Night falls just as the train pulls into the Haifa station, the sun dropping below the horizon and tugging a blanket of dark blue behind it. She watches from the window and realizes she can feel it—the day drawing to a close. The sun sets and Ziva… Settles.

She exhales and her chest deflates under her son's head. He fidgetes in his sleep, little 'o'-shaped mouth opening, closing. He will be hungry when he wakes.

Ari is there instead of Nettie to pick her up. He stands beside her aunt's old car, dark eyes searching for something—anything—that was not there this morning.

"We are alright," she promises. "Safe and sound." Her knife, a precaution that thankfully was unnecessary, still sits in its sheath on the opposite hip as her son.

He studies her for a moment more, the darnening sky tinting his face purple. "You're sure?"

"I am positive," she assures him, opening the back door and securing Ethan's car seat before getting in the passenger seat herself. "We are only tired."

Ari smirks as he starts the engine. "Looks like the little one's already passed out."

"I would be too, if I were him."

He does not ask more about Be'er Sheva, and she does not tell. She is grateful, for she has never liked to share these things with her brother. Still, it is a silent drive, but not uncomfortable. The air between them sits at equilibrium.

Gravel crunches under the tires as they pull up to the house. A few lights are on—the kitchen, the living room. Still, it is quiet, but for the faint sound of the sea. An easy tranquility.

Tali and Nettie are there to greet her at the door, and they eye her as Ari did. She fidgets under scrutiny but allows them to see for themselves what she will soon tell them, as she always does—

"I am fine. We… are fine." She delivers it with a soft smile and truthful eyes. So many times she has said those words, and so many in a lie. But there is no falsehood here, on this night, in this peaceful home by the sea. Ethan makes a noise in his sleep to punctuate her promise.

"I saved you some dinner," Nettie tells her. "Have you eaten?"

"No," she admits. "I will go put him down first."

She carries him through the living room, down a dark hallway, into the room that she and Tali have always shared during their visits. Now, a crib sits in the corner—Ari had found it in the shed out back, stored along with many other possessions of the Davids that they'd been unable to find a place for in the Tel Aviv apartment. There were boxes and boxes labeled Rivka. Some got more specific, saying things like "china" or "lampshades." But it was the boxes labeled "baby" that she'd gravitated towards. Inside she found onesie after onesie, patterned with all colors of little ducks and flowers and music notes. There were mobiles and toys and bottles and a breast pump. And oh, the shoes… Worn and tiny, some Ethan's size and some bigger. Nineteen years ago, her feet were small enough to wear them, too. Rivka had slipped them over equally tiny socks and fastened them as Ziva now fastened her son's. She wished, suddenly and achingly, for her mother's guidance.

Ethan's thumb pops out of his mouth as Ziva places him into the crib that had once been hers. He stretches out, legs extending and toes curling. Still, his eyes remain shut and his breathing even. She presses a kiss to his crown and runs her fingers over his soft, dark hair.

Hers. Completely and utterly hers.

She swallows and returns to Nettie in the kitchen. The sight of the older woman makes her shoulders relax, her stomach settle.

"Chicken and rice," her aunt tells her, pulling the plate from the dusty microwave.

"Sounds great." Ziva sits, realizing as the smell of food wafts under her nose just how hungry she is. With everything that happened, she had not given a thought to eating today.

"So American," Nettie clucks, "where are your manners, Zivaleh?"

Despite being reprimanded, Ziva feels herself smile. "Toda, Aunt Nettie."

Tali enters from the dining room, sticking her head around the corner. "Ethan's asleep?"

"Yes," Ziva answers between bites. Tali sinks into the seat across from her, eyes never leaving her sister. Continuing to search, for what Ziva had no idea. "Tali?"

"Hmm?" she answers, blinking.

"You are staring."

"Sorry."

Nettie interrupts by placing a glass of water in front of her oldest niece. "Drink. You are dehydrated."

"I am—"

"Drink."

She downs the rest of her meal and the glass of water and feels almost instantly the fatigue set in her bones. She wants nothing more than to join her son.

"I am coming, too," Tali tells her, and after kissing their aunt goodnight they head together to their room. They change into pajamas and slide into bed, lying beside one another in the dark. Ziva wonders, as she sometimes does, if after all these years she will ever be able to sleep soundly without her sister by her side.

Sleep claims her swiftly, the day's spectrum of emotions melting into exhaustion that pulled, pulled. It is a peaceful sleep, a heavy sleep—the sleep of a woman delivered.


A mother, even asleep, recognizes her child's cries. Just as she predicted, he wakes hungry and cranky in the middle of the night. She carries him to the living room to not disturb his aunt and quiets his cries with her breast. He accepts it eagerly, and they sit together on the moonlit couch as her body nourishes his—an ancient, precious connection that always seems to leave her awestruck. His little fists knead her chest as he eats and eats and eats; she runs her hand over his brow, the skin there as soft and sweet-smelling as the rest of him.

When he finishes, he fusses. She holds him against her shoulder and pats his back to burp him, walking and bouncing around the room until does. Even then, however, he is not pacified, and she feels herself becoming desperate.

Not knowing what else to do, she slips on a pair of sandals and heads out the back door into the fresh night air. Down from the porch, across the expanse of tall grass, to the edge of the rocky cliff that slopes gently down to the sand. Though she has climbed down it countless times in her life, she does not attempt that now, not at night and not with her son in her arms. Instead, she stands at the edge and looks out, listening and watching as the waves lap onto the shore. Everything she sees, she sees by pale purple moonlight. The little house behind her is dark and asleep; it is only she and Ethan looking up at the stars and out at the sea.

Ethan has begun to quiet. Perhaps it is the salty breeze, perhaps the lullaby of crashing waves, perhaps the twinkling stars. And though he has fallen still on her shoulder, her goal accomplished, she does not turn back toward the house. There is something about the sea that captures her, roots her to the spot. It is beautiful and peaceful, and yet it churns below her, black as ink. And though she knows it to be the clear blue waves that she played in as a child, as familiar as anything in the daytime, she can't help but shrink slightly from it now. Things always look different in the dark.

Her future lies over that sea, over the ocean that lies beyond it, in the capital city of a country that, until less than a year ago, she knew only from pictures. It is not her homeland and yet it feels like home in a way that Tel Aviv no longer can. She loves the land of her birth, loves it as a child loves her parents. This was the country that raised her, that shaped her—the Haifa ranch, the Tel Aviv apartment, her late grandmother's home in Jerusalem and even the warehouse in Be'er Sheva. She carries Israel with her— in her long fingers so skilled at picking oranges, her toes that feel at home in the sand; in her olive-toned skin and her wavy, saltwater hair; in her Jewish soul and her calloused hands and feet… In the long, red scars that mar her back and speak of what was sacrificed, but also what was saved… hundreds of men, women, and children that didn't die in a shopping mall on a Wednesday afternoon.

She loves her homeland, but America calls to her in a different way—an aching way, a pulsing way, a living way.

And oh, she realizes suddenly, does she miss Tony.

She no longer feels the same sort of anxiety when she thinks of him. Their conversation, the inevitable one that had been due to him so long ago, does not loom over her as it had just twenty-four hours earlier. It is remarkable the difference a day can make—how sights such as an abandoned warehouse and a long-lost friend can make everything feel so… resolved. With past finally conquered and laid to rest it is much easier to look to the future, and to what waits for her in DC.

As she considers this, though, a different kind of fear begins to creep up behind her. It infiltrates slowly, methodically, and unstoppably. It sets her stomach churning like the ink-black sea before her, and she holds her son tighter.

Without the lingering veil of her past to obscure her vision, she can now gaze straight toward the future that awaits her. And she finds something totally unprecedented—complete freedom. There is no Eli to dictate, or at least strongly influence, the path of her future any longer. For so long her choices had been driven by his orders and expectations, whether she be obeying or defying. But her life now moves forward with whatever direction she chooses to give it. She can live however she wants, with whomever she wants, for whomever she wants… She can raise her son however she wants, to be whomever she wants… But then, of course, is the inevitable roadblock:

What does she want?

And oh, had she ever been asked that question before in her life?

This next chapter of her life is wide open. Unwritten, uninfluenced… just waiting. And it is this uncertainty—this blind terror—that begins to send her thoughts into a tailspin.

Her panic is interrupted, thankfully, by the faint illumination of the rocks from a light somewhere behind her. The porch light, Ziva assumes, as she hears someone descend the three wooden steps and make their way toward her through the tall, swishing grass. She knows who it is instinctually.

"You should be sleeping," Ziva reprimands softly as her little sister approaches from behind.

"So should you," Tali throws back, stopping at the edge of the cliff next to the young mother.

"Ethan was fussing."

"He seems to have quieted."

Ziva heaves a sigh. "I… suppose I needed a moment."

For a moment there is silence but for the crashing waves. "There is something… calming about this," Tali agrees. "Therapeutic, almost."

Ziva inhales deeply the fresh sea air, and nostalgia along with it. "We used to play here all the time, on that beach. Do you remember, Tali?"

"Yes," she nods. "We would draw pictures in the sand, sometimes. You liked to splash water on me when I didn't want to get wet."

Ziva feels a smile tugging at her lips. "And you would throw sand at me, yes?"

"It doesn't seem so long ago to me," Tali muses. To Ziva, that is a strange notion, because for her their summers at this house seemed lifetimes in the past.

There is another interlude of just the lapping sea as the remembrances are carried away on a salty breeze. The two sisters stand side by side on the rocky edge, and allow the silence for a few minutes.

"You are staring again," Ziva comments, able to feel her sister's gaze.

"I was just…" Out of the corner of her eye, Ziva sees Tali shrug. "Trying to make sure you are okay."

Ziva frowns, turning to her little sister. "You can always ask me."

Tali blinks. "I figured I could learn more from your face, since you haven't been… talking to me much, lately."

The frown becomes more pronounced, hinting on concern. "I haven't?"

"Not really, no," Tali admits somewhat shyly. "Not since Abba's funeral." Her tone is one to break her sister's heart.

"Oh, Tali, I did not realize… I am sorry," Ziva whispers, eyes shining with apology. "I have been…preoccupied lately. There are things that I am trying to sort through, in my head." She reaches out with a free hand and runs her fingers through Tali's sleep-disheveled hair. "I forget sometimes that you are dealing with things, too." How many times must she abandon her sister in her time of need? What she was doing now was not much better than what she had done in the wake of their mother's death.

"I am okay," Tali promises. "I have been talking to Aunt Nettie."

"I want you to be able to talk to me, too." And oh, she thought she'd been rid of this guilt.

"I can. You've just had a lot to deal with, but you're working on it. It's why you took that trip today, isn't it?"

"Yes." The distinct notion that she does not deserve her little sister attaches to her heart.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

Did she? She does not have to think very long. "Yes." The feeling of resolution that now pervades her psyche is proof enough. There is a clear separation between what lies ahead and what lies behind that was not there this morning.

"What happened today, Zivi? You still haven't told anyone."

"What is there to tell?"

Tali heaves a sigh. "You're always so stubborn." Your father's daughter, Ziva remembers her mother always telling her. Like mules, both of you.

"It is not the job of a little sister to hear these things," she insists. "You do not need to worry about it."

"Why?" Tali pushes. "Why can't I know? Why do you never tell me about these things?"

Ziva swallows and repeats herself, "You do not need to worry, Talileh."

"But I am your sister—"

"You are a child!" Ziva interrupts, her voice an octave higher but still careful not to wake the baby asleep on her shoulder. "I am protecting you from this."

This time, when silence falls, it is charged with a conversation that should have been had long ago. Tali bristles, lips pressed into a straight line.

"When I was ten years old my mother was killed," she begins, arms folded across her chest. "My sister died in a plane crash a week later. I was diagnosed as clinically depressed and on antidepressants for a year. Two and a half years later, my sister shows up alive, telling me my father lied to me about her death. I was given a new name, moved to another continent."

"Tali…" Ziva whispers, pleading. But it is not finished.

"Then my father shows up and then he's murdered and I'm being shot at while trying to calm my infant nephew and stop a man I've come to love like a big brother from bleeding out under my hands." Word after word tumbles from her mouth. She sucks in a deep breath. "And then I watch my sister kill a man."

The last sentence takes every ounce of air from Ziva lungs in a whoosh. She looks down at her little sister with pained eyes, an open mouth, and no words to respond.

"I know you want to protect me," Tali continues, gently taking Ziva's hand that lies limp at her side. "But you don't need to."

Ziva takes a shaky breath. "I have already failed at protecting you, Tali. But I thought if I could just… this one thing…"

"You haven't failed. I'm here, aren't I?"

She shakes her head, "Everything you just listed—"

"Has matured me."

"It has scarred you."

Tali shrugs. "Maybe. But you know as well as anyone that sometimes the things we learn are more important."

The waves crash against the shore and Ziva squeezes her sister's hand, saying, "You are too wise for your age, hmm?" She hopes the darkness shields from view the moisture in her eyes.

"I get that from you."

A small, watery smile appears on her lips, and she glances down at her sister. "I never meant to… shelter you, so much. You are right, Tali, you deserve not to be kept in the dark."

Tali's voice is a whisper. "Thank you."

"As for what happened today…" she shrugs, "It is not all that interesting. I went back to the warehouse, the one I was in all those years."

Her little sister's face has lit up in a mixture of excitement and concern. "What was there?"

"It was abandoned. Crumbling roof, rusting walls, completely overgrown with weeds… Nothing inside." Saying it like this makes the whole encounter sound so inconsequential, but she could not convey the true emotional weight of that moment if she tried.

"And that was it?"

"Yes."

Her sister raises an eyebrow. "You were gone all day. What did you do the rest of the time?" She is observant and bent on answers, disliking being kept in the dark. Tali, it seems, is her father's daughter as well.

"I… went to visit an old friend."

"From the warehouse? You never mentioned any friends."

Ziva bristles. "I know." When Tali makes no reply, she continues, "Her name is Lila. She left before I did… I did not think I would ever see her again."

"Is she doing okay?"

Ziva begins to relax, slightly. There is really no harm in telling this story, she supposes. "She is great. She went through rehab, is back in school… I am proud of her."

"Are you going to keep in touch?"

Ziva's eyes are smiling as she thinks of her friend. How terribly the odds had been stacked against the both of them—the two girls sitting side by side on a lumpy, grey mattress would never have believed that they would both, in a few years' time, be happy and healthy and free. And yet…

"We exchanged email addresses."

"I'm glad." Tali shifts sideways, her head resting softly against Ziva's shoulder. She lifts her free hand and runs a finger down Ethan's spine. "You seem peaceful, Ziva. Peaceful like you haven't been in a long time."

"I have a lot to be grateful for."

It is a breath of a statement, barely audible, spoken perhaps to the sea more than her little sister—a simple truth, the simple truth. Through the churning uncertainty this one fact stands still and undeniable.

The sea claims her words and calms.

"It is late, Tali. We should get some sleep."

Tali pulls back and smirks. "So late it's almost early."

The long blades of grass sway with the sea breeze and tickle their legs as they make from the edge of the rocks to the illuminated porch. The sound of the waves grows fainter with every step but she knows from so many summer nights that if she listens hard enough, even from inside the house, she can hear them lapping up onto the sand. The wood creaks beneath their feet as they mount the steps, and under their fingers as they pull back the old screen door. Tali enters first and flicks off the porch light but Ziva lingers, for a moment, looking back out toward the sea. Her shoulders relax as her eyes fall to the horizon—a black sea and a black sky, but look closer where they meet and see the spreading spot of lightening blue… A smile, one of many that night, tugs on her lips. She holds Ethan tight to her breast and takes a deep breath.

Sunrise.


The next four days are the closest Ziva will ever get to the summers of her childhood. Fortune has smiled on them, it seems, and delivered beautiful weather—clear skies, shining sun, a light ocean breeze. The days are slow and unhurried, characterized by the lethargy of summertime.

They all, even Ari, become victims to nostalgia. They play almost as children—Ziva tells herself it is for Ethan's sake, but she enjoys it as she had when she was young and innocent. The water is warm in the end of July, and the salt lingers on her tongue and in her hair.

Tali even convinces them to have a lunchtime picnic one day. It is high tide so they spread the blanket out where the two sisters had stood for so long a few nights before, in the grass at the edge of the rocks. They have sandwiches and fresh orange juice and little cups of ice cream, just as they had on so many childhood afternoons. The only things missing are her uncle's Arabian horses, his passion, which used to live in the property's stables about a half-mile inland when he was still alive and could tend to them. She wished her uncle were here to see them now, all grown, and she with a child of her own. She thinks of how it was when she was a child—the carefree days, skin darkened from the sun and red from the salty breeze, branches under her feet and oranges in the palms of her hands. There always seemed to be food to eat and games to play and causes for high-pitched laughter.

And everything is different, now… But everything is good.

On the last night before returning to Tel Aviv to catch their flight home, Ziva retreats to the bedroom to pack her bag. She brought very little, so it should not take long, but when she begins packing Ethan's bag she falters. Fingers run over the soft, but still new, material of his onesies and her mind drifts out the back door, into the shed with the box labeled Rivka and, beneath, baby. She barely notices that her feet have begun to follow, and soon she finds herself pulling open brown flaps and staring down at what had been hers. It is almost not that she wants to reclaim it—rather, it wants to reclaim her.

She carries the box back to her room and to her surprise finds Nettie there waiting for her.

"Looting my shed, are you Zivaleh?"

"I…"

"Relax, it is yours to take," Nettie assures her with a smile, patting the spot next to her on the bed for Ziva to set down the box. She does as her aunt suggests.

"They are softer than the ones I buy for Ethan," Ziva justifies, pulling out a light yellow onesie patterned with rubber ducks.

"I remember when you were this small," Nettie comments, pulling out another tiny garment. "You had a head of hair just like Ethan's. Well, perhaps yours was a bit curlier." A wistful smile paints her lips, and Ziva remembers suddenly something her mother had mentioned about her sister and fertility issues. How many times had Nettie wished for what Ziva had been given so unexpectedly?

"How did my mother know what to do?" the young woman wonders, eyes still glued to the yellow fabric in her hands. She feels that fear from last night creeping up from behind her again.

"When she had you, you mean?"

Ziva nods.

"Well, she had a lot of help from me," Nettie admits. "I practically raised your mother; I was fifteen years old when Rivka was born. So I had a lot of experience when you came along."

Ziva bites the inside of her lip, blinking. "Did she struggle at all?"

"With raising you?" Nettie's laugh is lighthearted. "Ziva, you were an angel of a baby."

"I do not mean that." Her hair falls forward from behind her ear, forming a curtain that she does not push back. Nettie's hand comes to rest softly between her shoulder blades.

"What do you mean, then?"

"Did she struggle with the… the responsibility?"

Nettie's concerned frown is almost audible. "I think every new mother does, to some extent. But Ziva, you're no stranger to responsibility."

Ziva bunches the soft fabric in her fist and gives a shaky exhale. "This feels different," she admits.

"Different how?" Let me help you, is the silent plea. Ziva takes a deep breath and pushes her hair behind her ear, finally glancing up to meet Nettie's eyes. She can see her own fear reflected in them.

"My future is mine, now," she tries to explain. "I have a new life in America, a clean slate. How… how do I even begin to know what to do with that?"

"You know what you want," Nettie reminds her, "you told me it yourself, last week."

"Yes, but how? How do I…?" Her voice is choked by a lump in her throat, and Nettie's hand at her back begins to rub calming circles.

"You are overwhelmed, Zivaleh," comes the motherly voice, "and you are afraid."

It is all Ziva can do to nod. She forces herself to keep her eyes open, for she knows that if she shuts them the tears will come. She could, perhaps, pin this on post-pregnancy hormones, which her doctor did tell her would take a number of weeks to go away… But something tells her this is more than that.

"I do not know how to do this," Ziva confesses in a near-whisper, "to live my own life. Especially not… with a child… and with Tony…" She quiets; she does not trust her voice.

"You are a good mother, and a wise young woman. You can do this."

Ziva swallows. "I do not want to leave you."

The motion of Nettie's hand on her back slows, slightly. "I am afraid you are using me as a crutch. I do not want to impede your growth, Ziva."

"You are not," the young mother promises. "I just… I miss having this, yes?"

Nettie's hand are coaxing now, telling her to sit down on the bed. The two women move the box and let the mattress depress beneath their weight.

"Ziva…" Nettie's hands displace the bunched up yellow onesie in Ziva's fists, which slowly begin to relax. "It has been a long time since you've had an adult you could lean on… a parent that you could turn to for guidance."

Ziva's head is still bowed, eyes closed and lips pressed tight. She nods slightly at her aunt's words.

"You're going through incredible changes in your life, while trying to deal with incredible suffering. You're raising a child and a sister." Nettie's thumb rubs back and forth over the back of Ziva's hand. "Can I ask you a question, Zivaleh?"

Ziva swallows. "Of course."

"How would you feel about me moving to DC?"

Almost instantaneously, the words fill her lungs with air and possibility. Her eyes snap open and she looks up, searching Nettie's face for any sign that she was joking because no that cannot be right I must have heard wrong. Her next word is barely a breath, not daring to question too loudly… "What?"

"I have been thinking about moving to DC," Nettie admits, and Ziva can see there is no joke. "You need me there."

She's breathless, suddenly, but she needs to reply needs to reply, "You would… you would do that, for me?" Her voice is a mixture of doubt and awe and hope. "You would leave Israel, this ranch?"

"Zivaleh, I love Israel. It is my homeland. But my home… it is with the people I love. I think you understand that best of all," Nettie reminds her. "There is nothing left for me here anymore. I want to watch Ethan grow, watch Tali graduate high school, and watch you… blossom." Her smile is soft and her laughter lines pronounced. "After all these years… you deserve to have someone who will love you and guide you."

"I…" There is something heavy in Ziva's chest, "I do not know what to say."

"Just yes or no."

"Yes," she answers without hesitation, and she doesn't know who reaches first but soon she's in Nettie's arms and there are tears but she doesn't try to stop them. Tangible relief, they soak into her aunt's shirt and leave darkened splotches. Their embrace is tight and Ziva feels that fear that liked to creep up from behind retreat almost instantly. The uncertainty is not gone, but oh, just knowing she will have somewhere to turn is a panacea for fear.

"It would not be immediately, of course. There's paperwork to do and arrangements to be made and things to pack. I'll sell my apartment in Tel Aviv first, too. But I'm serious about this, Ziva."

"Thank you," Ziva whispers into her shoulder. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Nettie presses a kiss to the top of Ziva's head. "Now you finish up packing, we need to leave early tomorrow if we're to get everything from the apartment and have you on that plane on time."

"Yes, Doda."

And even once Nettie's arms are gone, Ziva can still feel them holding her.


The house at Haifa grows smaller in the rearview mirror, until finally it disappears. So many summers she had seen that very thing and been filled with sadness, but now she looks forward to what comes next. They will be back here eventually, she knows, but now it is time to return home.

They stop by the packed-up apartment to grab a few bags on the way to the airport. There are two suitcases, all they could bring aboard the airplane, stuffed completely with things they hadn't been able to take to America the first time. For Ziva, it is not much: some pairs of clothes, two boxes of pictures, her stuffed rabbit Nevi, and some miscellaneous items. Tali packs more and Ari almost nothing. The rest is boxed and labeled for either storage at the Haifa house or donation, which Nettie will handle.

"We are leaving so much for you to take care of," Ari worries as they lug the two suitcases down the stairs and to the car.

"Oh, hardly. I'm happy to do it."

Ziva has never considered herself to be overly sentimental, but it is hard to close the doors on the apartment that had been home for so long. She takes a last look at her room, the kitchen, her father's office where he'd delivered such fateful orders. Everything has changed since the days when she chased her brother and sister down these halls.

When they leave for the last time and lock the door behind them, it is bittersweet.

The goodbye at the airport is much easier with the knowledge that they will see their aunt again soon. Ziva had told Tali the news as they got ready for bed the night before, and she had been perhaps the one with the most vocal response. She still, it seems, is just as excited as she was last night, and Ziva cannot blame her.

"We will see you soon, yes?" Ziva says after hugging her aunt goodbye.

"Yes, and you have my phone number, if you need anything." She hands them the last of their bags, and waves, "Now go on, you'll miss your flight!"

"Love you Aunt Nettie!" Tali yells, even as they walk away.

And, hours later, the David family finds themselves on a plane on a runway; it accelerates, accelerates, and soon they are in the sky.

Heading Westward. Heading home.


A/N: I'm sorry this took so long—I've had a hectic summer up until now. Thank you so much to my reviewers, shortcake99, athenajutiva, nevergiveuphope2, amaia, adelina-elise, dvd123, prince-bishop, woman, Slurmina, eowyngoldberry, Roxy, ChEmMiE, athenalarissa, theroseshadow21, J09tiva, VG littlebear, Dana, Mecha, mysticgirl101, tivadivalover, lavender angel-96, silvermist, two guests, and of course the lovely Tatiana, whose support and guidance and amazing writing sense have made this possible. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Allison