A/N: Hello again! Here's chapter three; you can expect chapter four on November 12th. Happy reading, and as always, thanks for joining me on this journey! — xoxo, Clara
It's just past 0200 when something sharply pulls Ziva from her sleep, and she jolts awake, fingers fumbling for a weapon that isn't there anymore.
It only takes her half of a second to recall why her gun is not in its usual spot beneath her pillow; even as she remembers, though, she realizes what woke her up. There are soft noises of distress coming from elsewhere in the apartment, and Ziva recognizes the sounds for what they are: the whimperings of a child stuck in the horrors of a bad dream.
Eitan.
Sighing and rising from her bed, Ziva strides purposefully towards the small room that now belongs to Liora's son. He's probably fine, but she's concerned about him. If there is one thing I can understand, she thinks with a small amount of bitterness, it is the awful feeling of being trapped inside your own mind.
After all, she knows the confinement of a nightmare all too well... She has had more than her fair share of them over the years.
When she opens Eitan's door, she sees him curled tightly in on himself; he's against the wall, looking as though he is subconsciously trying to take up as little space as possible. He isn't exactly talking, but he's making nearly continuous soft sounds of discontent. His small features are twitching, too.
Unsure if she's handling this correctly but equally unsure of what else she can do, Ziva crosses the room to kneel by the bed. "Eitan," she calls gently, reaching out to grab his shoulder.
He shrugs away from her hand but doesn't wake.
"Eitan, open your eyes, please. It will all be alright, I promise, but you must wake up first."
The rhythm of his breathing seems to change—Ziva suspects that he's nearly conscious. "That is it," she murmurs soothingly. "Come now, open your eyes."
Finally, he does, and he blinks blearily at her. Unlike when he woke to find himself being moved to the bed a few hours ago, there's no recognition in his expression now... and his unease only seems to increase. He attempts to shy away, but there's nowhere to go.
Ziva keeps her distance for now.
"My name is Ziva," she reminds him, gentle. "You are staying with me for a little while. Do you remember that? We met yesterday."
Eitan doesn't answer, but he abruptly bursts into tears.
"Oh, little one," Ziva sighs sympathetically, her voice weighted down by borrowed grief, and she moves to sit on the bed next to him. "You really have not had an easy year, have you?"
Eitan still doesn't respond and he doesn't stop crying, but when Ziva holds out her hands to him, he slowly unfolds himself and climbs into her lap. Maybe he now remembers who she is; maybe he only needs some comfort. His sorrow feels a little too familiar, though, and Ziva is acting on instinct alone as she gathers him into her embrace and slowly rocks him back and forth.
It takes a while, but he calms some. Eventually, he speaks, too, mumbling a single cheerless word that Ziva can't make out.
"What did you say, Eitan?"
He repeats himself, but with his low and sleep-slurred, the word still isn't recognizable.
When he tries for the third time, Ziva finally deciphers what he's saying—tchelet, the Hebrew term for the color light blue.
"Tchelet?" Ziva echoes, stymied. "Tchelet what?"
Eitan only recites the word again, this time with more urgency and desolation. Ziva is entirely lost… at least until she sees his small hands opening and closing over and over again, aching to hold something that isn't there.
It's only then that she remembers an otherwise insignificant detail from earlier in the evening: the boy had been carrying a small blue stuffed bear when Zohara situated him in the back seat of Ziva's car. "Is Tchelet the name of your bear?" she guesses.
"Yes!" the four-year-old manages to reply through his tears.
Well, that's one mystery solved, but they still have a problem—the bear is almost certainly still in the back seat of Ziva's Mini Cooper.
She tries to explain this to the little boy in her lap, but it doesn't go over well. "Tchelet is outside right now—can we wait until the morning to go out and get him?" The question is met with dismay, and Eitan's muted sobs start to escalate in the direction of full-blown wailing.
Ziva wavers momentarily—can he be left alone in her apartment for the five minutes it would take for her to rush down to the street and then return to him? Surely not... right? There are no truly good options before her, though; she can hardly take him with her to the car. He'd undoubtedly wake the entire street, because he's getting louder every second.
It's so hard to think past the noise and her own rising sense of agitation.
"Shush, bubeleh," she pleads, rubbing his back as his small frame shakes with sobs; the pet name comes out automatically. "We will get your bear, I promise, but you must calm yourself first."
If Eitan hears her at all, he doesn't react to what she's saying.
Ziva decides that there's nothing to be done for it… she's just going to have to take him to the car with her. Mentally apologizing to the entire block, she scoops him up and advances to the entryway. There, she dons ballet flats that she can simply slide into since her hands are full, and she and Eitan hurry out the door.
By the time they reach the car, though, the little boy has worked himself into hysteria, and he's bawling so loudly that Ziva's ears have begun to throb. With difficulty, she unlocks and opens one of the car doors and attempts to free her hands by setting Eitan down in the nearest seat... but he refuses to detangle his fingers from where they grip her shirt, and at some point, she has to admit defeat.
The harrowing search that follows probably only lasts for half a minute, but it seems to go on for hours as Ziva's and Eitan's stress levels rise sharply. Then, at long last, the bear is unearthed from beneath the passenger seat… but success hardly seems to matter, because the damage is already done.
Ziva, well past the point of simply being careworn, is now in tears, too.
She's just… overwhelmed.
Feeling hopelessly inadequate, she re-locks the car and gracelessly carries Eitan back into the building—this time, there's no obliging neighbor around to help them through the front door, not now that it's 0215. Maybe that's for the best, however, because though Eitan has quieted, Ziva can't seem to rein in her own emotions.
No one should see her like this, frazzled and weepy and struck by a growing conviction that she just isn't cut out for parenthood.
That notion is reinforced by Eitan again refusing to let her go when she tries to return him to his bed, and she gives up completely, letting him win. It's just not worth the fight—and she doesn't have much fight left in her tonight, anyway.
Instead, she carries him to her own room, maintaining her hold on him as she flicks the lights off with her elbow and climbs under the quilt. She's exhausted, beaten down… tomorrow, she'll rally, but tonight, it's all she can do to snuggle Eitan against her chest as he falls asleep.
She's awake for a long time after he drifts off, though, wondering how the hell she's going to take care of him indefinitely when half of a single night has almost completely demoralized her.
Ziva and Eitan both sleep in until late in the morning the next day—well, later the same day, rather. They're both worn out after the intense, draining events of last night.
Once they're up for the day, Ziva begins to do something that she has rarely if ever done in her life—procrastinate.
She knows that she needs to tell Eitan about Liora and Noam, but how can she, when she feels so emotionally defeated? This is a task that will require great sensitivity and empathy, things that currently feel beyond her capabilities.
Instead, she focuses on following Eitan's daily routine and committing it to memory. After all, for the foreseeable future, most of it will need to become her routine, too.
On his part, Eitan seems to have woken up in a much better mood than he was in last night before falling asleep, and he's fairly cheery as they go about their late morning and afternoon. Ziva cautiously starts a simple conversation, careful to avoid any too-emotional topics, and she discovers something rather quickly…
Eitan likes to talk.
Her first question is only about whether or not he likes to swim—it turns out that the answer is an emphatic yes—but he needs little more prompting or input from Ziva after that to carry the conversation single-handedly. After talking himself out on the subject of swimming, he moves on to speaking at length about the beach in general, then switches to sharing every fact he knows about the ocean and every creature therein, a thesis which melts into the telling of a story about a pod of dolphins he saw during a vacation to Eilat, which becomes a long treatise concerning every vacation he's ever been on…
It's endless.
Ziva listens with an astonishment that eventually turns to half-reluctant amusement.
She can see now that having Eitan underfoot will be like living with a miniature Tony. Will she ever be allowed a quiet moment to think again? Maybe not—not at work, and certainly not at home, it seems.
Still, Eitan's directionless chatter serves a purpose for Ziva, too: as long as he's filling the silence, she doesn't have to think too deeply about the conversation that they should be having.
That changes, though, when Eitan suddenly pauses partway through a tale about camping with his parents in Mitzpe Ramon.
"What is it?" Ziva prompts, watching his mouth turn down into a solemn frown.
"I want to help Abba put up a tent again."
Ziva sighs. "Eitan—"
"Maybe we can do it when I go home," Eitan thinks aloud, the idea making his expression brighten to some small extent.
If that's not a cue to start the conversation that Ziva has been dreading, she's not sure what is… leaving him with false hope would be cruel. He'll never help Noam set up a tent again.
"Eitan?" she starts hesitantly, interrupting whatever thought he'd been ready to carry on with.
"Mm?"
"Let us go sit down. We need to talk, okay?"
"Okay," Eitan agrees amicably. "I like to talk." He pulls out a chair at the dinner table—the amount of determined effort it takes him to move the heavy wooden seat makes Ziva half-smile, but she's too anxious about the task before her to be truly amused by it or by his comment.
She takes the seat next to him and looks at him seriously. "When your mother and father sent you to stay with Zohara, what did they tell you?" she asks softly.
"Um… they said…" Eitan trails off, his face scrunching up in concentration. "I do not remember much."
"It was many months ago, yes?" Ziva guesses, understanding the difficulty that he's having.
"I do not know. How long are months?"
At that, Ziva does let out a breath of a laugh… he's so innocent, but he's also eager to learn. "A long time," she answers simply.
"Then… yes!"
"Alright." That makes her job easier, and harder—she isn't having to negate any promises that Liora or Noam might have made, but she'll have to struggle against whatever ideas of the future that Eitan's own small mind might have drawn up. "Well, it is time to discuss something that happened in the—"
"What is it?" Eitan interjects.
Ziva holds up a hand, asking him to pause with his questions. "I am getting to that—please give me just a moment. Before I explain, I need to make sure that you understand something, okay?"
"Okay."
Ziva nods and gives him a heavy, compassionate look that she doesn't have control over. "You must understand that your ima and your abba have always loved you very much, and you would not be here with me if they did not."
"I know! Zo tells me all the time. She says Ima is going to be so excited to see me when I go home."
Ziva's anxiety spikes quite a bit in the face of his naive excitement, and she has to clear her throat in order to loosen a voice that has suddenly gone very tight. "That is something we need to talk about, too," she tells him once she can speak again. "You are not going home—at least not to the home that you remember."
"Why not? Are Ima and Abba coming here?"
"No, little one. They are not."
"Then what—" He stops talking when she takes his hand, and he appears to understand all at once that something injurious is coming. "Why not?" he questions, his voice more meek than it was before.
Ziva takes a deep breath to prepare herself, and she lets it out with a sigh. "Eitan, I am very, very sorry… but your ima and abba died yesterday. "
"What does that mean?"
"It means that they are…" Yet again, Ziva feels woefully unprepared for any of this, and she vacillates over how to explain. "They are gone," she finishes soberly, hoping that 'gone' is a concept simple enough to be understood.
It's not.
"Gone where?" Eitan presses, shaking his head in increasingly nervous confusion. He seems to be picking up on—and reflecting—Ziva's agitation.
"Gone from the world, bubeleh."
"When are they coming back for me?" Eitan pulls his hands out of Ziva's, frowning and looking more uncomfortable. "Your hand is all sweaty," he whines, scooting away from the table as best as he can in his hard-to-maneuver chair. He doesn't get far. "Why is it—Ziva, why is—"
Ziva can only watch helplessly as Eitan searches her face for answers to questions that he hasn't finished asking—and that she wouldn't know how to answer, even if he had.
Then he abruptly stops trying to get away, and he says something that breaks Ziva's heart.
"I want to go home," he begs, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Please, can I go home?"
"You cannot, little one," Ziva repeats, sorrow in her voice, "and I am so sorry for that."
"But…"
For the second time, all Ziva can think to do is open her arms in an offer of comfort, and for the second time, Eitan climbs into her embrace and holds on with every ounce of strength he possesses.
Things calm some after that, and within the hour, Eitan seems to have forgotten their heavy conversation altogether. Ziva's not sure what that means—but a Google search explains a few things she had wondered about, and she decides that the best thing to do for now is to simply return to the new-normal schedule.
After a quick dinner—and a not-so-quick bath, during which Ziva comes to understand just how difficult it is to control the behavior of a soapy and suddenly-devious preschooler—it's finally 'screen time'… a chance for them both to relax for at least a brief time.
She has just gotten Eitan settled in front of the television when the doorbell rings, and she instantly goes on the alert. She's not expecting any visitors, and she rarely receives any as it is. Knowing what she does about the possibility of a threat on Eitan's life…
She's not taking any chances.
"What are you doing, Ziva?" Eitan wants to know, watching her rather than the cartoons on the screen.
She hadn't realized he was looking at her, and she pauses, her fingers wrapping around the gun she was just pulling from a high cabinet. She puts it behind her back quickly and edges toward the door, answering in a quiet voice as she does so. "I was only looking for something, Eitan, do not worry. You can watch your show now."
"Who is at the door?"
"I am about to go check."
"Can I do it? If you hold me up, I can see through the little window! I have good eyes! Zo told me I do."
"I am sure that you do," Ziva agrees distractedly, hardly paying any attention to what she's saying as she focuses on finding out who has shown up unannounced, "but it is tv time now. Please finish what you are watching, okay?"
She doesn't wait to see if he listens before finally glancing through the peephole, holding her gun tightly in front of her now.
To her relief, there's a familiar face waiting out in the hall. Ziva heaves a deep sigh, trying to force the now clearly unnecessary adrenaline out of her system.
It's just Tony.
She unlocks the door and swings it open, frowning. "Tony!" she scolds immediately, making his greeting die in his throat and his eyes widen. "What are you doing here?"
"Thought I was someone else, huh?"
"What makes you say that?" she queries, the question coming out more grumpily than she meant for it to. She doesn't know how she's going to survive being a foster parent when everything now feels so much like a potential threat to the small boy sitting peacefully in the room behind her.
"Because—" Tony discontinues his incredulous answer and snorts, gesturing to what she's holding. "Is that a gun in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?" he quips instead.
"In my—what?"
Ziva had already forgotten that she's still gripping her SIG, the possibility of needing to use it in the next few minutes having gone out the window as soon as she saw that her visitor was Tony. The striking urge to chastise him for scaring her had pushed it from her mind.
"A gun in your—you know, it's a play off of—" Seeing that Ziva still looks a little confused, Tony shakes his head and drops it. "Never mind. Are you doing alright?"
"I am fine," she assures him reflexively.
"Yeah?" he challenges, mild. "Then why'd you bring your side piece with you to answer the door?"
"Because you never know who might be behind it," Ziva answers darkly.
Tony frowns and opens his mouth to ask for elaboration—who would be after her today? He's interrupted, though, by a soft voice coming from somewhere around Ziva's waist.
"Ziva?"
Ziva looks down, surprised and still on-edge enough to be briefly startled—the television is set to a high enough volume that she hadn't heard Eitan approaching, but here he is. "Yes?" she acknowledges, tucking her gun into the back of her pants and covering it with her shirt so her young charge doesn't notice it.
She needn't worry, as it turns out, because Eitan isn't paying attention to her at all. He's peering shyly around her to stare at Tony. "Who is that?" he whispers.
Ziva glances briefly between Tony and the little boy, conflicted on how best to answer the question; she hadn't thought about it, because she hadn't expected that the two would ever meet. "He is… my friend."
"Is he nice?"
That makes Ziva laugh. 'Sometimes' is the answer that she wants to give, but it's far too soon to joke like that with Eitan, who may not understand that she's not being serious. "Yes," she assures him instead.
"Why is he here?"
"I do not know, little one. I was about to ask him."
Ziva glances back at Tony, who's watching with a combination of curiosity and niggling trepidation.
"Is that him? Eitan, I mean?" he asks, rather unnecessarily. Who else would it be?
"Yes."
"What did he just say to you?"
"He wants to know who you are and why you are here. And he has a good point… why are you here, Tony?"
Tony's face brightens, the uncertainty of a moment ago evaporating. "You left something at your desk, and I thought I'd bring it for you in case you need it before you get back!"
Ziva narrows her eyes, suspicious. She smells a fish. "What did I leave?"
Tony cheerfully holds up her umbrella. "This."
Ziva makes a strangled noise as her torso jerks briefly, and she can tell that Tony unfortunately understands what she's doing—that is, trying (and mostly failing) to fight back a laugh. "Thank you," she says finally, her voice still ever-so-slightly unstable.
"Of course."
Ziva accepts the umbrella and reaches over to hang it on a hook by the door.
"Did it occur to you that I might have another at home?" she wonders offhandedly.
"Well, yeah, but—"
"But you did not text or call to ask."
"Well, no, but—"
"And had you checked the weather, you would know that it is not supposed to rain for the next week, anyway."
"Oh, is that so?"
Finally, Ziva succumbs to the temptation to laugh and nudges Eitan backwards so she has enough room to open the door. "Please come in, Tony," she invites, tittering.
Tony steps over the threshold, but then he pauses nearby once Ziva shuts (and deadbolts) the door. It takes her just a moment to figure out what he is doing—he, much like Eitan, is orbiting her uncomfortably, uncertain of how to handle the sudden need to interact with a stranger. She's not sure the unease on Tony's part is warranted, since a petit four-year-old is hardly a threat, but his slight fear of children is amusing enough that she feels compelled to indulge it regardless.
Still snorting, she offers her right hand to Eitan; he grabs hold of it immediately. Then, trying not to offend Tony by appearing too tickled, Ziva repeats the gesture that she just extended to the little boy, offering a hand to the forty-one-year-old child, too. Tony gives her an odd look, but he still curls his fingers willingly enough around her own.
Ziva can't help thinking that if she has to mind two youngsters, at least one of them is old enough to reliably dress and bathe himself.
She leads Tony and Eitan to the living room and releases her hold on them. Once she has a free hand, she grabs the remote control and switches off the tv, throwing the room into silence.
"Tony," she starts, an edge of jocosity lingering in her voice as she glances at her friend, "I would like for you to meet Eitan."
"Eitan," she continues, looking down at the little boy who seems somewhat nervous, "I would like for you to meet Tony." This is said in Hebrew for Eitan's benefit.
"Um, hi," Tony greets awkwardly, but then he winces and lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his head. "I mean… um, shalom."
The hesitancy behind his use of the Hebrew word makes Ziva smile, and she gently rests her hand on Eitan's back. "What do you say to that, mm?"
"Shalom," Eitan replies, glancing away from Tony and back to Ziva for reassurance.
It surprises her how quickly Eitan seems to be adapting to the latest major change in his circumstances… he's already deferring to her as his caretaker. Ziva has not been nearly so expedient in adjusting to the situation herself.
She puts the thought aside and smiles, though; he deserves to be praised for his bravery in speaking. "That was very polite, so thank you for saying it. Now…"
Still looking at Eitan, Ziva tilts her head toward Tony and makes an exaggerated face of displeasure, earning a giggle from the four-year-old. "I need to talk to my very silly friend… would you like to get back to your cartoons while I do so?"
Eitan nods, though he still seems half-dubiously curious about Tony's presence, and Ziva turns the tv back on. The little boy gives each adult one more long stare before returning his attention to Looney Tunes.
Once she's sure Eitan is occupied, Ziva meets Tony's eye again, jerking her head toward the kitchen, and he nods and leads the way.
There, they lean against opposite countertops, a few feet of tiled floor between them. Ziva can see Tony visibly relax now that he isn't trying to figure out how to deal with a small child. Shaking her head, she gives him an amused, affectionate look. "What are you really doing here, Tony?" she prompts, forgoing preamble. They're long past the need for any formality.
Tony shrugs. "I just… wanted to see how you are, I guess. I thought about you today."
"I do appreciate the concern," Ziva admits—it's strange, because generally, being worried over makes her feel frustratingly underestimated.
That's not how it seems today, though; there's nothing doubtful in Tony's expression at all. (Shecertainly has a doubt or two of her own, however.)
"Well, how are you, then?" Tony prompts, drawing her from her thoughts.
Ziva shrugs, too, and she wishes that she had a good answer for him—she can see her reflection in the glass of the microwave door behind his head, and she looks as out-of-sorts as she feels. "I do not know, really," she finally replies.
"Did you tell Eitan about…" Tony trails off, but it's clear what he's asking her.
"I did, yes."
"How did he take it?"
"It is difficult to say, I think." Ziva shrugs one more time and crosses her arms—it's hard not to answer everything right now with 'I do not know.' She peers into the living room, where Eitan is now fully re-engaged in his television program, and she watches him until she's done speaking. "He was upset during part of the conversation, though I believe he was only reacting to my own anxiety. He seems to be an empathetic child, from what I have observed… but I do not think he truly understands what I told him."
Tony makes an understanding face and nods; he doesn't seem shocked by her assessment. "Four is still pretty young," he notes. "Death is sort of… I don't know. An abstract concept, I guess?"
"I thought the same thing," Ziva agrees. "I did a search on Google and learned that we may very well be right... children around Eitan's age are only just starting to understand the idea of irreversibility. He knows that he cannot see his parents, but that alone would not have been enough to make him strongly emotional when I told him… he has not seen them in months as it is, so hearing that they are out of reach now is not surprising."
"Why hasn't he seen them? Where have they been?"
Oh, Ziva could just kick herself when she realizes her mistake.
Laazazel.
She has become so used to talking to Tony that the clear-cut boundaries of what can and can't be shared are gone… and now she has forgotten to censor herself. As a consequence, she has no choice but to expand on yesterday's lie, though it goes against the grain to do so.
Ziva doesn't enjoy lying to Tony.
"His parents—my cousin and her husband, that is—had a difficult time fighting through the red vape," she invents, but she pauses as Tony sniggers.
"Red tape," he explains when she raises her eyebrows in question. "But anyway, go on."
Ziva makes a face. "They were forced to return to Israel for a time to sort the paperwork out," she concludes.
"I'm sure you know the struggles of immigration."
"I do."
"Mm. Why didn't they take Eitan with them, though?"
"He was only just beginning to settle into life here, and they did not want to uproot him twice more. They knew they would be back soon to join him."
"I guess that makes sense. Who did he stay with in the meantime?"
If the continuous stream of questions wasn't putting Ziva in an uncomfortable position, she might find the queries almost funny. Tony's endless curiosity—which often crosses the line into nosiness—is part of what makes him a good investigator. It's not helpful to her right now, though, and she wishes that he'd drop this train of thought and move on.
"An elderly family friend of my cousin's husband," she answers.
Tony nods knowingly, a teasing glint in his eye. "I'm picturing a Gibbs type. Am I close?"
The thought does make Ziva chuckle, but she has to negate Tony's guess or risk him seeing through the backstory that she's fabricating as she goes.
"Not exactly," she disaffirms. "Gibbs is excellent with children—"
"—which still shocks me, because he's terrible with people—" Tony mutters under his breath.
Ziva talks over him. "—and he would have managed to care for Eitan indefinitely. Eitan's actual caretaker was already frail and in poor health, though, so I believe that news of what happened to Liora and Noam—my cousins—overwhelmed her. She would not have been able to keep him for much longer."
"Lucky the kid's got you as his family, then." Tony gives her another warm smile. "You're like a lioness or something—protective and dangerous. You wouldn't turn away a member of your pride that needed you… I bet you didn't even hesitate when your dad asked you to help."
"No, I did hesitate," Ziva discloses; it's something of a confession. "I came close to saying no, actually."
"Eh, who could blame you?"
"Tony, you just said—"
"You did the selfless thing in the end, didn't you?"
Ziva shrugs. "I suppose."
"Needing to think it through doesn't make you a bad person," Tony promises comfortingly.
Maybe he can see that she doesn't know how to respond to that, because he smiles and circles back to the topic they'd been pulled away from. "Anyway, so the kid still doesn't quite understand where his parents are—do you have a plan for what to do about that?"
Ziva shakes her head, glad they're done discussing yesterday's events for the time being.
"I do not know that there is anything to be done. Eitan will learn with time, but for now, expecting too much of him is unreasonable and unfair. I will focus instead on getting him used living here."
"Sounds logical to me," Tony admires. "I don't know much about kids, but even I know enough to see that you're doing a great job."
Ziva smiles back, but she has trouble concealing a vulnerable sense of instability. "I feel that I am not," she admits, "but I really have no frame of reference."
"Hey, neither do I. But… I mean, look at him, Ziva."
Tony crosses most of the distance between them, and together, they peer around the corner to watch Eitan—he's laughing now, pressing a throw pillow against his face to stifle uproarious giggles at the sight of Bugs Bunny doing something ridiculous. Ziva feels Tony's hand landing on her shoulder and squeezing comfortingly. "He's doing just fine," he points out softly. "He'll survive this."
Ziva can only hope against hope that Tony is right, that Eitan's resilience will carry him through—and almost as if the idea has prompted an oft-ignored urge, the words to a familiar old blessing start to echo quietly in her ears… Unable to stop herself, she briefly closes her eyes and tunes Tony out.
She can't remember the last time she prayed, but she allows herself the comfort doing so now. It's a silent request for peace, and for succor—both for Eitan, who deserves none of the pain he still faces, and for her own ability to do what must be done...
No matter what that turns out to be.