![\"\"](\"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/04\/1776796517-300x167.png\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
I could have paid off my student loans. I could have put a down payment on a house. I could have traveled, invested, built a life beyond overtime shifts and fluorescent break rooms.<\/p>\n
Instead, I had funded their comfort while they laughed at my loneliness.<\/p>\n
I exported the spreadsheet into a PDF\u2014thirty-seven pages of receipts, statements, dates, categories. A ledger of their entitlement.<\/p>\n
Then I took screenshots of the group chat\u2014every cruel joke, every meme, every line that revealed their system.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t do it for revenge. Not exactly.<\/p>\n
I did it the way we take photos of bruises in the ER: so no one can later claim it wasn\u2019t real.<\/p>\n
By the time the sun began to lift the edge of the night, my hands had stopped shaking.<\/p>\n
My face felt tight with dried tears, but my mind was clear.<\/p>\n
I opened the chat.<\/p>\n
Messages had continued while I worked.<\/p>\n
Sarah:<\/strong>\u00a0If we tell her Mom\u2019s heart can\u2019t handle hosting, she\u2019ll cover the cabin again. I stared at that last line.<\/p>\n She won\u2019t.<\/p>\n I typed my message slowly, deliberately, like I was signing a discharge order.<\/p>\n Hi everyone. Looks like I was accidentally added to this chat. How convenient.<\/em><\/p>\n I attached the PDF.<\/p>\n Since I\u2019m apparently a \u201choliday parasite,\u201d I\u2019ve decided to stop feeding the hosts.<\/em><\/p>\n Attached is documentation of every payment I\u2019ve made to this family over the last five years. Total: $60,000. Consider it my final Christmas gift.<\/em><\/p>\n All shared services and subscriptions have been canceled, effective immediately. The phone plan expires in 48 hours. I will not be attending Christmas this year or any year going forward. I will not be available for emergency loans, holiday funds, or any form of financial support. If you\u2019re unclear why, scroll up.<\/em><\/p>\n You\u2019ve spent three years making it obvious how you feel about me. I believe you now.<\/em><\/p>\n Merry Christmas. Don\u2019t contact me again.<\/em><\/p>\n My finger hovered over send.<\/p>\n There was a moment\u2014small, almost tender\u2014where I felt the old version of myself rise up. The Lily who still hoped someone might surprise her. The Lily who still wanted her mother to be proud for the right reasons. The Lily who still thought love could be earned through sacrifice.<\/p>\n Then I remembered my mother\u2019s message:\u00a0She won\u2019t.<\/em><\/p>\n I pressed send.<\/p>\n Immediately, I blocked every number.<\/p>\n Mother. Father. David. Sarah. Chloe. Aunt Renee. Cousin Olivia. Everyone.<\/p>\n Then I deleted my social media accounts. Every last one.<\/p>\n Instagram, Facebook, Twitter\u2014gone.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t want to see their replies. I didn\u2019t want their apologies or their rage or their attempts to rewrite history. Going nuclear only works if you don\u2019t stand too close to the blast.<\/p>\n My phone buzzed within minutes\u2014unknown numbers calling, voicemails piling up.<\/p>\n I turned the phone off.<\/p>\n The silence that followed felt like stepping out of a noisy room and realizing you can hear your own breathing again.<\/p>\n I showered, slowly. Hot water beat down on my shoulders and washed away the hospital smell. I put on clean clothes. I sat at my small kitchen table and ate toast like I was a person who had time to taste food.<\/p>\n Then I went back to the hospital for another shift, because my life had always been work, but now work was no longer the thing I used to avoid my family.<\/p>\n Now it was the thing that would build me out of the wreckage.<\/p>\n That year, staffing was brutal. Everyone wanted time off for the holidays, and management offered extra holiday pay\u2014time and a half, plus bonuses for certain dates.<\/p>\n I used to volunteer for holiday shifts because I told myself it was better than sitting at home alone, and because my family liked to guilt me into it anyway. \u201cYou\u2019re a nurse,\u201d Mom would say, as if the word meant I had fewer needs. \u201cYou\u2019re needed.\u201d<\/p>\n Now I took the shifts for a different reason.<\/p>\n I took every available holiday shift from November 1st to January 15th.<\/p>\n Seventy-five days of structured exhaustion and time-and-a-half pay.<\/p>\n I did the math like a prayer. With overtime, I could clear around $42,000 in two and a half months.<\/p>\n That number used to sound like impossible wealth.<\/p>\n Now it sounded like reparations.<\/p>\n Work became a cocoon.<\/p>\n I worked. I slept. I worked again.<\/p>\n No family drama. No \u201cemergency\u201d phone calls. No guilt.<\/p>\n My coworkers noticed the change, because you can\u2019t remove a weight from someone\u2019s shoulders without altering how they move.<\/p>\n Linda, our charge nurse, watched me catch a medication error before it reached a patient. It was a subtle thing\u2014a dosage mismatch that would have been easy to miss on a chaotic night.<\/p>\n I caught it because my mind wasn\u2019t split anymore, half on my shift and half on whether David would call with another crisis.<\/p>\n Another day, I noticed a shift in a patient\u2019s speech and grip strength\u2014tiny signs that a resident brushed off as fatigue. I pushed for imaging anyway. The scan showed early stroke activity. We intervened fast.<\/p>\n Linda pulled me aside afterward. \u201cWhatever\u2019s changed with you,\u201d she said, eyes sharp, \u201ckeep doing it. You\u2019ve always been good, but lately you\u2019ve been\u2026 exceptional.\u201d<\/p>\n I almost laughed, because exceptional was just what I looked like when I wasn\u2019t being bled dry.<\/p>\n Three weeks in, the first real test arrived.<\/p>\n I was restocking supplies in the ICU when I heard my name.<\/p>\n Not \u201cNurse Morrison,\u201d not \u201cLily\u201d the way my coworkers said it.<\/p>\n My full name, called in a tremulous voice from the unit doorway.<\/p>\n \u201cLily!\u201d<\/p>\n I turned, and my stomach dropped.<\/p>\n Chloe stood there, small and pale, eyes red like she\u2019d been crying for hours. She looked younger than thirty-four seconds ago I would have expected. She looked like the sister I used to buy ice cream for when she had a bad day, the girl who\u2019d climb into my bed as a kid and whisper fears into my shoulder.<\/p>\n But then my mind flashed to the chat:<\/p>\n Maybe I\u2019ll finally get that Gucci bag.<\/em><\/p>\n My face went cold.<\/p>\n \u201cYou can\u2019t be here,\u201d I said quickly, stepping toward her. The ICU doorway was a threshold with rules for a reason. People don\u2019t wander in here. \u201cThis is a restricted area. Family consultation rooms are on the second floor.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLily, please,\u201d Chloe whispered. \u201cJust five minutes.\u201d<\/p>\n My body reacted with old training\u2014guilt, softness, the instinct to make her feel better. But another part of me\u2014the part that had been born at 3:12 a.m.\u2014stayed firm.<\/p>\n I pressed the call button for security.<\/p>\n \u201cUnauthorized individual in the ICU,\u201d I said into the intercom, voice calm. \u201cPlease respond.\u201d<\/p>\n Chloe\u2019s eyes widened. \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cProtecting my patients,\u201d I said, because that was true. And also protecting myself.<\/p>\n A security guard appeared within seconds. Our ICU protocols weren\u2019t suggestions.<\/p>\n \u201cThis person isn\u2019t authorized,\u201d I told him. \u201cPlease escort her out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLily,\u201d Chloe\u2019s voice cracked. \u201cI\u2019m your sister.\u201d<\/p>\n I looked at her for a long beat.<\/p>\n The old Lily would have folded right there. She would have walked Chloe down to the family room, listened, softened, reassured, maybe even sent money again if Chloe cried hard enough.<\/p>\n Instead, I said, quietly and clearly, \u201cI\u2019m an only child.\u201d<\/p>\n Chloe made a small sobbing sound.<\/p>\n The guard placed a hand lightly on her elbow. She tried to resist at first, then broke down into tears as he guided her away.<\/p>\n She turned her head back toward me, eyes desperate.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t follow.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t feel guilt. Not the way I expected. I felt\u2026 nothing. Like the connection had been severed somewhere deep.<\/p>\n Five minutes of crying didn\u2019t repair three years of cruelty.<\/p>\n Ten minutes later, Linda found me in the supply closet counting IV bags with mechanical focus.<\/p>\n \u201cWant to talk about it?\u201d she asked gently.<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s nothing to talk about,\u201d I said. \u201cSomeone tried to access a restricted area. Security handled it.\u201d<\/p>\n Linda\u2019s eyes held mine. \u201cThat woman said she was your sister.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t have a sister,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n Linda studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. \u201cOkay,\u201d she said. \u201cBut if you ever do want to talk, my door\u2019s open.\u201d<\/p>\n She paused, then added, \u201cAnd for what it\u2019s worth, I\u2019m proud of how you handled it. Professional. Appropriate. No drama.\u201d<\/p>\n I nodded because my throat had tightened too much to speak.<\/p>\n After she left, I finished the inventory count, documented everything carefully, and returned to my patients.<\/p>\n Routine and structure kept me sane.<\/p>\n Thanksgiving came faster than I expected.<\/p>\n Rachel, a nurse I\u2019d worked with for three years, had invited me to her house. I almost declined out of habit. Holidays had always belonged to my family, even when they hurt. Even when I spent them working extra shifts so I could send money home.<\/p>\n But Rachel\u2019s invitation was warm and direct. \u201cCome,\u201d she said. \u201cNo one should be alone on Thanksgiving.\u201d<\/p>\n So I went.<\/p>\n I arrived with an expensive bottle of wine and a homemade sweet potato casserole, and it startled me that I could afford it now. I didn\u2019t even have to think hard about it.<\/p>\n Rachel\u2019s home was cozy and chaotic in the best way. Kids ran around with foam swords. Her husband Mark told dad jokes while basting a turkey. Someone spilled cranberry juice and no one screamed. The air smelled like butter and laughter and slightly burned rolls.<\/p>\n Susan\u2014Rachel\u2019s mother\u2014met me in the kitchen, wiping flour on her apron.<\/p>\n \u201cYou must be Lily,\u201d she said, smiling like she\u2019d known me forever. \u201cRachel talks about you constantly. The brilliant nurse who never complains about double shifts.\u201d<\/p>\n Heat rushed to my face. Compliments still felt like a language I didn\u2019t speak.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s me,\u201d I said, awkward.<\/p>\n \u201cWell,\u201d Susan said warmly, \u201cwe\u2019re glad you\u2019re here. Rachel says you\u2019re alone for the holidays.\u201d<\/p>\n There it was. The inevitable question.<\/p>\n I had prepared for it like I prepared for difficult patient conversations.<\/p>\n \u201cMy family and I aren\u2019t in contact anymore,\u201d I said simply. \u201cToxic situation. Better for everyone that I stepped away.\u201d<\/p>\n Susan nodded like she understood more than I\u2019d said. \u201cGood for you,\u201d she replied, calm and firm. \u201cToo many people stay in harmful situations out of obligation. Family should make you feel loved, not used.\u201d<\/p>\n The word used hit me differently from a stranger. Validation from someone with no stake in my guilt.<\/p>\n Dinner was loud and imperfect. The turkey was a little dry. The green beans were oversalted. The kids argued about who got the last roll. Mark pretended to be outraged at the dry turkey and everyone laughed.<\/p>\n Susan told a story about the year she served a turkey that was frozen in the center to twenty guests. \u201cWe ordered pizza,\u201d she said, laughing. \u201cBest Thanksgiving ever because it was the year we stopped pretending everything had to be perfect.\u201d<\/p>\n I thought about my family\u2019s holidays\u2014catered meals, elaborate decor, everything polished. The image mattered more than the joy. And behind it all, they were mocking me for paying for perfection they didn\u2019t even appreciate.<\/p>\n This flawed, noisy dinner with near strangers felt warmer than any holiday I\u2019d spent with my biological family.<\/p>\n After dinner, Rachel and I stepped onto the back patio with mugs of coffee. The cold air made my lungs feel sharp and clean.<\/p>\n \u201cThank you for inviting me,\u201d I said. \u201cThis was\u2026 really nice.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThank you for coming,\u201d Rachel replied. She leaned against the railing, watching her kids through the window. \u201cI know it probably feels weird spending holidays with coworkers.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re more than a coworker,\u201d I said, and the honesty surprised me. \u201cYou\u2019re a friend. Maybe my only real friend.\u201d<\/p>\n Rachel was quiet for a moment. Then she looked at me, serious.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat happened with your family, Lily?\u201d she asked gently. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to tell me everything, but\u2026 you\u2019ve changed so much in the past month. You\u2019re lighter. Like you were carrying something heavy and finally put it down.\u201d<\/p>\n I told her the core of it. Not every detail, but enough\u2014the group chat, the mockery, the money.<\/p>\n Rachel listened without interrupting, her face shifting from disbelief to anger to grief.<\/p>\n \u201cSixty thousand,\u201d she repeated when I finished, voice low. \u201cLily, that\u2019s\u2026 that\u2019s financial abuse.\u201d<\/p>\n I flinched at the word. Abuse felt too dramatic, too extreme.<\/p>\n Rachel didn\u2019t let me soften it.<\/p>\n \u201cThey manipulated you,\u201d she said, firm. \u201cThey lied to you, isolated you, exploited your kindness. That\u2019s abuse. The fact that they\u2019re family doesn\u2019t make it less severe. It makes it worse.\u201d<\/p>\n My eyes burned with tears I refused to let fall.<\/p>\n \u201cI feel stupid,\u201d I admitted. \u201cLike I should have seen it sooner.\u201d<\/p>\n Rachel shook her head. \u201cCon artists target smart people,\u201d she said fiercely, \u201cbecause smart people assume they\u2019re too smart to be conned. You\u2019re not stupid. You\u2019re kind. They weaponized your kindness. That\u2019s on them.\u201d<\/p>\n Inside, Rachel\u2019s daughter complained her phone was ancient. Rachel told her she could get a new one if she saved her allowance. Nobody expected someone else to fund their wants.<\/p>\n It was such a normal, healthy exchange that my chest ached.<\/p>\n On December 24th, I worked a twelve-hour shift in the ICU.<\/p>\n Around three in the afternoon, a woman approached the nurse\u2019s station looking disoriented, clutching her purse like a lifeline.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m trying to find my daughter,\u201d she said. \u201cShe\u2019s a nurse here. Lily Green.\u201d<\/p>\n My breath caught.<\/p>\n Even with the hair styled differently, even with her face thinner, I recognized my mother immediately. The desperation in her eyes was unmistakable\u2014my mother had always been good at desperate when it got her what she wanted.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said quietly. \u201cThere\u2019s no one here by that name.\u201d<\/p>\n It wasn\u2019t exactly a lie.<\/p>\n Two months earlier, I\u2019d filed paperwork to change my name. The legal process was still in motion, but in every way that mattered, I had stopped being Lily Morrison. Morrison was my father\u2019s name, my family\u2019s name, the name attached to checks and obligations.<\/p>\n I had chosen my grandmother\u2019s maiden name: Green.<\/p>\n It felt like reclaiming something gentler. Something older than the rot.<\/p>\n \u201cPlease,\u201d my mother pleaded, stepping closer. \u201cI know she works here. I need to talk to her.\u201d<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n Behind her, I saw patients\u2019 families waiting on chairs, eyes hollow with fear. The ICU wasn\u2019t a stage for my mother\u2019s performance.<\/p>\n Security arrived before I had to do anything. Apparently she\u2019d been making a disturbance in the lobby for an hour, insisting she had a right to see \u201cher daughter.\u201d<\/p>\n They escorted her out. She shouted my old name as she went, voice raw.<\/p>\n I kept my hands steady and finished my shift.<\/p>\n The next week blurred into work and sleep.<\/p>\n On January 3rd, the hospital in Portland offered me the position I\u2019d once turned down.<\/p>\n Head nurse, cardiac unit.<\/p>\n Forty thousand dollars more per year.<\/p>\n Signing bonus.<\/p>\n Relocation assistance.<\/p>\n The offer sat on my screen like a door flung open.<\/p>\n A year earlier, I\u2019d turned it down because my mother cried, \u201cWho will help us if you leave?\u201d and I believed that was love.<\/p>\n Now I understood it was dependence.<\/p>\n I accepted immediately.<\/p>\n By mid-January, my name change became official.<\/p>\n Lily Morrison was legally dead.<\/p>\n Lily Green was born.<\/p>\n The day I picked up my new driver\u2019s license, my hands trembled\u2014not from fear, but from the weight of it. Proof. Documentation. A new identity stamped into plastic.<\/p>\n I felt like I\u2019d been reborn, and for the first time, the paperwork of my life felt like freedom instead of burden.<\/p>\n Portland was rain and pine and space.<\/p>\n My new apartment was double the size of my old studio. It had a gym downstairs and a rooftop garden. I bought real furniture\u2014not curb finds or Facebook Marketplace bargains. I bought a couch that didn\u2019t sag. I bought a bed frame. I bought art for my walls because I wanted color around me.<\/p>\n At the shelter, I adopted a gray tabby cat with a crooked ear and wary eyes. The volunteer said he\u2019d been found in a burned-out building.<\/p>\n I named him Phoenix.<\/p>\n The first night he curled up beside me on the couch, purring like a small engine, I put my hand on his fur and felt something inside me soften.<\/p>\n I was building a home that didn\u2019t require anyone\u2019s permission.<\/p>\n My old email account\u2014my old life\u2014continued receiving messages. I set up a folder called\u00a0Dead to Me<\/strong>\u00a0that auto-archived everything without notifying me.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t open it for months.<\/p>\n Then curiosity got the better of me on a rainy night in March. Phoenix was asleep on my lap, the apartment quiet, my mind restless.<\/p>\n I clicked.<\/p>\n My mother\u2019s emails were long guilt trips drenched in obligation. She wrote about \u201cfamily values\u201d and \u201chow cruel you\u2019ve become.\u201d She wrote as if the group chat didn\u2019t exist, as if my boundaries were a betrayal.<\/p>\n Sarah sent a two-sentence apology that blamed postpartum depression from four years ago. David insisted I\u2019d \u201cmisread the context\u201d and that the chat was \u201cjust jokes.\u201d Couldn\u2019t I take a joke?<\/p>\n Olivia\u2019s message was icy. She said I\u2019d embarrassed the family by airing private matters.<\/p>\n Chloe\u2019s email was different.<\/p>\n Short. Honest. No excuses.<\/p>\n You paid for my education and I called you stupid. You\u2019re the smartest person I know and I\u2019m the idiot.<\/em><\/p>\n I don\u2019t deserve forgiveness, but I need you to know I\u2019m sorry. I started paying you back. It\u2019ll take years, but I\u2019m putting $150 into a savings account every month in your name.<\/em><\/p>\n If you never want to speak to me again, I understand. But I\u2019m sorry. Really truly sorry.<\/em><\/p>\n I stared at her words for a long time.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t reply.<\/p>\n But I didn\u2019t delete it either.<\/p>\n A small seed of something\u2014maybe not forgiveness yet, but possibility\u2014settled into the back of my mind.<\/p>\n Then I saw my father\u2019s email.<\/p>\n He had never posted much in the group chat. His name was there, but he rarely spoke. In my childhood, he wasn\u2019t cruel the way my mother could be; he was absent. He let things happen by not stopping them.<\/p>\n His email was longer than I expected.<\/p>\n Lily,<\/em>\u00a0he wrote.\u00a0I didn\u2019t know about the chat until you sent the screenshots. Your mother showed me her phone and I saw what they\u2019d been saying. What I allowed by staying silent, by not paying attention.<\/em><\/p>\n You deserved better from all of us, but especially from me. I should have protected you.<\/em><\/p>\n I filed for divorce last week. I\u2019m living in an apartment now. I started therapy. I\u2019m trying to understand how I enabled this.<\/em><\/p>\n I\u2019m not asking for forgiveness or reconciliation. I just wanted you to know I see what I failed to do and I\u2019m trying to become someone who wouldn\u2019t fail you again, even if you never let me be part of your life.<\/em><\/p>\n I love you. I\u2019m proud of you. I\u2019m sorry.<\/em><\/p>\n I read the email three times.<\/p>\n Then I closed my laptop.<\/p>\n Some bridges burn because you set them on fire. Some bridges burn because they were built on rot and someone finally lit a match.<\/p>\n Spring arrived in Portland with cherry blossoms and soft rain.<\/p>\n I started dating a man named Ryan\u2014yes, another Ryan in a world full of them\u2014who taught middle school and laughed with his whole face. He admired my dedication instead of trying to exploit it. When we went out, he always paid his share without making it a performance. He never asked me for favors that cost me more than they cost him.<\/p>\n We took a cooking class together and made pasta that came out lumpy and perfect. We laughed until our cheeks hurt. Nobody asked me to cover a \u201cfamily emergency.\u201d Nobody weaponized my empathy. It felt like learning to breathe with different lungs.<\/p>\n Rachel invited me to her family\u2019s Easter celebration, and I went. Susan hugged me when she saw me, like I belonged.<\/p>\n At dinner, Susan asked casually, \u201cHow\u2019s your family doing?\u201d and I surprised myself by answering with the truth.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t have one anymore,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n Susan didn\u2019t flinch. She walked around the table and hugged me, tight and motherly.<\/p>\n \u201cYou do now, honey,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n I went into her bathroom afterward and cried for ten minutes, then came out and ate three servings of ham like a person allowed to be messy.<\/p>\n My bank account grew.<\/p>\n In April, I paid off my student loans in one lump sum\u2014$28,000. When the screen showed a zero balance, my chest felt so light I thought I might float. I sat on my couch and stared at it until Phoenix nudged my hand like he was reminding me to stay in the present.<\/p>\n In May, a cashier\u2019s check arrived with a note from Chloe.<\/p>\n First payment. Many more to come. Your address was on the court documents. I\u2019m not stalking you, I promise. I just want to make this right.<\/p>\n I deposited the check. I sent one text to the number she included\u2014short, neutral.<\/p>\n Received. Thank you.<\/em><\/p>\n She replied instantly.<\/p>\n Thank you for not blocking me. I\u2019m trying.<\/em><\/p>\n In June, my mother found my address.<\/p>\n I came home from work to see her waiting outside my building like a ghost of my old life. She looked older, smaller. The woman who once made chocolate chip pancakes on Sundays and patched my skinned knees stared at me with desperation like she couldn\u2019t understand why the machine had stopped paying out.<\/p>\n \u201cLily,\u201d she said, rushing forward.<\/p>\n I didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n \u201cYou need to leave,\u201d I said calmly, swiping my key fob to enter.<\/p>\n \u201cPlease,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI\u2019m your mother.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s not my name anymore,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n Her eyes widened at the boundary like it was a weapon.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re my daughter,\u201d she insisted, voice trembling.<\/p>\n I could have paid off my student loans. I could have put a down payment on a house. I could have traveled, invested, built a life beyond overtime shifts and … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1153,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1154","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\/1154","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=1154"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1154\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1157,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1154\/revisions\/1157"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1153"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1154"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1154"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1154"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nOlivia:<\/strong>\u00a0Genius.
\nDavid:<\/strong>\u00a0Trained seal\u00a0![\"\ud83d\ude02\"](\"https:\/\/s.w.org\/images\/core\/emoji\/17.0.2\/svg\/1f602.svg\")
\nChloe:<\/strong>\u00a0Don\u2019t push too hard, she might finally grow a spine.
\nMom:<\/strong>\u00a0She won\u2019t.<\/p>\n<\/div>\nCLICK HERE TO CONTINUE READING THE NEXT PART \ud83d\udc49: PART 3-I WAS LYING IN BED AFTER ANOTHER EXHAUSTING 12-HOUR HOSPITAL SHIFT WHEN I ACCIDENTALLY OPENED THE FAMILY GROUP CHAT THEY THOUGHT I\u2019D NEVER SEE<\/a><\/h2>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"