The first time I felt her stirring inside me, I was overwhelmed by a fear as old as life itself. Only the joy of holding her in my arms could make me push through it.
Carrying little Willow in my belly, I decided to make her a bow. Well, I tried. My days swung between excitement for her arrival and terror at the thought of losing her to the cruelty waiting outside. And it was during one of those euphoric moments that I decided to craft a bow for my girl, just like my father once did for me.
Yes, I would teach her to hunt. The thought that she’d know how to survive in my absence brought me some comfort — just a little.
I made countless attempts. Started over hundreds of times. I’d rescued all my bows from the forest a few years after the rebellion, trying to copy them — and failing almost every time.
But I was persistent. And I kept at it.
When Willow was born, I kept working in the small workshop Haymitch helped me set up at the back of the yard.
By her first birthday, I finally got it just right. I could hear my father’s voice, telling me I’d done a good job. The thrill of giving her that bow filled me with a nervous excitement, but I knew I had to be patient — after all, she was only one year old.
I stored the bow on top of the wardrobe, inside the big cover that held Beetee’s bow from the war — a bow I’d never used again. I found a spot for it in the attic, as it brought back painful memories.
But I’d wait for her to grow up. And she did — curious, brave, determined. Smart too. The second baby came just a few months after her six-year-old sister’s birthday, which made me postpone plans to take her into the woods.
In early autumn of the next year, I woke Willow before sunrise. We had a hearty breakfast while she looked confused about the change in our routine.
“Why are we waking up so early?” she asked.
“Because I want to take you somewhere,” I replied, trying to stay calm and patient, though inside I was buzzing with excitement.
We dressed warmly, put on our boots, and remembered to tie two knots—just like her dad used to do. And finally, the moment arrived — the bow was handed to my girl.
She hugged it tight, speechless, but her blue eyes sparkled with so much happiness that a few tears slipped down her face.
“Now I can be just like you!” she exclaimed, glowing with joy.
And that love, already in my heart, seemed to double or even triple in size.
We ran into the forest as the first rays of sunlight appeared. Even though she’d never been in the woods before, Willow felt so safe and at ease that I knew I’d made the right choice.
Our first lesson was a long, mostly theoretical. I taught her about plants, herbs, some birds, and places to avoid, along with simple traps. She asked endless questions about when she’d be able to shoot, and I told her what I always said “When you’re ready for the forest.”
At first, she didn’t take it well, but I could tell she was eager to learn everything I could teach her.
And so, almost every morning, we raced the sun into the woods. There was still a fence, but it only kept out the bears in spring. Beyond it, we assumed our roles as hunters.
Over time, Willow started carrying a small notebook. She listened carefully to everything I explained, not missing a single detail. Months passed… One year… And then more months.
Our trips became daily, and Willow grew impatient — she still hadn’t learned to handle her bow properly.
“Just like her mom,” Peeta joked during dinner after I responded to one of her many pleas, and she stomped off in a huff.
The next morning, no trip to the woods — there was a school thing. But we went the day after.
I noticed she was unusually quiet during our run. I wondered if I’d been too strict. Still, there was so much she needed to learn. I was about to cave to her requests when a somber question broke the silence.
“Mom… were you really a tribute in the Hunger Games?”
It was bound to happen; I just didn’t expect it so soon.
“Yes,” we stopped in the middle of the trail leading up to the hill where wild strawberries waited to be picked.
“Was daddy a tribute too?” she frowned.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because... we were waiting for the right moment,” I said, feeling my heart crush in my chest as I tried to imagine what she already knew.
I was trembling, but I was determined to answer any questions she had.
“They said you were the Mockingjay… during the revolution,” she looked at me, curious. I only nodded, watching her process the information.
“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked with a sad smile, and I nodded again.
And I told her. Not everything, just what was necessary — in a way that wouldn’t scare her. I talked about the Quarter Quell, about the District 13, and how her dad was captured, but I spared her the horrors he endured in the Capitol. I told her about the districts uniting and how many people lost their lives in the war — including Prim.
There were no lessons that morning.
The ride back home was even quieter. I could hear the gears turning in her mind.
As soon as she left for school, I told Peeta about the conversation in the forest, and the book was taken from the closet. It was time.
Explaining what had happened to Willow was easier than I expected. She asked so many questions, we lost track of time leaning over the book. Even though it was painful to talk about those we’d lost.
The next morning, Willow still seemed to be absorbing everything she’d learned, and I wondered if it was too much for her.
Maybe a day off..., I thought.
“Let’s go somewhere different today.”
“You’ll see. No school, no dad, no Haymitch, no Rye. Just us,” I said, and hearing that, she quickened her steps, grabbing my hand, a smile spreading across her face that barely fit her little cheeks.
The walk to the lake was filled with music — all the songs my father had ever taught me. The mockingjays sang along, and Willow was thrilled. She knew the story of the mockingjays, but seeing me sing and the birds echoing it back made her truly enchanted. Yes, I was the Mockingjay — the leader of them all, she said. It was a magical moment for both of us.
Willow wondered if she’d ever be like me, while I remembered my father with pride, knowing I was passing on your legacy.
At the lake, we played and swam almost the entire morning. Willow learned more about the birds there; the Sun made everything more enjoyable. We talked for hours and ate bread and cookies we’d brought along. We picked some Katniss from the lake and Willow loved sticking her fingers in the lake mud.
We headed back to District 12 late in the afternoon, greeted on the porch by Haymitch and Rye.
Willow ran to the bathroom at my command, too excited to complain about anything.
“Peeta told me,” Haymitch said as soon as I sat on the last step of the porch. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” I smiled, picking up my sleepy boy. “I think we’ll be fine,” I said, and Haymitch kissed my forehead, proud of the woman I’d become.
The seasons changed, slowly taking my little hunter’s childhood away. She was so dedicated and studious — she and her father had made a book about all the bird and animal species she learned from me. Insects too, though she was still cataloging them in her notebook.
At twelve, she finally learned to use a bow—but she already had the steps and the instincts of a true hunter.
By fifteen, she brought home her first deer and climbed trees so tall it worried me.
After all these years, I finally had someone I could trust to watch my back in the forest—someone who would stay alert for hours or cover me when things got out of control.
She’d done a good job, just like her father taught her.
Willow grew up. She learned more about me, about her dad and about our traumas in the woods than she ever learned at home. In the woods, I confided everything — completely transparent with my oldest child.
Her parents’ past haunted her a little; knowing what they had endured at the Capitol filled her with a fierce determination, a kind of rebellion, and she kept repeating that it could never happen again.
Willow Mellark had a bit of a rebellious spirit and a strong political sense—she was so good with words, and everyone loved her for it. Haymitch always said she was a perfect copy of her parents.
But now, I had other lessons for her.
Never stop believing in the goodness of people. That it’s worth living for those who’ve passed — because they’re the ones who freed Panem. We played a repetitive game together… A game that helped me get out of bed on my darkest days.
Willow agreed that the game could get pretty boring over the years, but she also agreed there were worse games to play.
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
blakekathryn
prguitarman
pixelskylines
vaporwave
