![\"\"](\"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/1778619997-300x167.png\")
<\/p>\n<\/p>\n
I did not fall in love with Daniel over banana bread.<\/p>\n
That would make a cleaner story, but real life is usually messier and slower. What happened was that I toasted one slice, burned the edge, buttered it anyway, and ate it standing at Grandma\u2019s counter because sitting down still felt like a privilege I had to earn.<\/p>\n
Daniel texted the next morning.<\/p>\n
This is Daniel from down the street. Mom wants to know if you need help with leaves before the rain hits again. I want to know if you need coffee.<\/p>\n
I stared at the message while sitting on Grandma\u2019s kitchen floor, surrounded by old recipe cards.<\/p>\n
Need.<\/p>\n
That word had always been dangerous. In my family, need was not something I had. Need was something other people had near me.<\/p>\n
I replied:<\/p>\n
Coffee would be nice.<\/p>\n
Then I panicked for ten minutes because nice sounded too eager, too cold, too something. I nearly sent another message to clarify, apologize, soften, manage.<\/p>\n
I did not.<\/p>\n
He arrived with two coffees and no questions.<\/p>\n
That became the shape of our early friendship. He showed up with simple things. Coffee. Trash bags. A Phillips screwdriver. One afternoon, a stack of moving boxes he said he had left over from helping his sister, though they looked suspiciously new.<\/p>\n
He never once said, \u201cYou\u2019re so strong.\u201d<\/p>\n
I appreciated that more than he knew.<\/p>\n
Strong is what people call you when they do not intend to help.<\/p>\n
Meanwhile, my family adjusted badly to the new world.<\/p>\n
My father\u2019s lawyer sent one letter, stiff and threatening. Mr. Bellamy responded with copies of the no-contest clause, the ledger index, and one sentence: Any further coercive contact will be documented.<\/p>\n
My father stopped emailing after that.<\/p>\n
My mother switched to handwritten letters.<\/p>\n
The first one arrived in a pale blue envelope.<\/p>\n
Evie,<\/p>\n
I keep replaying things. Maybe your grandmother saw more than I wanted to. Maybe I leaned on you too much. I was tired. Your father worked long hours. Ryan was difficult in different ways. You were always so capable.<\/p>\n
Love,
\nMom<\/p>\n
I folded it back along its original creases.<\/p>\n
Maybe.<\/p>\n
Too much.<\/p>\n
Capable.<\/p>\n
The same old cage, repainted.<\/p>\n
I put it in a shoebox.<\/p>\n
The next letters improved in tiny painful increments.<\/p>\n
By the fourth, she wrote:<\/p>\n
I should not have taken your paychecks. I told myself it was family money because that was easier than admitting I was using you.<\/p>\n
By the sixth:<\/p>\n
I knew about the education account. Your father said we would pay it back before you needed it. Then Ryan got the academy invitation, and we convinced ourselves your plans were less certain.<\/p>\n
By the eighth:<\/p>\n
I made your life smaller so his could stay large.<\/p>\n
That sentence made me sit down.<\/p>\n
I read it three times.<\/p>\n
Then I put it in a separate envelope.<\/p>\n
Not forgiveness.<\/p>\n
Evidence.<\/p>\n
Ryan did not write letters. Ryan sent texts at odd hours.<\/p>\n
At first, angry.<\/p>\n
Then defensive.<\/p>\n
Then strangely practical.<\/p>\n
How long do you boil eggs?<\/p>\n
Do you separate whites from colors?<\/p>\n
What does mildew smell like?<\/p>\n
I did not answer most of them. Once, after he sent a photo of a pan filled with blackened rice and the message Is this ruined?, I typed:<\/p>\n
Yes.<\/p>\n
That was all.<\/p>\n
He replied:<\/p>\n
You could tell me how to fix it.<\/p>\n
I wrote:<\/p>\n
YouTube exists.<\/p>\n
He did not respond for three days.<\/p>\n
Then:<\/p>\n
Fair.<\/p>\n
That was the closest Ryan had ever come to accountability, and I did not mistake it for transformation. A man learning to rinse his own plate is not a miracle. It is adulthood arriving late and under protest.<\/p>\n
The real confrontation came with my father.<\/p>\n
He called from a number I did not recognize. I answered because I was expecting a contractor.<\/p>\n
\u201cEvelyn.\u201d<\/p>\n
My stomach tightened.<\/p>\n
I was in Grandma\u2019s hallway, holding paint samples against the wall. Soft green. Warm white. A yellow called Morning Butter that made me laugh because Grandma would have hated the name and loved the color.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m hanging up,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t be childish.\u201d<\/p>\n
There he was.<\/p>\n
Not hello. Not please.<\/p>\n
Command first.<\/p>\n
I stayed silent.<\/p>\n
He took the silence as permission.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have made your point. Your mother is devastated. Ryan is humiliated. I hope that feels good.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt doesn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen fix it.\u201d<\/p>\n
The simplicity of his entitlement almost impressed me.<\/p>\n
\u201cFix what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis division. This ugliness. This rewriting of our family.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the Easter photograph hanging on the wall now, right where guests would see it when they entered. I had put it there myself two days earlier. Every time I passed it, the girl in the pink cardigan looked less like a victim and more like a witness.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t want me to rewrite it,\u201d I said. \u201cYou want me to keep reading from your version.\u201d<\/p>\n
He exhaled sharply. \u201cYour grandmother poisoned you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo. She translated me.\u201d<\/p>\n
That stopped him.<\/p>\n
For three seconds, I heard only the line breathing.<\/p>\n
Then his voice lowered.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were fed. Housed. Clothed. We did our best.\u201d<\/p>\n
There it was. The parental invoice.<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, Dad. You did what was legally required and called the rest love when it benefited you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ungrateful little\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
I hung up.<\/p>\n
My hands shook afterward, but less than I expected.<\/p>\n
I painted the hallway warm white.<\/p>\n
Daniel helped with the high corners because I hated ladders. He wore an old T-shirt with paint on the sleeve and hummed off-key to songs from the radio. At one point, I apologized for asking him to move the ladder again.<\/p>\n
He looked down at me. \u201cEvelyn, you\u2019re allowed to need things.\u201d<\/p>\n
I laughed.<\/p>\n
Then cried.<\/p>\n
He climbed down and stood there awkwardly, holding the paint roller like a man prepared to fight the wall on my behalf.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d I said, wiping my face.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t apologize.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI cry at weird times.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSeems like you cry at accurate times.\u201d<\/p>\n
That made me laugh for real.<\/p>\n
And there it was. Not romance exactly. Not yet.<\/p>\n
Safety.<\/p>\n
A new and unfamiliar room.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The final family meeting happened because my mother asked for it in the only letter I could not put away.<\/p>\n
Evie,<\/p>\n
I know I have no right to ask. I am asking anyway, not for money and not for the house. I want to sit with you once and say the truth without your father speaking over it. If you say no, I will accept that. If you say yes, I will come wherever you choose.<\/p>\n
Mom<\/p>\n
I read it at Grandma\u2019s kitchen table while rain tapped against the same window as before. The house had changed in small ways by then. The walls were painted. The pantry was cleaned. I had replaced the heavy dining chairs with mismatched ones from a flea market because I never wanted a table that looked like it had a throne again.<\/p>\n
Daniel was outside fixing the porch swing chain.<\/p>\n
Through the window, I could see him frowning at a wrench like it had personally disappointed him.<\/p>\n
I did not ask him what to do.<\/p>\n
That mattered.<\/p>\n
Old Evelyn would have handed the decision to someone kind and called it trust. New Evelyn understood that trust and surrender are not the same thing.<\/p>\n
I met my mother at a diner near the highway. Neutral ground. Bright lights. Vinyl booths. Coffee that tasted faintly burned. A waitress with silver hoop earrings refilled cups without hovering.<\/p>\n
My mother arrived ten minutes early.<\/p>\n
She wore no pearls.<\/p>\n
I noticed that first.<\/p>\n
She looked older, but not ruined. That also mattered. Some part of me had expected truth to destroy her completely, because as a child I had been taught that my honesty was dangerous to her survival.<\/p>\n
But there she was, alive, stirring sugar into tea with trembling hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you for coming,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I slid into the booth. \u201cI\u2019m not promising anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
She took a breath.<\/p>\n
Then another.<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew.\u201d<\/p>\n
The words sat between us.<\/p>\n
No softening. No maybe. No passive construction.<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew your grandmother had opened the account. I knew your father used it for Ryan. I told myself we would replace it. When we didn\u2019t, I told myself you were practical, that you would figure things out. I told myself so many things that I stopped hearing how ugly they were.\u201d<\/p>\n
My chest hurt.<\/p>\n
The waitress passed with a pot of coffee. Dishes clattered behind the counter. Somewhere near the kitchen, bacon hissed on a grill.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
It was not the first question. It was the child question. The one that had been sitting barefoot inside me for decades.<\/p>\n
My mother looked at her tea.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause Ryan made your father proud. And you made life work.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt the answer go through me slowly.<\/p>\n
It was not enough.<\/p>\n
It was probably true.<\/p>\n
Those two facts did not cancel each other out.<\/p>\n
She kept going.<\/p>\n
\u201cI confused peace with goodness. If Ryan was happy, your father was easier. If your father was easier, the house was calmer. You were the one who could absorb things. So I let you absorb them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd when I couldn\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou learned not to show it.\u201d<\/p>\n
My eyes burned, but I did not look away.<\/p>\n
My mother cried silently. Not the old parking lot crying. Not the kind that asked to be rescued. She let the tears fall and did not reach for me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am sorry,\u201d she said. \u201cNot because Mother caught me. Not because the will embarrassed us. I am sorry because I made motherhood into management, and you were the cost I kept approving.\u201d<\/p>\n
That one found me.<\/p>\n
I hated that it found me.<\/p>\n
A clean apology does not erase the damage. It does not rebuild a stolen fund, return a dance, uncook a thousand meals, or place a child back into the photographs where she belonged. But it does one useful thing.<\/p>\n
It stops asking the wounded person to carry the lie.<\/p>\n
\u201cThank you for saying that,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Hope moved across her face.<\/p>\n
I had to be careful. Kindness had been confused with permission in my family for too long.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not giving you the house.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her hope flickered.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not redistributing Grandma\u2019s estate.\u201d<\/p>\n
She swallowed. \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not coming to Thanksgiving to prove we\u2019re okay.\u201d<\/p>\n
A tear slipped down her cheek. \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd I\u2019m not taking care of Dad when he gets angry about the consequences of his own life.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother let out a broken little laugh. \u201cHe is very angry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI assumed.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe says you\u2019ve been manipulated.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course he does.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe says your grandmother made you cruel.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked out the window. Cars slid past on wet pavement. A little girl in a red jacket jumped over a puddle while her father held her hand and waited, patient, not rushing.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cShe made me unavailable.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother closed her eyes.<\/p>\n
After the diner, I drove to my parents\u2019 house for the first time since the funeral. Not to go in. Not to reconcile. To collect two boxes from the attic that Mr. Bellamy\u2019s office had confirmed were mine: school papers, old photos, some childhood things my mother said she had found.<\/p>\n
My father opened the door.<\/p>\n
He looked freshly shaved, neatly dressed, and furious in the cleanest possible way.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour mother isn\u2019t here,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m here for the boxes.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stepped aside but did not invite me in with words.<\/p>\n
The house smelled like furniture polish and the lemon cleaner I used to scrub into the baseboards every Saturday. The living room looked exactly the same. Family photos on the mantel. Ryan in baseball uniforms. Ryan at graduation. Ryan holding trophies. One photo of me, senior year, standing beside my father with his hand on my shoulder like he was presenting a completed project.<\/p>\n
The boxes sat by the stairs.<\/p>\n
I picked one up.<\/p>\n
Heavy.<\/p>\n
My father said, \u201cYou think you won.\u201d<\/p>\n
I paused.<\/p>\n
The hallway light buzzed faintly overhead.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think I left,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
His mouth tightened. \u201cBlood matters, Evelyn.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at him then.<\/p>\n
Really looked.<\/p>\n
At the man who had taught me love was labor, belonging was conditional, and exhaustion was feminine virtue. He seemed smaller in that hallway than he had in my memory. Not weak. Just human. Which meant he had chosen more than I once allowed myself to believe.<\/p>\n
\u201cBlood didn\u2019t make you fair,\u201d I said. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t get to make me obedient.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stared at me.<\/p>\n
For a moment, I saw the shape of every apology he would never give. Pride stood in front of all of them, arms crossed.<\/p>\n
I carried the boxes to my car myself.<\/p>\n
He did not help.<\/p>\n
That was perfect, in its way.<\/p>\n
Because this time, the weight was mine only because I chose to take what belonged to me.<\/p>\n
And when I drove away, I did not check the mirror.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Six months after the will reading, I hosted dinner in Grandma\u2019s house.<\/p>\n
Not Thanksgiving. Not Christmas. Not one of those family holidays loaded with tradition like a gun.<\/p>\n
Just a Saturday in April, when the dogwoods were blooming and the evenings smelled like damp soil and cut grass.<\/p>\n
I invited Aunt Denise, who brought a peach cobbler and kissed my cheek twice. I invited Martin, Grandma\u2019s brother, who brought the antique clock back for one night because he said Eleanor would want to hear it ticking in the house again. I invited Daniel\u2019s mother, who brought banana bread because apparently she had decided it was now part of my medical care.<\/p>\n
And I invited Daniel.<\/p>\n
He arrived last, carrying flowers in a mason jar because he said bouquets wrapped in plastic always looked like they were apologizing.<\/p>\n
The kitchen glowed yellow under the new lights. I had painted the cabinets soft green and replaced the old curtains with white ones that moved when the window was open. The blue flour tin sat on a high shelf, empty now, cleaned out, its false bottom placed beside it like a tiny museum exhibit.<\/p>\n
I kept it there on purpose.<\/p>\n
Not as a shrine to pain.<\/p>\n
As a warning to lies.<\/p>\n
Dinner was simple. Roast chicken, potatoes, green beans, salad, cobbler. I cooked because I wanted to, and halfway through, when Aunt Denise stood to help clear plates, Daniel stood too. Then Martin. Then his wife. Within thirty seconds, everyone was carrying something.<\/p>\n
I remained seated.<\/p>\n
At first, my body panicked.<\/p>\n
My legs twitched. My fingers curled around the napkin. A voice inside me said lazy, rude, spoiled, get up before someone notices.<\/p>\n
Someone did notice.<\/p>\n
Daniel looked over from the sink, sleeves rolled to his elbows, soap bubbles on one wrist.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou good?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
I took a breath.<\/p>\n
The room smelled like butter, rosemary, coffee, and sugar warming in the cobbler dish. Forks clinked. The old clock ticked in the living room. Outside, cicadas started up in the trees.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m good.\u201d<\/p>\n
And I stayed sitting.<\/p>\n
That was the whole miracle.<\/p>\n
Not revenge. Not money. Not everyone who hurt me crawling back with perfect regret.<\/p>\n
Just my own body learning the chair would hold me.<\/p>\n
After dessert, Aunt Denise handed me a small envelope.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour grandmother asked me to give you this after you had lived in the house a little while,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I stared at it.<\/p>\n
My name again.<\/p>\n
Evelyn.<\/p>\n
For a second, fear sparked in my chest. I did not know if I could survive another hidden truth.<\/p>\n
Aunt Denise touched my hand. \u201cThis one is kind.\u201d<\/p>\n
I opened it on the porch after everyone left.<\/p>\n
Daniel stayed inside washing the last glasses even though I told him the dishwasher worked. The porch swing moved gently beneath me, its new chain silent and strong.<\/p>\n
Grandma\u2019s letter was only one page.<\/p>\n
My Evie,<\/p>\n
If you are reading this, the worst of the storm has passed, though I know storms leave mud behind.<\/p>\n
I am sorry I did not stop more while I was alive. I saw you, but seeing is not the same as saving. I did what I knew how to do too late, and I hope it is enough to give you room.<\/p>\n
Do not spend the rest of your life proving you deserved what I left you. You did not earn love by suffering. You do not earn rest by collapsing. You do not owe forgiveness to people who only regret losing access to you.<\/p>\n
Keep the house if it brings peace. Sell it if it becomes a cage. Love someone new if they meet you standing. Stay alone if alone feels honest. Sit down first sometimes. Let other people carry plates.<\/p>\n
And when they call you helpful, remember that you were always more than what you could do for them.<\/p>\n
Grandma<\/p>\n
I read it twice.<\/p>\n
Then a third time.<\/p>\n
The porch blurred. I pressed the page against my chest and let the grief come, not sharp this time, but wide. I missed her so badly I could feel it in my teeth.<\/p>\n
The door opened behind me.<\/p>\n
Daniel stepped out, drying his hands on a dish towel.<\/p>\n
\u201cEverything okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded, then shook my head, then laughed because both were true.<\/p>\n
He sat beside me, not too close.<\/p>\n
That was one of the things I liked about him. He understood distance could be respectful, not cold.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe said I don\u2019t have to earn rest,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Daniel looked out at the dark yard.<\/p>\n
\u201cSmart woman.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe was.\u201d<\/p>\n
The swing moved beneath us.<\/p>\n
After a while, he said, \u201cYour mom called while you were outside. Your phone was on the counter. I didn\u2019t answer.\u201d<\/p>\n
My stomach tightened, but not like before.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did it say?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJust her name.\u201d<\/p>\n
I nodded.<\/p>\n
My mother still wrote sometimes. Her letters had become less pleading, more honest. She had started therapy. She had moved into the guest room, according to Aunt Denise, though I had not asked. She wanted lunch again.<\/p>\n
Maybe one day I would go.<\/p>\n
Maybe I would not.<\/p>\n
My father never apologized. Ryan sent me a photo once of a clean kitchen sink with the message: Don\u2019t faint.<\/p>\n
I replied with a thumbs-up.<\/p>\n
That was the entire conversation.<\/p>\n
People sometimes think not forgiving means staying angry forever. It does not. Anger is too much work to keep polished every day. Not forgiving, for me, meant I stopped pretending the debt was paid because the debt made them uncomfortable.<\/p>\n
I did not wish them ruin.<\/p>\n
I simply refused to be their repair.<\/p>\n
A month later, I sold my old apartment lease, moved fully into Grandma\u2019s house, and opened a small catering business out of a rented commercial kitchen downtown. I named it The Chair at the Table.<\/p>\n
Aunt Denise cried when she saw the logo.<\/p>\n
Daniel built the website and pretended not to be proud when the first inquiry came through from a woman hosting a retirement party for her mother.<\/p>\n
On opening day, I stood alone in the kitchen before sunrise, tying my apron.<\/p>\n
For a moment, fear whispered the old words.<\/p>\n
Who do you think you are?<\/p>\n
I looked around.<\/p>\n
Stainless steel counters. Clean knives. Stacks of white plates. A clipboard with orders written in my own hand. Coffee steaming near the prep sink. Morning light spreading across the floor like butter.<\/p>\n
I answered out loud.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m Evelyn Hart.\u201d<\/p>\n
The first event went beautifully.<\/p>\n
I burned one tray of rolls, forgot where I put the parsley, and cried in the walk-in refrigerator for ninety seconds because happiness still scared me when it arrived without a bill attached.<\/p>\n
Then I went back out and served food I was paid to make, to people who said thank you and meant it.<\/p>\n
That night, I came home exhausted in a way that belonged to me. My feet hurt. My hair smelled like garlic and sugar. My hands were dry from washing. But no one had taken my labor and renamed it love. No one had sat at the head of my life and told me where to stand.<\/p>\n
I put Grandma\u2019s final letter in a frame beside the Easter photograph.<\/p>\n
The photograph stayed in the hallway.<\/p>\n
Guests noticed it sometimes.<\/p>\n
They would smile uncertainly and ask, \u201cIs that you in the back?\u201d<\/p>\n
And I would say, \u201cYes. That was me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Not ashamed.<\/p>\n
Not hiding.<\/p>\n
Then I would lead them into the kitchen, where the table had no head chair, the plates were stacked within everyone\u2019s reach, and the blue flour tin watched quietly from the shelf.<\/p>\n
Every so often, when dinner was over and people began to stand, I still felt the old command run through my body.<\/p>\n
Move. Clear. Serve. Prove.<\/p>\n
But now I heard Grandma too.<\/p>\n
Sit down first sometimes.<\/p>\n
So I did.<\/p>\n
I sat.<\/p>\n
I let the people who loved me carry plates.<\/p>\n
And the world did not end.<\/p>\n
THE END!<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Part 6 I did not fall in love with Daniel over banana bread. That would make a cleaner story, but real life is usually messier and slower. What happened was … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2091,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2093","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\/2093","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=2093"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2093\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2094,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2093\/revisions\/2094"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2091"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2093"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2093"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2093"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}