lionflower | 86th, violet

She never knew what a mother was supposed to be.

Jacinta had decided a long time ago that her mother, Marina, was everything a mother shouldn't be. But she never had a good example as a child. Certainly not Aunt Esmeralda, either, who seemed to value her fur coats and cigarettes more than her children.

As much as she is loathe to admit, sometimes, when she looks in the mirror, she sees her mother reflected back at her. Cold, jaded, maybe even sometimes a little cruel. Another thing she hates to admit: it terrifies her. She doesn't want her child to grow up the way she did, always striving so hard for her parents' love and attention and never feeling like she earned it. If she had, they would have loved her more.

But love was not something to be earned. Her parents had it all wrong. It was supposed to be unconditional, unwavering. Something she was never given until Mackenzie.

He rushes her to the hospital, cutting their conversation about Jacinta's father short. Maybe it was for the best, really — Jacinta was already starting to feel nauseous after telling him my father is a mafia boss and oh, by the way, he's killed a lot of people and now, at least, he would have time to process it. Later. Alone. Maybe tomorrow.

Mackenzie stays with her through the entire thing. She's gripping his hand so hard when their baby is born that her knuckles are pale with pressure and her nails are digging into his wrist. Jacinta only lets go to hold her for the first time.

Her.

Violet.

They had kept the gender a secret, but Jacinta had known from the moment they decided to go through with the pregnancy that if it was a girl, she would name her Violet. For her sister, who died years ago now, but somehow it still feels like yesterday.

She's unbelievably tiny, with thin curls of dark hair, olive skin, and copper-brown eyes. Violet is still whining when Jacinta holds her. Tears burst into Jacinta's eyes and she can't help but smile at the little girl in her arms. Her daughter — hers, and Mackenzie's.

"Do you want to hold her?" Her voice is weak, tired, but still cheerful. Jacinta doesn't need to him answer; she was uncertain about motherhood at first, but she knows that from the beginning, Mackenzie wanted this.

And when she gives her to Mackenzie, watches him hold her, she forgets everything she was afraid of. The Games, her family, herself, them — none of it matters. Only their daughter does.

That night, they took her home and she slept in Jacinta's arms the whole way there. She was swathed in a purple blanket, violet like her name.

It was like the whole world was quiet. The only sound outside was the soft chirping of crickets and warm August breeze blowing against the windchimes. But the peace didn't last long; Violet woke up several times in the night, and so she and Mackenzie gave up on sleeping. They made coffee and stayed in the living room, tending to Violet when she cried every hour or so.

Jacinta didn't mind. Sleep was a small sacrifice to make for her daughter.

And from the moment Violet was born, Jacinta knew that there was nothing she wouldn't do for her. She never understood what it was to be a mother before, but she does now. From the first breath Violet ever took, she understood.