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<\/p>\nMy name is Grace Meyers. I\u2019m thirty-six years old. Twenty years ago, my parents kicked me out of the house for getting pregnant in tenth grade. Sixteen years old. November rain. One suitcase. My mother pointing at the door, telling me I was dead to them. That same night, they signed papers erasing me from the family. Me and any child I might ever have. I kept those papers. I kept everything. For two decades, I was invisible. They told everyone I\u2019d moved abroad, built their spotless reputation on the grave of the daughter they threw away. Then last week, they showed up at my door\u2014desperate, smiling, demanding to meet their grandson, a grandson they\u2019d bragged about for months to two hundred of their most powerful friends. They offered me a quarter million dollars. They had no idea that the grandson they\u2019d been promising everyone didn\u2019t exist, and what they found instead would tear apart everything they\u2019d spent fifty years building.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Portland, Oregon. November 2004. I was sixteen, a sophomore at St. Catherine\u2019s Academy, and the youngest child of Richard and Diane Meyers. On paper, we were the perfect family. My father owned a successful real estate law practice downtown, Meyers and Associates, established in 1987. My mother had been president of the parent-teacher association for four consecutive years. We sat in the front pew at Grace Fellowship Church every Sunday, dressed in coordinated outfits my mother selected each Saturday night.<\/p>\n
But every family has its hierarchy, and I learned mine early. Nathan, my older brother, was twenty-two and in his third year of dental school. He was the pride of the family, the son who would carry on the Meyers name. Carolyn, twenty, was studying to become a teacher, the beautiful daughter who never questioned anything. And then there was me. I was what my mother once called \u201cthe surprise,\u201d born when she was thirty-four, six years after she thought she was done having children. I don\u2019t think she ever forgave me for disrupting her plans.<\/p>\n
The signs were subtle, but constant. Family photos displayed prominently in the living room somehow never included my school portraits. Dinner conversations revolved around Nathan\u2019s clinical rotations or Carolyn\u2019s student-teaching placement. When I mentioned making the honor roll, my father would nod and say, \u201cThat\u2019s nice, Grace,\u201d before turning back to Nathan. I learned to make myself small, to not ask for too much, to not need too much.<\/p>\n
My father had a saying he repeated at every family gathering. Reputation takes twenty years to build and five minutes to destroy. I didn\u2019t understand then how prophetic those words would become, or that I would be the five minutes he feared.<\/p>\n
I met Marcus Webb at the public library downtown. It sounds unremarkable, but for me the library was sanctuary, a place where no one compared me to my siblings or reminded me of expectations I could never meet. I went there three afternoons a week, ostensibly to study, really just to breathe. Marcus attended Jefferson High, the public school my parents would never acknowledge existed. He was seventeen, worked part-time at his uncle\u2019s auto repair shop, and had the kindest eyes I\u2019d ever seen. He found me crying in the biography section one October afternoon after my mother had forgotten to pick me up from school for the third time that month.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey,\u201d he said, sliding into the seat across from me. \u201cYou okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
No one had asked me that in a very long time. We dated secretly for two months. He was gentle and patient and made me feel like I mattered, like I was someone worth remembering.<\/p>\n
I\u2019ll never forget staring at that pregnancy test in the bathroom of a gas station three miles from my school. Two pink lines. My hands wouldn\u2019t stop shaking. When I told Marcus, he didn\u2019t run. He didn\u2019t make excuses. He held my hands and said:<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ll figure this out together, Grace. You\u2019re not alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wanted to believe him. Part of me did. But I knew my parents. I knew what mattered to them. And I knew that when I told them, their first question wouldn\u2019t be, \u201cAre you okay?\u201d It would be, \u201cWhat will people think?\u201d<\/p>\n
I decided to tell them at Sunday dinner. I didn\u2019t know it would be the last meal I ever ate in that house. The roast beef was overcooked. I remember that detail because I was staring at it, trying to find the courage to speak, while my father complained about a property dispute and my mother calculated which families would attend the church Christmas gala.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have something to tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n
The table went quiet. Four faces turned toward me. My parents. Nathan, home for the weekend. Carolyn, visiting from college. I was eight weeks pregnant, and I couldn\u2019t hide it much longer.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m pregnant.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s fork clattered against her plate. My father didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho is the father?\u201d His voice was ice. \u201cIs it someone from St. Catherine\u2019s? Someone we know?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHis name is Marcus Webb. He goes to Jefferson High. He works at\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe public school.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s face had gone pale.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve been seeing a boy from the public school?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s a good person, Mom. He comes from a good family.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father cut in.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does his father do?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe lives with his uncle. He works at an auto shop.\u201d<\/p>\n
The silence that followed lasted exactly eleven seconds. I counted. Then my father stood.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou will not keep it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cRichard,\u201d my mother started.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe will not destroy everything we\u2019ve built.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at me like I was a stranger, like I was something that needed to be removed.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you keep that baby, you are no longer part of this family.\u201d<\/p>\n
By 9:15 that night, I was standing on the front porch with one suitcase, rain soaking through my sweater. My mother had opened the door and pointed outside. Not my father. My mother. Nathan and Carolyn watched from the upstairs window. Neither of them came down.<\/p>\n
I called Marcus from a pay phone at the gas station on Mulberry Street. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely dial. He picked up on the second ring.<\/p>\n
\u201cGrace, what\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey kicked me out.\u201d<\/p>\n
Twenty minutes later, his uncle\u2019s truck pulled up to the gas station. Marcus jumped out before it fully stopped, wrapped me in his jacket, and held me while I sobbed against his chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve got you,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve got you.\u201d<\/p>\n
We didn\u2019t have a plan. We had three hundred dollars between us, a truck with questionable brakes, and nowhere to go. That\u2019s when Margaret Torres saved my life. She was our neighbor, three houses down from the Meyers residence, sixty-two years old, a retired schoolteacher, the only person on our street who didn\u2019t treat my father like he owned the neighborhood. She\u2019d seen me standing in the rain from her window. She\u2019d watched long enough to understand.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can stay with me,\u201d she said when I knocked on her door at nearly ten that night. \u201cAs long as you need.\u201d<\/p>\n
Two weeks. That\u2019s how long we stayed in Mrs. Torres\u2019s guest room before Marcus found us a studio apartment in Seattle. Four hundred twenty-five dollars a month, above a laundromat that smelled like bleach and secondhand hope.<\/p>\n
My parents had their lawyer draw up papers the night they threw me out. I know because my father mailed me a copy three days later, certified mail, signature required, like I was a business transaction. The document stated that Grace Elizabeth Meyers forfeited all inheritance rights and the Meyers family bore no legal or moral obligation to her or any child born to her. I kept that paper. I\u2019ve kept it for twenty years.<\/p>\n
Lily Grace Meyers Webb was born on July 6, 2005, at Harborview Medical Center in Seattle. Seven pounds, four ounces. Ten fingers, ten toes. Her father\u2019s brown eyes and my stubborn chin. She came into the world screaming, and I thought, Good. Scream. Make them hear you. Don\u2019t ever let anyone make you small.<\/p>\n
The first five years were a blur of survival. Marcus worked double shifts at a repair shop in Ballard while I finished my GED, then started community college classes, two at a time, whatever I could manage around Lily\u2019s schedule. We lived on ramen noodles and free bread from the day-old bin at the bakery down the street. I learned to sew patches onto patches to make a dollar stretch until it begged for mercy.<\/p>\n
I sent my parents a birth announcement when Lily was born. No response. I sent a photo on her first birthday. Silence. By her second birthday, I stopped trying.<\/p>\n
Marcus and I never got married. We kept saying we would someday, when we had money for a real wedding, when life calmed down. Someday kept getting pushed back. Then on March 15, 2010, a delivery truck ran a red light on Aurora Avenue. Marcus was driving home from a night shift. The police officer who came to my door said he died on impact. He was twenty-six years old. Lily was four.<\/p>\n
The life insurance policy Marcus had through work paid out twelve thousand dollars. That was it. Twelve thousand dollars for twenty-six years of a good man\u2019s life. I was twenty-two years old, a single mother with a four-year-old daughter, twelve thousand dollars, and absolutely no one to call.<\/p>\n
I could have given up then. I didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
I\u2019d started doing small interior design projects while Marcus was alive, decorating apartments for neighbors who couldn\u2019t afford professionals, staging homes for real estate agents willing to take a chance on a young mother with no credentials. I had an eye for it, people said. A gift for making small spaces feel like home. After Marcus died, I threw myself into that work like my life depended on it, because it did.<\/p>\n
In 2012, I met Eleanor Vance at a design workshop at Seattle Central College. She was fifty-two, recently retired as creative director of a major design firm, and looking for a project. For reasons I still don\u2019t fully understand, she chose me.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have talent,\u201d she said after reviewing my portfolio. \u201cRaw, unpolished, but real. Let me help you shape it.\u201d<\/p>\n
In 2014, with Eleanor\u2019s mentorship and a fifty-thousand-dollar SBA loan that took me three attempts to secure, I founded Hearth & Home Interiors. Our first office was a converted closet in a shared workspace.<\/p>\n
By 2018, we had eight employees and revenue of $1.2 million.<\/p>\n
By 2022, Seattle Met magazine ran a feature story on me: From Teen Mom to Design CEO: Grace Meyers\u2019s Story. The journalist spent three days interviewing me about my journey\u2014the pregnancy at sixteen, being cut off from my family, losing Marcus, building a business from nothing. I told her everything except my parents\u2019 names. Not to protect them. To protect Lily from anyone who might try to connect her to people who never wanted her to exist.<\/p>\n
By 2024, Hearth & Home had twenty-two employees, $4.2 million in annual revenue, and a corner office overlooking Capitol Hill. My daughter was nineteen, a sophomore at the University of Washington, majoring in psychology. She was brilliant and fierce and everything I had hoped she would become.<\/p>\n
Twenty years. No contact from the Meyers family until last week.<\/p>\n
I had just gotten home from a client meeting, a tech executive renovating her Mercer Island waterfront property, a contract worth eight hundred thousand dollars. My mind was still running through fabric samples and lighting options when I turned onto my street and saw the car: a black Mercedes-Benz S-Class, Oregon plates.<\/p>\n
My heart stopped.<\/p>\n
I parked in my driveway and sat there for a full minute, gripping the steering wheel, watching two figures standing at my front door. The man had gray hair now, stooped shoulders. The woman still held herself with that rigid posture, that constant vigilance against anything that might disturb her carefully constructed world.<\/p>\n
Richard and Diane Meyers. My parents.<\/p>\n
I hadn\u2019t seen them in twenty years.<\/p>\n
I considered driving away, going to a hotel, calling Lily, pretending this wasn\u2019t happening. But I was thirty-six years old. I owned a company. I had built a life without them. I would not run.<\/p>\n
I got out of my car and walked toward them. My father spoke first.<\/p>\n
\u201cGrace, you look\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
He paused, scanning me. My designer coat. My leather bag. My house.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother stepped forward. Her face had more lines now. Her hair was a careful shade of ash blonde that didn\u2019t quite match her age.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe know about your son, Grace. We know you have a son.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at her.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019d like to meet him,\u201d my father added. \u201cWe\u2019d like to reconnect as a family.\u201d<\/p>\n
The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh. Twenty years of silence. Twenty years of pretending I didn\u2019t exist. And now they were standing on my porch asking to meet a grandson they\u2019d never bothered to know. A grandson who didn\u2019t exist.<\/p>\n
I let them into my house. I still don\u2019t know why. Maybe I needed to hear what twenty years of silence had led to.<\/p>\n
My father sat in my living room like he was evaluating a property for purchase, assessing the hardwood floors, the custom built-in shelves, the original artwork on the walls. My mother perched on the edge of my sofa, hands folded, spine straight.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour anniversary,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s why you\u2019re here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cFifty years.\u201d My father almost smiled. \u201cNovember fifteenth. We\u2019re hosting a celebration at the Heathman Hotel. Two hundred guests. The mayor will be there, Pastor Harrison, the Rotary Club board.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that have to do with me?\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother exchanged a glance with my father.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere have been questions, Grace. About you. About what happened twenty years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPeople talk,\u201d my father added. \u201cSome people remember that we had a third child. They\u2019ve asked where you are. What happened to you? We\u2019ve always said you moved away, went abroad. But lately, questions have become more persistent.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSo you need me to make an appearance. Show everyone that the Meyers family is whole and happy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe need your son.\u201d My mother\u2019s voice was firm. \u201cWe\u2019ve told people about him, about our grandson. He should be there representing the next generation of the Meyers family.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room went very still.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho told you I have a son?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe read that article.\u201d My father waved his hand dismissively. \u201cThe magazine piece. It mentioned your child, your successful business. You\u2019ve done better than we expected.\u201d<\/p>\n
Better than we expected. As if I\u2019d been graded. As if my entire life was a test I might have failed.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd if I refuse?\u201d<\/p>\n
My father\u2019s jaw tightened.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet\u2019s not make this difficult, Grace.\u201d<\/p>\n
He reached into his leather briefcase and withdrew a blank check. The sight of it made my stomach turn.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re prepared to compensate you,\u201d he said, placing it on my coffee table. \u201cTwo hundred fifty thousand dollars. You bring your son to the party, stay for three hours, take some family photos, then you can return to your life.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the check, then at my mother, who was nodding as if this were the most reasonable proposition in the world.<\/p>\n
\u201cTwo hundred fifty thousand dollars?\u201d I repeated. \u201cIs that what twenty years of silence costs?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019re also prepared to reinstate you in the family trust.\u201d My mother leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. \u201cThe combined estate is valued at 3.8 million. You would have an equal share with Nathan and Carolyn.\u201d<\/p>\n
I thought about that studio apartment above the laundromat. The nights I\u2019d worked double shifts while Lily slept in a playpen behind the counter of a coffee shop because I couldn\u2019t afford child care. The years I\u2019d spent building something from nothing while they sat in their Portland mansion pretending I\u2019d never existed.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd if I say no?\u201d<\/p>\n
My father\u2019s expression hardened.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe would prefer not to involve your son directly, Grace, but if necessary, we can reach out to him ourselves. Explain the situation. Help him understand his family history.\u201d<\/p>\n
It was a threat, subtle but unmistakable.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou want to contact my child,\u201d I said slowly, \u201cand tell them your version of what happened.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe want to be a family again.\u201d My mother spread her hands, the picture of reasonableness. \u201cIsn\u2019t that what you\u2019ve always wanted?\u201d<\/p>\n
I was about to answer when I heard footsteps on the stairs, and everything changed.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom? Is everything okay? I heard voices.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lily stopped at the bottom of the stairs, her psychology textbook still in her hand. She was wearing sweatpants and a University of Washington hoodie, her dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. She looked exactly like what she was, a nineteen-year-old college student who\u2019d been studying in her room.<\/p>\n
My mother rose to her feet, her face cycling through confusion, calculation, and something close to horror.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho is this?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is Lily.\u201d I stood, positioning myself slightly between my daughter and my parents. \u201cMy daughter. Your granddaughter.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDaughter?\u201d My father\u2019s voice cracked. \u201cBut we were told\u2014the article said\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe article said child. You assumed the rest.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lily\u2019s gaze moved from me to the strangers in our living room. Understanding dawned in her eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cThese are them? The grandparents who threw you out when you were pregnant with me?\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother flinched.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not\u2014it was more complicated then.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhich part was complicated?\u201d Lily crossed her arms. \u201cThe part where you kicked a sixteen-year-old out in the rain, or the part where you spent twenty years pretending she didn\u2019t exist?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYoung lady,\u201d my father started.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not your young lady. I\u2019m the grandchild you never wanted to meet. The one you tried to make disappear.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lily\u2019s voice was steady, but I could see her hands trembling.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know everything. Mom never hid it from me. I know about the letter. I know about the inheritance papers. I know you told your friends she went abroad.\u201d<\/p>\n
My parents sat in stunned silence.<\/p>\n
Lily looked at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey came here for a grandson, didn\u2019t they? Someone they could show off.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
She turned back to them with a cold smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cSurprise.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father recovered faster than my mother. I watched him recalibrate, the lawyer in him assessing this new variable.<\/p>\n
\u201cA granddaughter,\u201d he said carefully. \u201cThat\u2026 that works. We can adjust the narrative. Lily can come to the party as\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAs what?\u201d Lily cut in. \u201cThe secret granddaughter you\u2019ve been hiding for nineteen years? The daughter of the teen mom you threw away?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe could say you were studying abroad.\u201d My mother\u2019s voice was pleading now. \u201cRecently returned. A surprise reunion.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI was born in Seattle. I\u2019ve never left the country. I\u2019m a sophomore at UW.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lily laughed, but there was no humor in it.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you even hear yourselves? You want me to lie to two hundred people about my entire existence?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe party is November fifteenth.\u201d My father checked his watch as if time was the only variable that mattered. \u201cTen days from now. We need an answer by the tenth.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stood.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think you should leave.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGrace\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll consider what you\u2019ve said, but not tonight. Not with Lily here.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother rose, gathering her handbag. At the door, she turned back.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is an opportunity to heal, Grace, to put the past behind us. Don\u2019t let old wounds cost you your future.\u201d<\/p>\n
I watched them walk to their Mercedes, watched my father help my mother into the passenger seat the same way he had a thousand times before, as if this were any ordinary evening. When the car disappeared around the corner, Lily spoke.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re not actually considering this, are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at my daughter, this fierce, brilliant young woman I had raised alone, the person Richard and Diane Meyers had tried to erase from existence before she was even born.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cBut I\u2019m not done with them yet.\u201d<\/p>\n
Before we continue, let me ask you something. Have you ever stood where I stood that night, facing people who abandoned you only to return when they needed something? I\u2019d love to know what you would have done in my position. Drop a comment below. And if you want to see how this all unfolds, hit that subscribe button, because what happened next\u2014even I didn\u2019t see it coming.<\/p>\n
That night, after Lily went to bed, I pulled a fireproof lockbox from the back of my closet. I hadn\u2019t opened it in years. Inside were the documents of my erasure. The notarized letter of disinheritance, dated November 14, 2004, signed by Richard Allen Meyers and Diane Elizabeth Meyers, witnessed by a notary named Harold Brennan. I remembered the day my father mailed it to me, certified mail, requiring my signature, as if he wanted to make sure I knew exactly how thorough he\u2019d been.<\/p>\n
The document was three pages, legal language designed to be airtight, ensuring that Grace Elizabeth Meyers hereby forfeits all claims to the Meyers family estate, and that the family bears no legal or moral obligation to the aforementioned party or any dependents thereof. Any dependents thereof. Lily, reduced to three words in a legal document, erased before she took her first breath.<\/p>\n
I photographed each page with my phone, uploaded them to my cloud storage, made backup copies.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked up. Lily was standing in my doorway, arms wrapped around herself.<\/p>\n
\u201cI couldn\u2019t sleep either.\u201d<\/p>\n
She sat beside me on the bed, looking at the documents spread across my comforter.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that the letter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
She picked up the first page, reading slowly. When she finished, her eyes were bright with tears she refused to let fall.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey really did it,\u201d she whispered. \u201cThey really just cut you out like you were nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey did.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat are you going to do with these?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at my daughter, at the evidence of twenty years of calculated cruelty laid out before us.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know yet,\u201d I admitted. \u201cBut whatever I do, they won\u2019t be able to pretend anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lily nodded slowly.<\/p>\n
\u201cI might have an idea.\u201d<\/p>\n
The next morning, I made a call I hadn\u2019t made in over a year. Margaret Torres answered on the third ring.<\/p>\n
\u201cGrace, is that you, sweetheart?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Torres? I hope I\u2019m not calling too early.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAt my age, early is relative. What\u2019s wrong? You sound like you\u2019ve got weight on your shoulders.\u201d<\/p>\n
I told her about my parents\u2019 visit, about the grandson they\u2019d invented, the anniversary party, the $250,000. When I finished, the line was quiet for a long moment.<\/p>\n
\u201cThose people,\u201d she finally said. \u201cTwenty years, and they haven\u2019t changed one bit.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Torres, I need to ask you something. That night, November 14, 2004\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI remember it like it was yesterday.\u201d Her voice hardened. \u201cI watched from my window. Saw you standing in the rain. That little suitcase at your feet. Watched your parents\u2019 car drive away. I should have come out sooner. I\u2019ve regretted that every day since.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you still have your security camera footage from back then?\u201d<\/p>\n
A pause\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026<\/p>\n
My name is Grace Meyers. I\u2019m thirty-six years old. Twenty years ago, my parents kicked me out of the house for getting pregnant in tenth grade. Sixteen years old. November … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":695,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-694","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story-daily"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/694","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=694"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/694\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":700,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/694\/revisions\/700"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/695"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=694"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=694"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nextstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=694"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}