Any criticism you have would be nice, I would like to hear what you think! But I'm not going to turn into a whiny author who begs for reviews all the time. I intend to continue posting no matter what, so there!

Tali does indeed have a part in Mossad, mostly because her siblings are not always there to protect her.

I realized I briefly mentioned Michael in the last chapter, he'll come back up later :)

*flashback*

My mother had kind eyes. They were lighter that most people's from our region. I know that much, but little else. I awoke to her sparkling eyes every morning as she coaxed me out of bed and every night she read to me until I closed my own.

The only memories I have of her are fond ones. She comforted me when I had nightmares; she kissed my cuts and bruises and tucked me in at night. All that ended when I was about six, when she died.

Before that, my father had requested for her to stop babying me.

"Rachael, how will she ever grow up?"

"Tali is not your son." She replied angrily.

I know for a fact she did not resent Ari in the least bit. Ari as well had only positive memories of her; she had been his mother long before mine or Ziva's. My parents met on a military base. After her time in the IDF my mother set out to be a teacher, two years of adventure and danger had been enough for her. She had been shot 3 times at one point, the bullets had pierced her lungs and she never fully recovered. (No one ever informed me of the exact circumstances.) She was looking forward to a life as a science teacher on the base.

They passed each other often, walking to their respective buildings until they were introduced through a mutual friend. My father promised her a quiet life with her own house and precious children, but at that point she didn't know he already came with one.

She should have known marrying an agent from a top secret intelligence agency would take its toll on her no matter what kind of protection my father put in place. Constantly looking over your shoulder, rarely sleeping, and always worrying were a full time job for her. On top of that she was never told where her husband was going, or for how long he would be gone. She was resilient and for the most part, alone.

My mother was good at relocating. Her sister Netanya was always willing to take us in. My Aunt Nettie, who had worked for the IDF for much longer that what was required of her, had a reputation for being a hard ass. I could never see how this was, asides from the scars across her face. (She told me were from an IED and a knife fight with a mess cook over the jello being the wrong color, or another equally odd reason). To me she was always sweet Aunt Nettie.

She saw right through my father though, and somewhat affectionately referred to him as a "smarmy little goat". My mother would hush her and give her something to stir while she baked. In hindsight, my mother should have known there was nothing peaceful about the life of a Mossad officer's wife. And I'm sure she realized it while on her death bed, leaving her young children so soon with her husband nowhere to be found. I am glad she did not live to see what became of us.

At least he showed up to her funeral. Nettie slapped him across the face anyway. I'm pretty sure there was yelling involved and the word bastard. I don't know; I was 6.

I vividly remember watching my father during the memorial service. Ziva stared somberly at the floor, her fingers clenched tightly on the chair in front of her. Nettie had an arm around each of us, reaching around every so often to wipe a tear and squeeze my shoulder. But my father barely moved a muscle. I seriously doubted he had a botox appointment that morning, but yes his face remained listless, wiped of all emotion. I still wonder if he was simply beyond grief at that point, or if there truly were no thoughts and emotions floating around in his mind. Maybe he went to work the next day because it kept him busy, it was his routine, and it was normal- surely going to work was better than grief or guilt.

Yet I stood there in the synagogue sobbing, my six-year-old brain pondering if he ever really cared about her, causing my sobs to increase and Nettie to bury my face in her bulky jacket.

He received all condolences insensately, only doing what was required of him. He didn't allow eulogies.

Even Ari came to pay his respects, comforting both Ziva and I the best he could under the scrutinizing gaze of Eli. All three of us had a sleepover that night in the guest room's king sized bed. I woke up crying, but Ari was already awake.

"Please don't cry, Tali. If you are sad, who will be there to cheer me up?" I sniffled as he tucked me under his arm. "I miss your mother as well." He whispered. I could barely hear him over Ziva's snoring. "You should get back to sleep, it is very late." I ducked out from under his protective arm and moved over. "How long will you be here?" I asked quietly. He sighed and moved next to me.

"I will most likely be gone by tomorrow."

I grasped his hand tightly and asked: "Are things going to change now?"

I had barely noticed the pause in Ziva's snoring before she replied: "Yes, things are going to change."

After a week or so the family dispersed, I never saw Aunt Nettie again. I took to making pies on my own then, remembering everything my mother had taught me the summer before she died. No matter how you look at it, there is no deciding factor that indicates how exactly my father felt that day. Sometimes I wonder if he bothered to show up to my funeral.