![\"\"](\"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/1776719021-300x167.png\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
By the time May warmed New Haven into something almost gentle, I had stopped bracing every time my phone buzzed. I\u2019d stopped expecting my parents\u2019 voices to crash into my day like an unexpected storm. Distance had become a habit, and habits are powerful. They can save you. They can also lull you into thinking nothing will ever change.<\/p>\n
Then, on a Tuesday afternoon, I found a small envelope taped to my condo door.<\/p>\n
Not mailed. Not slipped under. Taped\u2014like someone wanted to make sure I had to physically remove it, had to acknowledge it existed.<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s handwriting curled across the front.<\/p>\n
Emma.<\/p>\n
My stomach tightened automatically, but I didn\u2019t rip it open. I carried it inside, set it on the counter, and stared at it while the kettle boiled.<\/p>\n
Old me would have opened it immediately, desperate for any sign of approval.<\/p>\n
New me waited until my hands were steady.<\/p>\n
Inside was a single sheet of paper. No long speech. No dramatic paragraphs. Just a list of dates and a short note at the bottom.<\/p>\n
Therapy sessions:
\nJanuary 12
\nJanuary 26
\nFebruary 9
\nFebruary 23
\nMarch 9
\nMarch 23
\nApril 6
\nApril 20
\nMay 4<\/p>\n
Under the dates, my mother had written:<\/p>\n
We are going. We are listening. We are learning. I don\u2019t know how to undo what we did, but I\u2019m trying to understand why we did it. If you ever want to see proof that we\u2019re not just saying words, this is it.<\/p>\n
There was no apology in the note. Not a clean one, anyway. But there was something my mother had never offered me before:<\/p>\n
Evidence.<\/p>\n
I sat at my kitchen table for a long time with the paper in front of me. Part of me wanted to scoff. Part of me wanted to cry. Part of me wanted to drive to their house and demand, Why now? Why after all this?<\/p>\n
But another part of me\u2014the part I\u2019d been building brick by brick\u2014simply observed the truth:<\/p>\n
They were finally doing something. Not enough. Not yet. But something.<\/p>\n
That weekend, Vanessa called.<\/p>\n
Her voice sounded different than it used to. Less polished. More careful. Like she\u2019d finally learned that loud confidence wasn\u2019t the same as strength.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey,\u201d she said. \u201cDo you have a minute?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI do,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n
\u201cI talked to Mom and Dad,\u201d Vanessa said. \u201cAbout\u2026 everything. The gifted program, the letter, the years of it. I didn\u2019t hold back.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at the rain streaking my window. \u201cHow\u2019d that go?\u201d<\/p>\n
She exhaled shakily. \u201cDad got defensive at first. Said he was \u2018motivating.\u2019 I told him motivation doesn\u2019t look like humiliation. Mom cried. A lot. Then their therapist made them answer questions they didn\u2019t like.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat kind of questions?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Vanessa hesitated. \u201cLike\u2026 why they needed to keep one of us \u2018up\u2019 and one of us \u2018down.\u2019 Why they equated love with performance. Why they treated your kindness like weakness.\u201d<\/p>\n
My throat tightened. \u201cAnd?\u201d<\/p>\n
Vanessa\u2019s voice softened. \u201cDad said he was scared,\u201d she admitted. \u201cScared you\u2019d be okay without them. Scared he\u2019d lose control of the narrative of what a \u2018successful family\u2019 looked like. Mom admitted she always felt like she had to present perfection to the world, and you didn\u2019t fit the picture they sold.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not an excuse,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d Vanessa agreed immediately. \u201cIt\u2019s not. But it\u2019s\u2026 an explanation. And they\u2019re finally saying it out loud instead of pretending.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t respond. I didn\u2019t know what to do with that information yet.<\/p>\n
Vanessa continued, \u201cThey want to meet you. In person. Not at their house. Somewhere neutral.\u201d<\/p>\n
The word neutral made my shoulders relax a fraction. \u201cWhen?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNext Saturday,\u201d she said quickly. \u201cBut only if you want. No pressure.\u201d<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes and listened to my own breathing. Everything starts with breathing, I thought, amused at how that lesson had followed me from classroom chaos to family wreckage.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll meet,\u201d I said finally. \u201cOne hour. In public. And if they try to justify or blame, I leave.\u201d<\/p>\n
Vanessa\u2019s relief was audible. \u201cOkay,\u201d she whispered. \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not doing it for them,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know,\u201d she replied. \u201cYou\u2019re doing it for you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Saturday arrived bright and cold, as if Connecticut wanted to remind me it still knew how to bite. We met at a coffee shop in New Haven near the Yale campus\u2014brick walls, soft music, students typing on laptops.<\/p>\n
Vanessa arrived first, already seated at a corner table. Derek was with her. He stood when I walked in, his face earnest.<\/p>\n
\u201cEmma,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cThank you for coming.\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded once and sat.<\/p>\n
Five minutes later, my parents walked in.<\/p>\n
My mother looked smaller than I remembered. Not physically. Something in her posture, the way she scanned the room like she wasn\u2019t sure she belonged. My father\u2019s jaw was tight, but he didn\u2019t carry himself like he owned the space. He carried himself like he\u2019d been forced to look at a mirror he didn\u2019t like.<\/p>\n
They approached the table slowly.<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s eyes filled when she saw me. \u201cEmma,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
My father swallowed. \u201cHi,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
No hugs. No performance. Just four people sitting in a public place trying to figure out how to breathe around a history that had been poisonous.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t waste time. \u201cYou wrote the letter,\u201d I said, voice steady. \u201cYou made me read it out loud.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother flinched. My father\u2019s gaze dropped to the table.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d my mother said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
There was a long silence.<\/p>\n
Then my father spoke, and his voice sounded older than I\u2019d ever heard it.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause we wanted to win,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
I blinked. \u201cWin what?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked up at me, eyes bloodshot. \u201cWin the story,\u201d he said. \u201cWin the family narrative. Vanessa was the one we could brag about. You were the one who made us feel\u2026 uncertain. Like maybe our way of measuring life was wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother whispered, \u201cAnd if it was wrong, then what did that say about us?\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at them. The honesty in the words was almost more upsetting than the cruelty had been, because it confirmed what I\u2019d always suspected: they had used me as a buffer against their own insecurity.<\/p>\n
My father continued, voice rough. \u201cYou were happy. You were content. You didn\u2019t need status to feel valuable. And it made me angry because\u2026 I didn\u2019t know how to do that.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother wiped at her cheek. \u201cWe thought we were helping,\u201d she whispered. \u201cWe told ourselves tough love would push you into becoming what we believed you should be.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBut you weren\u2019t pushing me,\u201d I said. \u201cYou were punishing me for not being Vanessa.\u201d<\/p>\n
Vanessa\u2019s eyes dropped. Derek\u2019s hand tightened around hers.<\/p>\n
My father swallowed hard. \u201cYes,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
The single word landed heavy.<\/p>\n
For once, there was no denial.<\/p>\n
My mother looked at me, voice trembling. \u201cWe\u2019re sorry,\u201d she said. \u201cNot sorry you were upset. Sorry we did it. Sorry we made you feel like you had to earn love.\u201d<\/p>\n
I held her gaze. \u201cYou did more than make me feel it,\u201d I said quietly. \u201cYou stole opportunities. You sabotaged me.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s face crumpled. \u201cThe gifted program,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
I nodded. \u201cThirteen years,\u201d I said. \u201cVanessa knew. You knew. And you let me live in a world where I thought I wasn\u2019t good enough.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father\u2019s hands shook slightly as he wrapped them around his coffee cup. \u201cWe can\u2019t give you those years back,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I replied. \u201cYou can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
Another long silence.<\/p>\n
Then my father spoke again, quieter. \u201cWhat can we do?\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at him, and for the first time, I didn\u2019t feel like a child begging to be chosen. I felt like an adult deciding terms.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can stop trying to buy forgiveness,\u201d I said. \u201cNo more gifts. No more grand gestures. If you want any relationship with me, it starts with consistency.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother nodded quickly. \u201cYes,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt starts with listening,\u201d I continued. \u201cAnd with respecting boundaries. And it starts with acknowledging what you did without dressing it up.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father nodded once. \u201cOkay,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
I looked at Vanessa. \u201cAnd you,\u201d I said, voice sharper now. \u201cYou don\u2019t get to be the hero in this. You get to be accountable.\u201d<\/p>\n
Vanessa\u2019s eyes filled with tears. \u201cI know,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI\u2019m trying.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTrying isn\u2019t enough,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s a start.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stood, glancing at the clock. \u201cThat\u2019s an hour,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s eyes widened. \u201cAlready?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n
I pulled on my coat, then paused. \u201cI\u2019m not promising anything,\u201d I said. \u201cBut I\u2019m willing to see if you can be different. Slowly.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father stood as if he wanted to say something else, then stopped himself.<\/p>\n
My mother whispered, \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded once and walked out into the cold.<\/p>\n
Outside, the air stung my lungs. But it felt clean.<\/p>\n
In my pocket, my phone buzzed with a message from a student\u2019s parent: Mia finished her first chapter book. She said you made her believe she could.<\/p>\n
I smiled, standing on the sidewalk with Yale\u2019s brick buildings behind me.<\/p>\n
Whatever happened with my parents, I knew this:<\/p>\n
My worth was no longer up for debate.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Summer arrived in New Haven with humid nights and the smell of cut grass. My doctoral program orientation began in July, and my calendar filled with meetings, reading lists, and the kind of intellectual intensity that used to terrify me until I realized I\u2019d been doing hard things my whole life\u2014just in quieter rooms.<\/p>\n
My parents kept their distance, which was the first boundary they\u2019d ever respected without trying to negotiate it. Once a week my mother sent a short text.<\/p>\n
Thinking of you. No need to reply.<\/p>\n
My father sent nothing, which somehow felt appropriate. He was learning to sit in silence without using it as a weapon.<\/p>\n
Vanessa checked in more often, but carefully. She didn\u2019t ask for forgiveness. She didn\u2019t demand closeness. She just showed up in small ways: dropping off groceries when I had a deadline, offering to help paint a wall in my condo, sitting with me while I practiced my book proposal pitch without making it about her.<\/p>\n
It didn\u2019t erase thirteen years.<\/p>\n
But it was different.<\/p>\n
In August, my birthday arrived.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t tell my parents. I didn\u2019t post about it. I spent the day with Rachel, Vanessa, Derek, and two colleagues from school who had become real friends. We ate Thai food, laughed, and talked about everything except family trauma.<\/p>\n
That night, when I got home, there was a small package outside my door. No name. No note. Just a return address I recognized: my parents.<\/p>\n
I carried it inside and stared at it for a long time.<\/p>\n
I almost didn\u2019t open it.<\/p>\n
Then I did.<\/p>\n
Inside was a children\u2019s book, gently used, its cover worn. A sticky note was tucked inside the first page.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m sorry we didn\u2019t notice what you were building. I hope this belongs somewhere in your classroom library. No need to respond. \u2014Mom<\/p>\n
The title was one I remembered from childhood\u2014one I\u2019d loved before I learned to measure myself against my sister.<\/p>\n
My throat tightened.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t money.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t a house.<\/p>\n
It was an attempt to see me where I actually lived: in classrooms, in stories, in kids learning to believe in themselves.<\/p>\n
I sat on my couch and held the book, feeling grief and relief braided together. Grief for the years wasted. Relief that maybe something in them had cracked open enough to let light in.<\/p>\n
That fall, my book deal finalized. The publishing house sent a contract thicker than my old report cards. When I signed it, my hand shook\u2014not from doubt, but from the weight of realizing I was stepping into a bigger room.<\/p>\n
A week later, Channel 8 invited me back for a follow-up segment. Not about drama. About impact. About policy. About what literacy funding could do in districts like mine.<\/p>\n
I said yes.<\/p>\n
Not to prove anything.<\/p>\n
To amplify.<\/p>\n
The segment aired in October. It featured my students, their families, and my program. It ended with the anchor saying, \u201cSometimes the most powerful work is the work that doesn\u2019t chase applause.\u201d<\/p>\n
Vanessa texted afterward: I\u2019m proud of you for the right reasons now.<\/p>\n
I stared at the message for a while, then replied with two words I didn\u2019t expect myself to type.<\/p>\n
Thank you.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t forgiveness. It was acknowledgment.<\/p>\n
In November, my parents emailed again.<\/p>\n
We will be in New Haven this weekend. We would like to invite you to lunch, but only if you want. If not, we understand.<\/p>\n
I read it twice.<\/p>\n
Then I typed a response.<\/p>\n
One hour. Public. Vanessa and Derek present.<\/p>\n
My finger hovered over send.<\/p>\n
Then I pressed it.<\/p>\n
Lunch was quiet but not tense. My parents didn\u2019t insult. Didn\u2019t compare. Didn\u2019t try to steer the conversation back to themselves. They asked about my doctoral program. They asked about my students. My father even asked what grade I taught, then corrected himself.<\/p>\n
\u201cThird grade,\u201d he said, almost like he was proud to finally know.<\/p>\n
When lunch ended, my mother looked at me and said, \u201cWe\u2019re trying to learn how to love without controlling.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t respond with warmth.<\/p>\n
I responded with truth.<\/p>\n
\u201cKeep trying,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
That December, the first Christmas after the letter approached like a storm cloud I could see on the horizon. My body reacted before my mind did\u2014tight chest, shallow breathing, a desire to disappear.<\/p>\n
Vanessa invited me to spend Christmas Eve with her and Derek. Small. Quiet. No parents.<\/p>\n
Rachel invited me too, said her house would be chaos in the best way.<\/p>\n
My parents didn\u2019t ask. They didn\u2019t guilt. They didn\u2019t assume.<\/p>\n
They sent one email:<\/p>\n
We will be home. We will miss you. We hope you have a peaceful holiday. No expectations.<\/p>\n
I stared at the screen for a long time.<\/p>\n
It was the first Christmas Eve of my life where I didn\u2019t feel like I had to earn a seat at the table.<\/p>\n
I spent the evening at Rachel\u2019s house, surrounded by kids tearing wrapping paper and adults laughing loudly. At one point Rachel\u2019s daughter climbed into my lap, handed me a book, and demanded I read it dramatically.<\/p>\n
I did.<\/p>\n
And as I read, I realized something simple and enormous:<\/p>\n
This was what family could feel like.<\/p>\n
Not perfect.<\/p>\n
Not expensive.<\/p>\n
Just safe.<\/p>\n
At midnight, my phone buzzed.<\/p>\n
A text from my father.<\/p>\n
Merry Christmas, Emma. I\u2019m proud of you. Not for Yale. Not for the book. For who you are.<\/p>\n
I stared at the message until my eyes stung.<\/p>\n
Then, slowly, I typed back.<\/p>\n
Merry Christmas.<\/p>\n
Just two words.<\/p>\n
But for us, it was a start.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
In January, my doctoral program began in earnest. My days were filled with research meetings and policy drafts, but I kept teaching part-time, refusing to let academia pull me away from the work that had always grounded me.<\/p>\n
One afternoon, after class, I found a manila envelope in my mailbox.<\/p>\n
No return address. No note.<\/p>\n
Inside was a photocopy of a document I recognized instantly: my gifted program test scores from childhood, along with the acceptance letter\u2014unsigned, but with my mother\u2019s old email address listed as the contact.<\/p>\n
Someone had sent it to me.<\/p>\n
Not Vanessa. She would have warned me.<\/p>\n
It had to be my mother.<\/p>\n
I stared at the papers, pulse pounding. Proof, in black and white, of sabotage I\u2019d spent most of my life sensing but never seeing.<\/p>\n
That night, I called Vanessa.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid Mom send me something?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Vanessa went silent. \u201cShe told me she was thinking about it,\u201d she admitted.<\/p>\n
\u201cThinking about what?\u201d I demanded.<\/p>\n
\u201cGiving you the evidence,\u201d Vanessa said quietly. \u201cSo you didn\u2019t have to rely on memory. So you could stop wondering if you were making it up.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pressed my fingers against my forehead, anger and grief colliding.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe should have asked me first,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know,\u201d Vanessa replied. \u201cBut Emma\u2026 I think she\u2019s trying to do the thing you asked. No more explanations. No more dressing it up. Just truth.\u201d<\/p>\n
Truth.<\/p>\n
The thing they used to weaponize.<\/p>\n
Now being offered like an apology.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t know what to do with it.<\/p>\n
A week later, my mother texted.<\/p>\n
I left something in your mailbox. It is yours. I\u2019m sorry.<\/p>\n
I stared at the screen, then typed back.<\/p>\n
Thank you for the proof. Don\u2019t do things like that without asking again.<\/p>\n
A moment later, she replied.<\/p>\n
Understood. I\u2019m learning.<\/p>\n
In February, my book manuscript deadline hit. I lived on coffee and stubbornness. Vanessa came over twice to bring food, then left without lingering. My parents sent no messages\u2014no pressure, no guilt\u2014just quiet space.<\/p>\n
On the day I submitted the final draft, I walked outside into sharp winter air and felt something unfamiliar:<\/p>\n
Peace.<\/p>\n
Not because everything was fixed.<\/p>\n
Because I wasn\u2019t fighting myself anymore.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
That spring, my book was announced publicly. The publisher scheduled a launch event at a bookstore in New Haven. Colleagues RSVP\u2019d. Parents of former students messaged me. Teachers across the state emailed asking for advice and resources.<\/p>\n
My mother emailed.<\/p>\n
We would like to attend your book event. Only if you want. We will sit in the back. We won\u2019t speak to anyone. We won\u2019t make it about us.<\/p>\n
I read it twice.<\/p>\n
Then I wrote back.<\/p>\n
You can come. Sit in the back.<\/p>\n
The event night arrived in April. The bookstore was packed. I stood at the podium and looked out at faces\u2014students\u2019 parents, fellow teachers, friends, Rachel smiling so wide she looked like she might burst.<\/p>\n
In the back row, I saw my parents.<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s hands clasped tightly. My father\u2019s posture stiff. Both of them quiet.<\/p>\n
Vanessa sat near the front, eyes shining.<\/p>\n
I began speaking, not about my family, but about literacy, about access, about children being treated like they\u2019re capable long enough to believe it.<\/p>\n
Halfway through, I glanced at the back row again.<\/p>\n
My mother was crying silently, wiping her cheeks carefully, not drawing attention. My father stared forward with an expression I couldn\u2019t read, but his jaw wasn\u2019t hard. It was trembling.<\/p>\n
After the event, a line formed for book signings. People thanked me, told me their stories, told me I made them feel seen.<\/p>\n
My parents waited until the line was almost gone.<\/p>\n
Then they approached slowly.<\/p>\n
My mother held my book like it was fragile. \u201cWould you\u2026 sign it?\u201d she asked softly.<\/p>\n
I stared at her.<\/p>\n
Not at the mother who wrote the letter.<\/p>\n
At a woman trying, late, to become someone else.<\/p>\n
I took the book and signed it.<\/p>\n
To Mom \u2014 may you learn to see what matters.<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s breath hitched.<\/p>\n
My father cleared his throat. \u201cI\u2019m proud of you,\u201d he said again, voice rough.<\/p>\n
I nodded once. \u201cThank you,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Then, before they could say more, I added, \u201cThe past still matters. You don\u2019t get to erase it. You don\u2019t get to rush this.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father nodded slowly. \u201cWe won\u2019t,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
My mother whispered, \u201cWe\u2019re sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
This time, it didn\u2019t sound like a performance.<\/p>\n
It sounded like grief.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t hug them. Not yet.<\/p>\n
But I didn\u2019t step back either.<\/p>\n
When they left, Vanessa came up beside me and asked, \u201cHow do you feel?\u201d<\/p>\n
I thought about it.<\/p>\n
\u201cLike I\u2019m not drowning anymore,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Vanessa nodded. \u201cGood.\u201d<\/p>\n
Outside, New Haven\u2019s spring air smelled like damp pavement and new leaves. I walked home with my signed copies and my tired feet and a strange lightness in my chest.<\/p>\n
They had tried to break me with a letter.<\/p>\n
Instead, they had forced the truth into the open.<\/p>\n
And in the open, I learned something they never taught me:<\/p>\n
I was never the problem.<\/p>\n
I was just the one who refused to be purchased.<\/p>\n
And now, finally, I belonged to myself.<\/p>\n
Part 7 By the time May warmed New Haven into something almost gentle, I had stopped bracing every time my phone buzzed. I\u2019d stopped expecting my parents\u2019 voices to crash … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1089,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1091","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story","category-story-daily"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1091","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1091"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1091\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1092,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1091\/revisions\/1092"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1089"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1091"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1091"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1091"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}