specific. Where was the camera most of the time?"

"High up," she replies. "With the helicopters." Her face twists in concentration, like she doesn't have the answer yet. "They call it a…crane shot? Establishing shot?"

"That's for another class," says our teacher. The impatience creeps back into his voice. "Where was the camera relative to the village?"

"Above," responds Paula.

"Right," the teacher confirms. I think I know what answer he's looking for. "And in the first clip? Where was the camera most of the time?"

"On the ground. At ground level. The same level as the villagers."

"Well put. So what's that got to do with perspective?" My hand shoots up before Paula can say more. "Jennifer."

"I get it now!" I exclaim loudly. Eat your heart out, Paula! "So when the camera's placed above the villagers, you kinda feel the same way the attackers did. You look down on them, you don't really care about them. When you're at the level of the villagers, you can really, like, see them, you see that they're human beings."

I can practically feel Paula's glare from across the room. It makes me smile brightly.

"Good," my teacher says with a nod. "So why'd we call the first clip a massacre, and the second clip an assault?" He scans the room briefly before picking my best friend. "Josh."

"'Massacre' is an attack on innocent people," Josh explains. "'Assault' is just, like, a military operation. Just a job that has to be done." He shrugs. "Nothing to it, you know?"

Our teacher's eyes bore into Josh's. "So you're saying that in the second clip, the people in the village weren't innocent?"

"No, I'm not saying that." Josh puts both hands up, as if defending himself in court. "But I was made to think like that, because…oh." All of a sudden, any confusion on his face melts away, and it's like he can see clearly. "Ohhhhh. I get it." He grins playfully at our teacher. "Oh, man. You tricked us."

The teacher just shakes his head. "I didn't, the camera did."

"Josh, you numbskull," mocks Liam. "Got bamboozled by a camera."

"Could happen to you, too, Liam," the teacher retorts. "That's why you're in this class." After he says that, I decide to go ahead and like him.

"Mr. Hawthorne?" Paula interrupts, raising her hand high in the air. That's his name! I should try to remember. "So when do we get our equipment?" the little brownnoser demands.

"Not now. Two weeks from now," Mr. Hawthorne replies.

A loud groan rises up from the entire class. "Awwww!"

"Ms. Rossi let me have the tripod on the first day," grumbles Liam. I hate to agree with him, but I'm disappointed too. I didn't sign up for this course just to watch other people's work.

Mr. Hawthorne gestures for us all to hush. "Well, this isn't her class," he replies to Liam. "What'd we learn just now? A camera's a weapon. Can be as deadly as a knife or a gun." He studies our faces to make sure we understand. "If this were Weaponry 101 instead of Cinematography 101, would I just hand you an assault rifle on the first day?"

We all absorb his words. "Ohhhhh. Okay," is what comes out of our mouths.

Satisfied, Mr. Hawthorne goes on. "So instead, you're going to watch this next clip and answer all the questions on the sheet." Everyone starts to protest, but he silences them. "C'mon, now. Quit grumbling. Least you're not the villagers from those films."

That does it. We all sit back in our seats and prepare to do our homework.

The video's been playing for the last half hour, and I still can't answer most of the questions Mr. Hawthorne wrote. What does he mean by "the director's choices"? What's the use of color got to do with the "tone" of the scene? What does "tone" even refer to? I don't think our teacher cares, but this stuff's too hard for twelve-year-olds.

Too frustrated to write, I push my pencil away. Then I lean over to Josh, tapping on the edge of his paper with my finger. "Can I see?" I practically plead.

He relents right away. Lets me look at all the answers he wrote. "Thanks," I say, relieved. I try to copy his words without being too obvious. When I'm done, I gesture to the screen, where the film's still going. "Do we have to watch war movies all semester?"

"Probably," Josh says with a shrug. He motions to Mr. Hawthorne, who's currently sitting at his desk, grading papers and not looking at us. "He's a combat vet, did you know that?"

"What? Really?" The words come out louder than intended. I'm just so shocked.

Josh nods, looking eager to tell me more. "Fought in the Second Rebellion. Got that scar on his neck from fighting his way into the Capitol. Right next to the Mockingjay."

"Wow," I comment. I sneak another look at our teacher, who isn't paying any attention. Sure enough, I can see a thick purplish line on the side of his neck. Now I know which veteran of the Second Rebellion my friend's talking about! As a child, I watched an interview on TV with the surviving members of the "Star Squad". There was one Hawthorne among them, a handsome young guy with black hair and light brown skin.

He still is attractive, I think. I cover my mouth to stifle a giggle. Good thing he can't read my thoughts.

Then his eyes suddenly meet mine, and I'm so startled I jump back in my seat.

"Jennifer. Josh." He says our names curtly, so I know we're being scolded. We must've been too loud. Josh and I glance at him apologetically, then we scramble to complete our assignments. I've just finished scribbling the last answer when my cheeks finally begin to cool.

Gale

School's out for the day. The kids all congregate at the door, crowding around it, like a pack of dogs waiting to go on their walk. I have to remind them for the tenth time that the bell doesn't dismiss them, I do, and unless they'd like to get written up, they'd better obey. They all sober up at that, standing at attention like the dutiful soldiers in Thirteen, until I tell them they can go. Even the prankster, Liam, heeds my first warning. He'd do well to stay in my class and away from Ms. Rossi, who seems to have read too many books on "gentle parenting".

Thankfully, this current batch of kids seems promising. Jennifer got the hang of things pretty fast. So did Paula, though she seems a bit smart-mouthed. The one I'm concerned about is Lenny. Kid used to get perfect grades. Does he think his reputation's a free ticket to success, and that he can just put his head down and sleep whenever he wants? Not in my classroom.

It takes a full five minutes to herd the kids out the door, even when most have been saying they'd rather go home. Apparently their chitchat's more important. Jennifer and Josh are two of the worst culprits. If I didn't shush them earlier, they'd go on passing notes and whispering to each other every class. Lucky they're both pretty good students.

I feel five years older when I'm finally done with all my post-dismissal duties. Once I'm back in the classroom, I practically collapse in the chair in front of my desk. I'm stacking all the papers that have yet to be graded when I hear the telephone ring.

I can't say why, but I have a feeling the caller's bringing bad news. I snatch the phone from its place on the wall and hold it to my ear. "Hello, who's this?"

"Mr. Gale Hawthorne?" I know that voice well. It belongs to the headmistress at my daughters' school. Normally, when the lady speaks, her tone's severe enough to scare a hundred little girls into silence. Now it seems like all the energy's been sapped from her voice. There's no question what caused it.

"Yeah?" I ask anyway. Though I dread hearing the answer.

The old lady sighs heavily. I hear the defeat in her voice. "It's Demelza. Again."

Figures.

If it takes five minutes to get Jennifer and Josh to stop their chitchat, it takes ten just to get my eight-year-old to stop screeching. Young lady who called herself the teaching assistant says she was going at it for an hour, screaming "I hate you" and "I want you to die" at the girl she hit, and throwing pencils and books at the other girls in her class. All I can do is mutter an apology and help the assistant clear away the broken pencils on the floor. Same thing I did the previous two times.

Then I drag my daughter out of the building, her backpack slung over my shoulder, the folder full of not-yet-graded papers stuffed inside. She kicks and wails the entire time. Well, almost. Halfway to the metro station, she stops assaulting me physically. She resorts to bellowing at the top of her lungs, tears of anger streaming down her cheeks. Plenty of people stare, but it's easy to ignore them. Not so different from when I had cameras following me everywhere.

It's when Demelza and I have taken our seats on a packed train heading home, that her crying finally subsides. The occasional sniffle or sob breaks through, but that's it. Now's my chance to lecture her. I turn and face her, eyebrows raised. "Another fight at school?" I snap. "Third time, Demi."

"Don't care," she mumbles under her breath. I hear her hiccup as she wipes a stray tear away. She pulls her foot back and kicks at the seat in front of her. Probably because she knows it'll piss me off.

"I care, alright?" I counter. "Now stop it." I reach out with one hand and push her leg aside before she can kick again.

She just uses her other foot. The heel of her shiny leather shoe pokes the passenger in front of her in the back, and he turns to scowl at me. "I said stop it," I repeat, much louder this time. It won't scare the girl into submission, but what else can I do?

Sure enough, she defies me again. Her foot's just barely made contact with the cushion when my temper rises. "Quit!" I shout, and smack her leg so hard she starts crying all over again. Now every other passenger in the car's looking at us. This is what I get for having a daughter who can't control her anger.

Demelza keeps howling even when the ticket inspector passes by. "ID, please," he says to the people ahead of us. I shoot my daughter a look, hoping she'll take the hint and quiet down. She doesn't. I sigh inwardly as I hand the inspector my card.

SPECIAL VETERANS STATUS, it says on the front. I may not be proud of what I did during my service, but I appreciate Coin pulling some strings to ensure I'll never pay for a ride.

The inspector nods his approval and moves on, not even acknowledging the little girl screaming her lungs out next to me.

The door to our apartment swings open so suddenly, it grazes the wall to its right. I barely notice. I'm still trapped in this wrestling match with the shrieking creature in my arms. She's tiny, only around fifty pounds, yet she's persistent. She scratched at my cheeks and neck the whole way home. Now blood's dripping down the side of my face. I got out unscathed from a gunfight with three Peacekeepers, yet this pint-sized terror's too much for me.

"Let me go!" she screeches. I'm pushing the door shut when she claws my face with those nails again. I decide to do as she says.

I set her down quickly. Her feet hit the floor with a whump. Right when she's about to continue with the assault, I snag her wrists and hold her wiggling arms in place. "Your mama gets hurt when you act like this," I scold. "She's the sweetest lady around. I thought you'd be like her. You're not ashamed?"

"You're shaming me!" she screams in response. With a sudden burst of strength, probably fueled by rage, she wrenches both of her wrists free. But she doesn't try to strike me, and I'm thankful she didn't. Instead she stomps her foot as hard as she can.

"Just go to your room," I dismiss her. I shoo her away with an indifferent wave of my hand. She goes, and I'm thinking I won the fight, when a bone-rattling bang bounces off the walls of the apartment, actually startling me.

"And don't slam the door!" I yell after her. Doesn't matter that she can't hear me.

The storm clouds have scattered. Once again, the sky is clear. I dig the folder full of papers out of the little rebel's backpack, hoping that in time, she'll calm down. Besides, I need some extra time myself. Grading those kids' work feels like another full-time job. It's as though I have three. Teaching, reviewing my students' work, and dealing with Demelza. And I've got to support my wife and be there for my other two kids.

Sometimes I regret changing careers.

I gaze at the golden statuette on the shelf next to the door. My first Castor Award for Best Director. Demelza smashed the other one to smithereens during a tantrum. She was only six when she did it, yet it still makes my blood pressure rise recalling that night. Oh, well. I prefer the company of the school's faculty to the slimeballs in the Academy.

Difference is, I can stay as far away from the Academy as I like, and face no judgment. What'll people think if I admit I sometimes hate my own child?

I try not to hate her. I want to love her. I wish I could, dammit! But some unfortunate toss of the genetic dice, plus the various influences in her environment, gave her a personality I'm just not equipped to handle. My wife can soothe her, while opening her eyes to her wrongdoing, using words alone. I've no clue how she does it. I try to be quick to correct our daughter. Yet I always end up fighting with everything I've got, and still, I almost always fail.

At the risk of sounding like a child myself, it's not fair. Demelza looks just like me. Dark straight hair, brown skin, those piercing gray eyes. Everyone in our extended family's constantly making comparisons to me. How'd she get the worst personality out of all three kids? Am I still being punished for what I did a decade ago?

No. That can't be right. I changed course long ago. Refused to ever walk that destructive path again. Went into a completely different career field. Compensated some of the families whose lives I ruined. Dedicated years to teaching the next generation, so they wouldn't repeat my mistakes. Was that not enough?

I don't know. But I'm not too proud to beg for forgiveness.

While I'm working, no noise at all comes from Demelza's room. What's she doing in there? If I go to check on her, will she explode again? Sometimes I'll leave the fuse alone, and it'll just put itself out. Better than getting caught in the blast, anyway. I keep grading papers and decide to wait until my wife gets home.

"Almost done, okay?" I reassure my four-year-old. She squirms impatiently, but stays perched on my knee as I finish her braid. Mother used to do Posy's hair in this style when we were kids. Called it a fish-bone. In Giulia's silky red hair, it looks nice. "Were you good for Mama?" I ask her. She nods in her enthusiastic-toddler way, and I can't help but smile.

"Yes," she says proudly. That's our Giulia, our chubby-cheeked baby. She's as cute and innocent as a child can be. Like a flower with lots of nectar, she's sweeter than both of her big sisters put together. And she always, always obeys her parents the first time. The only bad thing is, her tendency to follow and mimic means she's learning the destructive habits of her siblings.

She also looks more like her mother than me. It's only her gray eyes that match mine.

I slip the tie over her braid and secure it. Just when I'm about to tell her it's finished, I hear the quiet click of a door opening. A small figure tiptoes into the hallway, trying to be covert, but I catch her immediately. "Demi. Go back to your room," I command.

"No," she snaps back. Calmly, she walks into the room where my youngest and I are sitting. As if she didn't get in trouble an hour ago.

Why did my wife have to run down to the market after dropping Giulia off? I try not to let my annoyance show, but I can't help it. If my daughter doesn't comply soon, my blood vessels might burst. "I'm the adult," I admonish her. "You do as I say."

The little brat just smirks. "Did Thread tell you that, before he whipped you forty times?"

It happens so fast, it feels automatic.

One second, I'm still seated on the sofa, my four-year-old balanced on my knee. The next, that extra weight's suddenly gone, and I'm standing at my full height, my sights set on Demelza. I feel my feet propel me forward, then suddenly my hand's clutching her shoulder, slamming her into the wall, and my other hand's raised to strike her.

While I'm standing there, glaring at Demelza, in the background, I hear Giulia wailing. I'm vaguely aware that she fell and landed hard on the floor, but at the moment, I'm too pissed off at my other daughter to care. "Don't talk to me that…"

Demelza suddenly cowers, shrinking back against the wall and lifting her hands to her face. "No!" she whimpers. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Guilt surges through me. How could I try to use violence on my little girl? She's young, she'll learn as she grows. I soften at once. "It's okay," I say gently, brushing her tears away with my thumb.

I should've known. Demelza's the daughter of an expert trapper.

But by the time I understand what's going on, it's too late. Her fear's already changed back to ferocity, the anxiety in her eyes to intense fury. Her teeth are already sinking into my hand, and it's a kind of pain I didn't know existed.

I've been shot before. Stabbed before. Struck by flying shrapnel. Beaten up by Peacekeepers. Hurt my arm while hauling people to safety. Coughed my own throat raw working in that cursed coal mine. And yes, I have been whipped to the point of unconsciousness. Still, nothing, and I mean nothing, hurts worse than knowing your own eight-year-old daughter used your best weapon against you.

"Ow!" I yelp. "Damn!" I give my hand a good hard yank, but it remains trapped in between Demelza's teeth. Finally, one desperate tug later, I manage to rip it free. Flecks of blood splatter the opposite wall.

The door to Demelza's room is still open, so I do as my instincts say. I thrust her away from me so hard and so fast, she tumbles backward. She's sent sprawling on the floor in her bedroom and lies there in a crumpled heap. As she struggles to get up, I give the door a forceful push, and it bangs shut in her face.

Good riddance.

I'm finally starting to simmer down. Now I can hear clearly as Giulia continues to bawl in the background. I trudge back over to the sofa and try to pick her up, to comfort and reassure her. She just cries louder than ever. Why isn't she calming down?

Forget it, I think. If I have to deal with her, I'll just lose my temper again.

How much time has passed? Thirty minutes? An hour? I don't know. I'm seated in the exact same spot on the sofa, only now my hand's got a bandage wrapped around it. The right side of my face, which Demelza scratched, also got patched up. Giulia's quit crying, thank goodness. Must be because my wife's home.

My eyes shift from a spot on the sofa cushion to the source of the low murmurs I hear. Yes, it's Rachel, and she's talking to our youngest in her soft-spoken way. "All better now?" she coos. "There, there." She kisses Giulia gently on the forehead, and with that, all the pain magically goes away.

Still wiping at her eyes, the little girl stumbles past me on her way out of the room. I stop her by holding out a hand, and she looks up, surprised. "Giul, I'm sorry," I mumble. I try to figure out what to say. "I…wasn't thinking," I finish lamely.

It's a pathetic apology, but what can you do when your head's all muddled?

Giulia either doesn't know or care. "S'okay," she says with such sincerity, it warms my heart. She touches my arm for a beat, then keeps walking in her adorably clumsy way.

It's when she's distracted by her toys that Rachel finally approaches me. "I talked to her," she tells me, referring to Demelza. "She called the headmistress to apologize." Rachel eases herself onto the sofa next to me.

"That's nice to hear," I reply. "She say sorry to anyone else, too?" Rachel's eyebrows go up when I indicate my bandaged hand. "Yeah. That was her."

"Maybe you should thank her," my wife says with a nonchalant shrug. "If she hadn't done that, you would've done worse to her."

"What's that mean?" I ask, my eyes narrowing.

"Well," Rachel says matter-of-factly, "she told me you were going to hit her." My wife then points to my wounded hand. "Then, after she did that, you pushed her to the ground and slammed the door on her."

I'm feeling irate again. Gentle parenting isn't just a new trend among my coworkers, it's made its way to my wife as well. "Rach, I don't know what to tell you. I had to discipline her. Besides, she's lied to you before."

"Did you do it, or no?" Coming out of Rachel's mouth, it sounds like a simple inquiry, not the demand it really is. I can't give a straight answer, so I resort to this. "The push wasn't that hard," I argue.

Rachel sighs. When I look at her, I can tell she's disappointed. "Makes no difference when it's a child. You were how old, when they took a whip to you for poaching a bird?"

"Nineteen's an adult."

"And still, you took up arms against the offenders," Rachel points out.

"That's not…" I pause for a moment before giving up. How's she able to win every argument without ever going on the offensive? "Okay, you're right," I admit.

Rachel folds her arms in front of her. "You agree with me then," she says steadily, "that you're setting a bad example? That violent behavior around the children isn't okay?"

"Why do you shame me like this?" I almost plead.

"You should be ashamed!" she counters. Her exasperated tone convicts me. "You're their father, they'll follow in your footsteps!"

It's long past time to surrender. Yet, just out of habit, I continue the fight with everything I've got. "And here I thought they'd take after you, being girls and all," I mutter.

"Are you serious? Is that your excuse?" Rachel looks genuinely amazed, like she can't believe she's talking to someone this stupid.

"It's just…" Better stop now, before I humiliate myself. "No," I concede.

"I'm glad you understand," says Rachel. "Now I'll make this clear. From this point on, if you ever raise a hand to any of our children…" She pauses, then bites her lip before continuing. "I'll make sure you never see them again."

Silence reigns in the room. I feel like she just tied me up.

"Rachel." I say her name like I'm gasping for air. "You can't."

Of course, she can. She can and she will. "I can tell Capitol Protective Services," she suggests to me, as casually as if we were discussing dinner options.

"Rachel. Please. No." It's impressive how one woman can make me toss my pride aside. I hope none of my kids can see this, and that I don't look too pathetic.

My wife issues this ultimatum. "Then you agree to change your ways?"

"Rach!" I protest. "I may not be able to." It was enough of a burden, coming to the realization that I did wrong during the war, and was a direct contributor to a lot of people's pain. Even harder to make the decision not to take the coward's way out and shoot myself out of guilt, but to take the long, hard road to redemption. For years, I willingly endured this torture. Went to war with a whole host of demons more vicious than President Snow, after having fought in an actual war. Earned numerous scars that only I can see. Tried so hard to be there for my wife and kids while still in the middle of the fight.

Because I've got more than one full-time job. I'm not just a teacher, I'm trying to rebuild what I destroyed. Passing down to the pupils what I learned the hard way. I'm not just a husband and a father, I'm trying to, in some weird way, make up for how I failed in my first relationship. Being the man I should've been to the girl I loved first. Not that I want her still.

The point is, I struggled. I chose to struggle, and what's my reward? More of the same. More pain, more torture, more weight added to the burden on my shoulders. I can't go on like this. I can't keep trying to be perfect to the point where I'm obsessed with myself, and missing what the people in front of me need. Do I really have to try? I feel like a convicted criminal from the days of Rome, forced to carry a heavy cross for miles, only to find that there's no relief at the final stop, but added suffering and a painful death.

Rachel draws closer to me, searching my face. "You don't remember why I married you?" she questions me. "I could've refused, you know. I was going to quit my job, go home and raise our child alone. But I didn't. Because the young man asking for my hand in marriage was the same one who'd chosen not to leave his district behind, but to stay and fight. Even against impossible odds. Even after the Capitol dropped bombs on his district. He…you…fought to save those eight hundred people in District Twelve. You stayed by the side of the Mockingjay. Fought next to her in District Eight. Volunteered for the mission that saved her husband's life."

She thinks for a moment, then continues. "You helped liberate District Two. Fought your way into the Capitol next to Everdeen and the Star Squad. When you were captured, you told her to shoot you rather than let the Peacekeepers take you alive." Her warmth turns into righteous indignation. "Don't tell me it'd be harder for you to change for the better."

She grabs my injured hand and squeezes it until it starts to hurt, until I'm forced to look her in the eye. "I wouldn't want to have married a coward," she says earnestly.

I stare at my wife, as she stares back at me. How'd it take me so long to notice how beautiful she is? When I first met her, she was just a pretty redhead. But too pale and waifish to compare to my first love. Now none of that matters, because the hand that's holding mine, the one with soft white skin dotted with freckles, is the same hand that reached out for me at the altar on our wedding day. The same green eyes that used to avoid mine now look to me, pleading with me to do better. Whereas my first love's eyes would angrily flit away when we argued. These eyes want to meet mine, even as she's telling me I'm becoming a coward.

I wouldn't want that, either, I realize. This is what my wife's skilled at, shaming a person into submission, but with her own good example instead of harsh words. All of a sudden, I want more than anything to be able to measure up. To give my wife what she deserves, after all she's given to me. "Rachel…you didn't," I assure her, and I mean it. "I promise, I'll try harder."

"Good." She smiles a little. "Then you owe our middle child an apology."

Dinnertime arrives. Demelza doesn't make an appearance. Rachel assures me she's fine, she just needs to spend some time alone. At least the school's not taking any further action. While my wife cooks, I amuse Giulia by willingly playing dolls with her. She stages a "family dinner" scene in her dollhouse, and it's cute until she takes the "father" doll and has him whack the "sister" doll over the head repeatedly. That's when I confiscate both dolls from her and tell her hitting's not appropriate.

Giulia pouts and whines a little, but doesn't put up much of a fight. I like that about her. Rachel finishes the main dish and gets started on the vegetables. I sit Giulia in her chair in front of the table and wait for our oldest to get home. At this hour, the trains are usually packed with kids leaving school. Marion will be one of them, and I hope the headmistress has nothing to say about her.

"Mama, I want more," Giulia demands, after she polishes off her chicken. She pauses, then decides to correct herself. "Please?" she adds.

Rachel spoons a second serving onto her plate. "Thank you," the child says sweetly.

How this one was brought up in the same setting as Marion and Demelza, I may never know. I watch her to ensure she doesn't make a mess. She does, of course. "Careful you don't get it on your shirt, Giul," I remind her, picking the slimy pieces off with a napkin. Giulia smiles gratefully at me.

The lull at the dinner table's interrupted by the slamming of a door. "I'm home," a feminine voice calls out. Marion. She unceremoniously drops her key on the nearby work-table, removes her backpack, and flings it off to the side. Then she wanders into the kitchen and plops down in the chair next to mine. "Hello, Papa," she says with a smile. She leans over and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek.

Okay, so I like that I'm her favorite. Doesn't mean I'll continue to put up with her mouth and her attitude. She's a brilliant child, but she needs to learn fast how to respect her elders, especially her mama.

Speaking of Rachel, she's frowning slightly at our oldest as we speak. "So did you make up with Harriet yet?" she asks in an interrogational tone.

Marion simply shrugs. "Why should I? She did something to me."

The exasperated look resurfaces on Rachel's face. "That doesn't justify you writing, what?" She pretends to forget. "That you wanted to take a gun and blow her head clean off?"

Marion sets her jaw and returns my wife's steely gaze. She's like me. Prefers to argue her case rather than surrender. "She spilled paint on me during an assembly. On purpose," she says of her archenemy, Harriet.

"It doesn't matter. You could've just walked away." Rachel dumps the vegetables onto Marion's plate with more force than usual. "You should've walked away," she adds.

"Oh, so I'm not allowed to get angry?" Marion retorts. I knew she'd get argumentative, mainly because that's what I'd do. "She could've not looked at my journal," Marion insists.

"But…" Rachel's probably got an entire lecture in mind, so I decide to cut her off.

"Mar's right," I say. "What you want her to do, write those murderous thoughts down, or act on them?"

Marion grins, and I see Rachel narrow her eyes at me. But I feel compelled to defend my oldest daughter. I know better than anybody else here what it's like to have pent-up rage inside of you, and no way to release it.

"Exactly," Marion echoes. "They were just words." Still smiling, she leans in so close that no one else can hear. "You always take my side, Papa. Thank you."

I smile back. Alright, so I didn't tell my daughter what she needs to hear. That in spite of who angered her, she's got to change her attitude. Well, I can save that lecture for later. The point she just made about rage was a good one.

My wife doesn't agree. "Don't be surprised if one day you commit a murder," she says to our daughter, sternly.

Unbothered, Marion rolls her eyes. "Ugh," she says. "You're so judgmental, Ma. If I had to watch the Hunger Games every year, I'd be so much angrier than he is." She motions to me. "How do you know you wouldn't? You've never…"

"Okay, okay, that's enough." I derail Marion's argument before she unintentionally goes too far. "The discussion's over. Just don't leave that journal of yours out in the open," I warn her.

She just purses her lips. "Yes, Papa," she says evenly, then she picks up her spoon and resumes eating.

"Oh, there she is." Midway through our meal, my wife greets a new arrival at the table. It's none other than Demelza. Dried tear-trails still visible on her cheeks, a crabby look on her face, her hair falling out of its knot and a halo of dark frizz surrounding her head.

She looks at me sullenly, but then redirects her eyes to the floor, where they stay.

Rachel breaks the silence. "Go ahead, have a seat. We're not going to yell at you." With that reassurance, Demelza finally shuffles over to her empty chair. She begins to eat slowly and mechanically, ignoring both Giulia's gaping mouth and Marion's amused smirk. When she's almost done eating her chicken, I catch Rachel giving me a pointed look.

Right. "You owe our middle child an apology."

I glance at Demelza. She seems to chew in slow motion, her gaze shifting from a spot on the table to my patched-up hand, then back again. "Demi," I say neutrally.

The seconds drag by as she keeps chewing, ignoring me. At last, she looks up. "What?"

Her voice is hoarse and strained from bouts of crying. She looks about as receptive as a thorny bush. I struggle to keep my patience. "You feel okay now?" I ask her, though I already know the answer.

"No," she says. Coming from her, it doesn't sound like a word, more like a short, unintelligible bark.

I decide not to push her further. "Give it time," I say. "We'll forget about it tomorrow." Demelza looks down and says nothing else. Hopefully that means she agrees. I feel Rachel staring at me unhappily, but what else is there to do? Wouldn't be wise to disturb this temporary peace.

In the uncomfortable silence that follows, Marion glances at the bandages covering my hand and the side of my face. Sensing that I need cheering up, she says, "Papa?"

"What is it, Mar?" I actually muster a smile for her.

"I've got good news," she says with a grin. "I'm getting the best assignment next week for the student newspaper." At last, things are looking up. Marion's getting on in spite of her mouth. Perhaps one day, she'll get that thorn in the side under control. For now, she's doing pretty well as the newspaper's editor in chief.

"That's wonderful," Rachel agrees, then that familiar critical look resurfaces. "Just be sure to watch your words."

"I will," Marion says haughtily. She turns back to me, her green eyes gleaming. "They want me to interview the Mockingjay. We're going on a field trip to District Twelve next week, and she's going to be there." In her excitement, she eats greedily, not caring that she's getting crumbs in her sleek black hair.

She may be excited, but I just felt my heart skip a beat. "District…Twelve?" I get out.

Marion prattles on, oblivious. "Yeah. Of course." She swallows her next bite, then lays a hand on my arm. "I'll also need a chaperone. So I'll go with you."

Every instinct in my body tells me to get up and run.

I can't do either, of course. This is my kid I'm talking to. But she doesn't get the implications of what she just said. Sure, District 12 was where I grew up, it was where I learned how to set snares, and how to use a bow and arrow, and how to start a rebellion. It was also where I met my first love. The woman I last spoke to eleven years ago. She still lives in 12. Seems to have no interest in leaving, even after it was announced she'd no longer be confined there.

A good thing too, because I bet she remembers our last interaction. I can't say out loud what it was we discussed. But she's the only person left who knows about it. Coin was assassinated, Heavensbee passed away recently, and Beetee Latier lost his battle with cancer years ago. No one knows what I did during the war, with the exception of the Mockingjay. And I'm going to keep it that way.

So I respond to my oldest daughter with a firm, "No." Seeing the flabbergasted look on her face, I add, "You can't."

"Well, why not?" Marion demands to know.

"I'm not going," I say plainly. Still, my daughter doesn't give up. "You don't miss home?" she counters. She talks like I didn't choose to live here, like I didn't raise her in District 2.

"This is my home," I remind her.

"You know what I mean." Marion keeps the incredulous look on her face. "You don't want to see Grandmother? Or Uncle Rory, or Uncle Vick?" Her stare turns accusatory, and I almost have to look away.

"Or Big Sister!" I hear Giulia chime in.

"She's actually our aunt," Marion corrects her, "but yeah, Posy, too." Like she doesn't already know my sister and I are estranged, that I couldn't be there for the birth of her child.

But I don't have the time to explain it yet again, so I respond to my daughter with this. "I talk to them on the phone, Mar. I asked if you wanted to say hello, you said no."

"Because I'd like to see them in person," Marion specifies. She has. Many times. Just not with me. Now Marion turns to my wife, a beseeching look in her eyes. "Mama, can't you come with me to District Twelve?"

Rachel shakes her head. "I've told you before, I'm helping with your sister's dance recital." She points to a still-excited, ignorant Giulia.

"Ugh," grumbles Marion.

Demelza, who's been silent this entire time, pipes up next. "Do you hate your family? Is that it?" she confronts me loudly. It's back, that ferocity in her eyes that was there when she bit me.

Rachel does a sort of double take. "Demelza!" she rebukes her.

"Sorry," the young rebel spits, with little feeling.

I decide to ignore her. So does Marion. She appeals to me once more to go with her to District 12. "Please come with me?" she implores, wearing the saddest of sad-puppy-dog looks.

"No," I reply.

The hope drains from Marion's eyes, and is replaced by annoyance. "Then tell me why you won't. Please."

I suck in a breath. This was the demand I dreaded. To tell or not to tell? I consider using the excuse that's about to expire, the one about Posy being angry at me and not wanting to be around me. That line won't work once she moves out of Mother's house. I'm mulling over my options when Rachel comes to the rescue. "Marion, Demelza," she says, "do you know what post-traumatic stress is?"

They clearly don't. "Uh…"

Rachel launches into her lesson. "Well," she says, "do you remember that time Giulia was almost kidnapped by a man in a white jacket?"

I remember. That's a day I hate to recall.

Giulia's sisters remember, too. "Yeah," Marion says slowly. Even abrasive Demelza shivers at the memory before adding her piece. "That was awful," she says.

"Daddy saved me," the little one reminds everybody.

A smile twitches on Rachel's lips. "Yeah, he did." Then the grave expression returns to her face. "So do you remember what she was like after that?" she asks the older two.

"What," says Marion, "when she wouldn't go near anyone with a white jacket on?"

Rachel nods. "Exactly, yes. She saw something that reminded her of the terrible thing that had happened, and she got scared."

"Not just that," says Demelza. "She cried and cried and cried some more." The words aren't said with any malice, and Giulia doesn't appear to care, but still, Rachel glares at our middle child. "Sorry," she says quickly. This time, her apology sounds genuine.

Rachel gets to the last part of her lesson. Her voice lowers to a murmur. "Now…you know all about the terrible thing your father saw in District Twelve."

"We do," says Marion.

"And what the Peacekeepers did to him there," Rachel goes on.

"We know," says Demelza.

"So do you understand now?" Rachel's eyes meet Marion's, then Demelza's. "Why he doesn't want to go back?" The two older girls exchange glances for a second.

"We understand," says Marion.

My wife smiles a little. "Good. Now you know why we won't visit District Twelve."

The tension in the room quickly dissipates. Marion seems to accept what she was told. She simply presses her lips together before she continues eating. Demelza looks as sullen as ever, but at least the fight's gone out of her. As for Giulia, she's staring at me like I just grew a third eye. "You get scared, Papa?" she questions me.

"Everyone does," Rachel tells her.

"But I've never seen him cry," comments Demelza. Her words are garbled by the food in her mouth.

Marion turns to look at me. "Come to think of it…yeah. I've never seen you shed a tear in my life." Her eyes light up, like she just received a stunning revelation. "You should try it sometime. It actually feels good, letting it all out into your pillow. Instead of in a punch to someone's face." She grins mischievously. Of course, I don't believe her.

"No, girls. I'm the adult," I remind them. "I comfort you when you cry."

"Still, a couple tries wouldn't hurt," Demelza suggests. She seems so much calmer now. In her gray eyes, there's no antagonism, simply concern. This pushes me to do what I was initially opposed to.

"Demelza," I say her name loudly. She makes eye contact with me, actually looking a little afraid. "Yeah?" she says tentatively.

"I'm sorry about what I did," I get out. "Just lost my temper."

Surprise overtakes my daughter's whole face. It's rare that I'll abase myself in this way. But the storm winds have stilled. The danger's past. It's time for us all to calm down. That includes letting go of what occurred an hour ago. "It's okay," Demelza says sheepishly. "I was bad, too." She takes a long look at my gauze-covered hand.

I don't need to glance at Rachel to know she's smiling.

It's in moments like these that I'm reminded, I do love my rebellious daughter. She may be hard to love sometimes, but it's worth it to try. I want to see her do better, and I want to do better for her. I just can't take it more than one day at a time.