A/N Woo! I'm on an uploading kick today :) I just need to post a few so you get an idea of what the story is about! It pretty much details Tali's relationship with her family and she attempts to explain things along the way *shrug* hope you like it, let me know what you think.

Hosmoya Haswari was an extremely bitter woman and I completely understood why. Her relationship with my father put a strain in all her relationships. She didn't have friends and she rarely spoke to her other family members, who doubtlessly disapproved of Ari.

Her job wasn't good for her social life either. As an ER nurse at Gaza's main hospital, she had unpredictable and long hours. She ruled her floor with an iron fist, and I was there to witness it.

Ari first brought Ziva and I to meet her when I was 11. Palestine and Israel had just signed another peace treaty and air strikes had ceased for a while. We took a tiny private plane to a rundown air strip. Hosmoya had a rather large apartment a block or so away from the hospital. Ziva and I were content to sit there and listen to the old records Hosmoya had collected. There was not much to do there for us; we were just tagging along while Ari got a chance to see his mother. We ate whatever he brought us from falafel stands and seafood shops and attempted to read the local paper with our then limited knowledge of Arabic.

It is a city ruled by men. Women were allowed to be out and around, but they were still far outnumbered. There was a strong Israeli military presence at that point, but we still stuck out shamelessly. Because of our Mossad instruction, however, we tried to blend in. A pashmina wrap I usually used as a cover-up on the beach served as a hijab there. I envied some of the more extravagant Muslim women for their beautiful attire. Bolts of different shades of gauze embroidered with semi-precious beads always caught my eye when we went out. I longed for a collection for myself.

Ziva laughed at me. "Where would you ever wear them?" She argued reasonably.

I would scowl and pull her down Wehda Street to the candy shops. None of the refugee women in Gaza had that type of thing anyway.

It was almost pleasant there with Hosmoya, who paid us no attention, and Ari, who was always out "on an errand"- which I eventually figured out was code for "weeding my way into Hamas to make father happy".

I didn't realize how sad it was at the time, that I would have rather been in a Palestinian country with Israelis like myself were widely unwelcomed than with my father in Tel A.

As for my father, he paid these visits no mind. He never mentioned a thing about safety. He would just shrug and say "go ahead". We didn't really have anyone to worry about us anymore. Father had been pushing Aunt Nettie away since our mother had died, and had essentially succeeded.

I wonder if he ever regretted rendering us incapable of ever truly being his children. I want to know if he ever felt guilty when he looked at that picture of us and realized that he had killed us all. He warped our trust and unconditional love for him into distrust, and hatred.

He was proud of us while we were training for Mossad. I was always so promising. I beat my first polygraph when I was 13, I became a sharp shooter at 10. When I came home from a long training mission in the Negev, he put an arm around my shoulders and congratulated me. Ari was at headquarters in the city, I was grinning like crazy when I arrived, ecstatic that Daddy was acknowledging me. Ari flipped out. As much as Ari could, anyway.

"I'll take Tali back to Gaza with me." He told my father emotionlessly, wrenching me out of his grasp. "And Ziva as well, if she wishes to come."

My father looked at him smugly, told him Ziva was away at the moment, but he could take me. My spirits fell immediately- Daddy didn't want to see me after all. I was angry at Ari for dragging me away as well. I glared at him as we arrived at the airport.

"Are you okay." He asked coldly. Ari had a weird concerned voice, and this came out more like a statement. I nodded and we didn't speak for the whole plane ride.

When we were safe at Hosmoya's apartment and I was cleaned up and played solitary with cards I had smuggled in my bra at the dimly lit dining room table, he admitted to me he would rather not have me in training at all.

"I don't think you should go back."

"Hosmoya would take care of me, and we would both be at least semi-free of our father. He never said this, but I thought it.

"You know I cannot." I replied solemnly. I could not stay in Palestine; I could not impose on his mother.

He nodded. He did know. It was dangerous for me, with him getting closer and closer to Hamas.

I have often thought with vain hope that he would not have changed his allegiances if I had been alive. He lost it eventually, as I guess I always knew he would. It was Hosmoya's questionable death that had pushed him over the edge. Ziva begged him to come back. She pleaded him to turn himself in, but he was entirely focused on that last mission he had set for himself. Another voice would not have stopped him from that bitter end.

I recall a moment when I think of him in this regard. The last moment I saw my brother, just a brief clip from the past. I am screaming. It is raining, raining in Tel Aviv. Ari is walking away from me, I am sobbing. I realize the person he has become. He is a monster. Ziva is heartless. Michael is a jerk. My father is using me. I am alone. I would always protect Ari, I would always love Ziva. I would always treat Michael kindly. I would always be loyal to my father, because that was all I had ever known.

But I was never bitter like Hesmia. I promised myself I would never be as harsh as her. During all the times Ari and I had exchanged glances while she was ranting about what an awful man my father was reinforced that promise over and over again. It seemed it was all she could think about other than her job. With every stitch she gave, she longed to be sewing herself back up. I could see that in her cold ebony eyes.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.