The cemetery was almost empty when I arrived.<\/p>\n
A groundskeeper drove a mower far across the hill, the sound rising and falling with the slope. Beyond him, rows of stones caught the morning light. Some had flowers. Some had flags. Some had nothing.<\/p>\n
Mama\u2019s grave was under a maple tree.<\/p>\n
I had chosen the spot before I knew anything.<\/p>\n
Before the flour tin.<\/p>\n
Before Robert.<\/p>\n
Before Lucy.<\/p>\n
Before Samuel\u2019s letters.<\/p>\n
Before I learned how much of my life had been shaped by things buried more effectively than any body.<\/p>\n
Her marker was simple.<\/p>\n
HELEN LANE HARPER<\/p>\n
BELOVED MOTHER<\/p>\n
The words bothered me now.<\/p>\n
Not because they were false.<\/p>\n
Because they were incomplete.<\/p>\n
Beloved.<\/p>\n
Yes.<\/p>\n
Fearful.<\/p>\n
Yes.<\/p>\n
Complicit.<\/p>\n
Yes.<\/p>\n
Brave too late.<\/p>\n
Yes.<\/p>\n
Mother.<\/p>\n
All of it fit.<\/p>\n
I stood there for a while without speaking.<\/p>\n
Then I laughed quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is ridiculous.\u201d<\/p>\n
The maple leaves moved above me.<\/p>\n
No answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cI talked to you my whole life when you were alive. You barely answered anything useful.\u201d<\/p>\n
Still nothing.<\/p>\n
I sat on the grass.<\/p>\n
My hip protested, but I stayed.<\/p>\n
I took the old twenty-dollar bill from my wallet.<\/p>\n
One of Mama\u2019s original three.<\/p>\n
Soft from age.<\/p>\n
Edges worn.<\/p>\n
I held it between two fingers.<\/p>\n
\u201cRemember this?\u201d<\/p>\n
Of course she didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know what you thought it meant.\u201d<\/p>\n
The first money she considered mine.<\/p>\n
The beginning of her attempt to return what she could.<\/p>\n
I looked at the number printed on it.<\/p>\n
Twenty dollars.<\/p>\n
Enough for groceries once.<\/p>\n
Not enough for sixty years.<\/p>\n
\u201cI bought a mattress with some of the flour tin money.\u201d<\/p>\n
I smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019d hate what it cost.\u201d<\/p>\n
A bird landed two markers away.<\/p>\n
I continued.<\/p>\n
\u201cI bought shoes too.\u201d<\/p>\n
That made me think of hospital slippers.<\/p>\n
Mama\u2019s letter about the sixty dollars.<\/p>\n
Robe.<\/p>\n
Books.<\/p>\n
Slippers she never bought.<\/p>\n
A mother standing in a hospital gift shop with money from the man who had pushed her daughter into a road.<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
For the first time, I wondered whether she had cried there.<\/p>\n
Not in the hospital room.<\/p>\n
Not where Wayne could see.<\/p>\n
Between shelves of toothpaste and magazines.<\/p>\n
Maybe.<\/p>\n
Or maybe she had simply put the money back in her purse and walked upstairs.<\/p>\n
People imagine grief as dramatic because ordinary grief is harder to photograph.<\/p>\n
I looked at her grave.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told me.\u201d<\/p>\n
There.<\/p>\n
The sentence I had carried since the flour tin opened.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have warned me about the road.\u201d<\/p>\n
My voice tightened.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have given me Samuel\u2019s letter.\u201d<\/p>\n
I breathed.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told me Russell was Robert\u2019s son.\u201d<\/p>\n
The leaves shifted.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told Russell.\u201d<\/p>\n
My anger began to rise.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told us about Lucy.\u201d<\/p>\n
I placed the twenty on my knee.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told me Wayne pushed you.\u201d<\/p>\n
My throat hurt.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told me he hurt Robert.\u201d<\/p>\n
A car passed on the road beyond the cemetery.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told me you helped him before you understood what he was.\u201d<\/p>\n
That one was harder.<\/p>\n
Because anger liked simple victims.<\/p>\n
Mama was not simple.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told me about the forty-five thousand dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n
I almost smiled bitterly.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told me you spent some of what belonged to us.\u201d<\/p>\n
I touched the grass beside her stone.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou should have told me all of it while I could still ask why.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was the deepest wound.<\/p>\n
Not the money.<\/p>\n
Not even the lies individually.<\/p>\n
She had left me evidence instead of conversation.<\/p>\n
A carefully designed investigation because she could not sit across a kitchen table and say:<\/p>\n
I failed you.<\/p>\n
Ask me anything.<\/p>\n
I looked at the marker.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou made me interview the dead.\u201d<\/p>\n
My voice broke.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat wasn\u2019t fair.\u201d<\/p>\n
I cried then.<\/p>\n
Not violently.<\/p>\n
Tears came and stopped.<\/p>\n
Came again.<\/p>\n
I wiped them with the heel of my hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know what makes me angriest?\u201d<\/p>\n
Nothing.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou got better.\u201d<\/p>\n
I laughed through tears.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou got brave.\u201d<\/p>\n
Near the end, Mama had confronted Michael.<\/p>\n
Refused the $100,000.<\/p>\n
Built the trust.<\/p>\n
Mapped the properties.<\/p>\n
Contacted Judith.<\/p>\n
Worked with Patricia.<\/p>\n
Left Daniel instructions.<\/p>\n
Recorded herself.<\/p>\n
Preserved Lucy.<\/p>\n
Protected records.<\/p>\n
Forced Thomas\u2019s son into daylight.<\/p>\n
She became the woman I had needed when I was seventeen.<\/p>\n
At ninety-six.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou became brave when I no longer needed you to save me.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was unfair too.<\/p>\n
But true.<\/p>\n
I took a breath.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd I\u2019m glad you did.\u201d<\/p>\n
That truth lived beside the anger.<\/p>\n
If Mama had died without changing, Wayne\u2019s records might still be hidden.<\/p>\n
Mason Ridge might still be Larkspur.<\/p>\n
Russell might still call himself Harper.<\/p>\n
Lucy might still be listed as never alive.<\/p>\n
Robert might still be a suspected thief.<\/p>\n
Samuel might remain a dead lawyer whose widow carried private certainty.<\/p>\n
Amy might inherit a house without knowing its history.<\/p>\n
Michael might preserve the family property story indefinitely.<\/p>\n
Mama\u2019s late courage mattered.<\/p>\n
Not enough to cancel early cowardice.<\/p>\n
Enough to alter the ending.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know if I forgive you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I expected the sentence to feel dramatic.<\/p>\n
It did not.<\/p>\n
It felt accurate.<\/p>\n
\u201cI forgive some things.\u201d<\/p>\n
Fear.<\/p>\n
Being poor.<\/p>\n
Being young.<\/p>\n
Being trapped.<\/p>\n
Believing Morton and Wayne had power they actually did possess.<\/p>\n
I could forgive fear.<\/p>\n
\u201cI understand more things.\u201d<\/p>\n
Why she protected Russell.<\/p>\n
Why she stayed.<\/p>\n
Why she accepted money.<\/p>\n
Why she hid letters.<\/p>\n
Why she built side doors instead of walking through the front.<\/p>\n
\u201cI still don\u2019t forgive everything.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her silence after Wayne died.<\/p>\n
The years when threat weakened.<\/p>\n
The dinners.<\/p>\n
Birthdays.<\/p>\n
Ordinary afternoons when she could have started.<\/p>\n
I had to keep those too.<\/p>\n
Then Mama\u2019s final letter returned to me.<\/p>\n
Do not forgive me because I am dead.<\/p>\n
I looked at the grave.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were right about that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dead people are easy to soften.<\/p>\n
A stone does not interrupt.<\/p>\n
Does not justify.<\/p>\n
Does not lie.<\/p>\n
Does not ask you to understand.<\/p>\n
The absence can become whatever the living need.<\/p>\n
I did not want that.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m not going to make you better than you were.\u201d<\/p>\n
The sentence surprised me.<\/p>\n
Then I smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019d probably appreciate that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mama had always hated exaggerated compliments.<\/p>\n
When church women called her a saint for caring for Wayne through his final illness, she would roll her eyes afterward.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey don\u2019t know enough to say that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Apparently she had been more correct than anyone realized.<\/p>\n
I looked at the twenty again.<\/p>\n
For a moment I considered leaving it on the grave.<\/p>\n
Symbolic.<\/p>\n
Dramatic.<\/p>\n
A perfect ending to a chapter.<\/p>\n
Then I imagined wind carrying it into the road.<\/p>\n
Or the groundskeeper finding it.<\/p>\n
Mama would have called that wasteful.<\/p>\n
I laughed.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
I put it back in my wallet.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t get this.\u201d<\/p>\n
It was mine.<\/p>\n
That felt right.<\/p>\n
I stood slowly.<\/p>\n
My hip ached.<\/p>\n
I brushed grass from my dress.<\/p>\n
Before leaving, I touched the top of her stone.<\/p>\n
\u201cI love you.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was still true.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd I\u2019m angry.\u201d<\/p>\n
Also true.<\/p>\n
\u201cI understand you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Partly.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t excuse you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Important.<\/p>\n
\u201cI miss you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Very true.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wish you had trusted me.\u201d<\/p>\n
The sentence nearly broke me again.<\/p>\n
Not trusted me with money.<\/p>\n
Trusted me with reality.<\/p>\n
Trusted that I could know terrible things and continue living.<\/p>\n
Trusted that her daughter did not need a curated life.<\/p>\n
I stepped away.<\/p>\n
Then turned back.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m going to change the marker.\u201d<\/p>\n
That idea had come unexpectedly.<\/p>\n
The current name bothered me.<\/p>\n
HELEN LANE HARPER.<\/p>\n
Harper was accurate.<\/p>\n
But so was Lane.<\/p>\n
She had carried both.<\/p>\n
Yet something else was missing.<\/p>\n
Lucy.<\/p>\n
Not on Mama\u2019s stone as ownership.<\/p>\n
As relationship.<\/p>\n
I drove straight to Russell\u2019s house.<\/p>\n
He answered wearing socks but no shoes.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou okay?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou sure?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCome in.\u201d<\/p>\n
We sat in his kitchen.<\/p>\n
I told him about the cemetery.<\/p>\n
He listened.<\/p>\n
Then asked, \u201cYou forgive her?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSome.\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cSame.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to change the grave marker.\u201d<\/p>\n
His face tightened.<\/p>\n
\u201cTo what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot remove anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAdd something.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
I slid Lucy\u2019s corrected certificate from my bag.<\/p>\n
Russell stared.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou want Lucy named.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n
I had thought about it in the car.<\/p>\n
Not a long inscription.<\/p>\n
No accusation.<\/p>\n
No story.<\/p>\n
Only:<\/p>\n
MOTHER OF RUSSELL, LINDA, AND LUCY.<\/p>\n
Russell covered his face.<\/p>\n
When he lowered his hands, he was crying.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou agree?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLucy didn\u2019t get a grave.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen she gets a place on Mama\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n
Russell nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
We contacted the cemetery.<\/p>\n
The stone could be modified.<\/p>\n
Not immediately.<\/p>\n
But soon.<\/p>\n
Then Russell said, \u201cWhat about Robert?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about him?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot on Mom\u2019s stone.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
He agreed.<\/p>\n
Robert deserved his own record.<\/p>\n
Mama\u2019s grave should not turn into a summary of every person she had lost.<\/p>\n
We decided to place a small memorial stone for Lucy near Mama.<\/p>\n
Not a grave.<\/p>\n
A marker.<\/p>\n
LUCY LANE<\/p>\n
DAUGHTER OF HELEN<\/p>\n
SISTER OF RUSSELL AND LINDA<\/p>\n
LIVED ELEVEN MINUTES<\/p>\n
The cemetery allowed memorial markers without remains.<\/p>\n
That mattered to me.<\/p>\n
Not because Lucy needed stone.<\/p>\n
Because we did.<\/p>\n
A place where a name could exist without being hidden in a medical file.<\/p>\n
Two weeks later, we met there for installation.<\/p>\n
Amy came.<\/p>\n
Patricia.<\/p>\n
Margaret sent flowers.<\/p>\n
Daniel sent nothing, which I appreciated.<\/p>\n
Some moments did not need everyone.<\/p>\n
Russell carried a small pot of larkspur flowers.<\/p>\n
I looked at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cReally?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shrugged.<\/p>\n
\u201cCouldn\u2019t resist.\u201d<\/p>\n
We planted them beside Lucy\u2019s marker.<\/p>\n
The blooms would not last forever.<\/p>\n
Good.<\/p>\n
Not everything needed permanence.<\/p>\n
When the workers finished adding the new line to Mama\u2019s stone, I stepped back.<\/p>\n
MOTHER OF RUSSELL, LINDA, AND LUCY.<\/p>\n
There.<\/p>\n
No footnote.<\/p>\n
No secrecy.<\/p>\n
No altered certificate.<\/p>\n
No stillbirth lie.<\/p>\n
Just daughter.<\/p>\n
I felt lighter than I had expected.<\/p>\n
Amy touched my arm.<\/p>\n
\u201cGrandma would\u2019ve cried.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHappy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cProbably both.\u201d<\/p>\n
Russell laughed softly.<\/p>\n
Then he became serious.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve been thinking.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s dangerous.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to put Dad\u2019s name somewhere too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMason Ridge bench?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. But more.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
He wanted to apply for a historical marker near the old warehouse.<\/p>\n
Not accusing anyone of murder.<\/p>\n
Not turning Robert into a saint.<\/p>\n
Simply noting his documented effort to report insurance and warehouse fraud, his death shortly afterward, and the later discovery of records supporting his allegations.<\/p>\n
I liked it.<\/p>\n
Patricia loved it.<\/p>\n
Susan warned us about wording.<\/p>\n
Of course.<\/p>\n
We drafted carefully.<\/p>\n
Evidence.<\/p>\n
No speculation.<\/p>\n
No dramatic certainty.<\/p>\n
Eventually the application was approved.<\/p>\n
Months later, a modest plaque went up.<\/p>\n
ROBERT LANE<\/p>\n
WAREHOUSE EMPLOYEE AND DOCUMENTED COMPLAINANT IN A MID-CENTURY FRAUD INVESTIGATION.<\/p>\n
ARCHIVAL RECORDS RECOVERED DECADES AFTER HIS DEATH SUBSTANTIATED MAJOR ELEMENTS OF HIS REPORTING.<\/p>\n
No mention of hero.<\/p>\n
No mention of murder.<\/p>\n
Enough.<\/p>\n
At the unveiling, a reporter asked whether I felt justice had been served.<\/p>\n
I hated the question.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked surprised.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you feel the outcome was just?\u201d<\/p>\n
I thought before answering.<\/p>\n
\u201cSome property was returned.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cRecords were corrected.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPeople admitted wrongdoing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIsn\u2019t that justice?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cParts of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked toward Russell.<\/p>\n
\u201cMama is dead. Robert is dead. Samuel is dead. Lucy got eleven minutes. I limped for sixty years. No court can return any of that.\u201d<\/p>\n
The reporter lowered her notebook slightly.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo no?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shook my head.<\/p>\n
\u201cJustice isn\u2019t one yes-or-no thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is it, then?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSometimes it\u2019s just stopping the next lie.\u201d<\/p>\n
That quote appeared in the article.<\/p>\n
Russell framed it.<\/p>\n
I told him that was embarrassing.<\/p>\n
He hung it in his study anyway.<\/p>\n
Life grew quieter after that.<\/p>\n
Not normal.<\/p>\n
Normal had changed.<\/p>\n
But quieter.<\/p>\n
I spent mornings without attorneys calling.<\/p>\n
Weeks passed without discovering another hidden company.<\/p>\n
Susan occasionally sent updates.<\/p>\n
Trust distributions completed.<\/p>\n
Title corrections progressing.<\/p>\n
Historical records cataloged.<\/p>\n
Michael complied with settlement terms.<\/p>\n
No further unauthorized transfers.<\/p>\n
Daniel stepped away from Mercer Holdings management and appointed independent administration for remaining legacy matters.<\/p>\n
Russell completed his name change.<\/p>\n
His new driver\u2019s license arrived.<\/p>\n
He brought it to my house like a teenager.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook.\u201d<\/p>\n
RUSSELL ROBERT LANE.<\/p>\n
I smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou look terrible in the photo.\u201d<\/p>\n
He glared.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is not the point.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cStill true.\u201d<\/p>\n
He put it back in his wallet carefully.<\/p>\n
The Lane estate correction became final later that year.<\/p>\n
Mason Ridge ownership settled between us according to Robert\u2019s valid will and later adjustments.<\/p>\n
The portion we retained stayed in a joint family trust.<\/p>\n
Not secret.<\/p>\n
Not vague.<\/p>\n
Every beneficiary had records.<\/p>\n
Amy had access.<\/p>\n
Her children too.<\/p>\n
The trust document included a clause I insisted on.<\/p>\n
All beneficiaries shall receive complete annual statements and material records.<\/p>\n
Susan said that was normal.<\/p>\n
I said I wanted it anyway.<\/p>\n
Russell added another.<\/p>\n
No beneficiary may waive disclosure on behalf of another competent adult beneficiary.<\/p>\n
That was less normal.<\/p>\n
Susan allowed it.<\/p>\n
We had learned something.<\/p>\n
One autumn afternoon, I returned to Mama\u2019s house.<\/p>\n
The estate sale had been delayed because neither Russell nor I knew what we wanted to do.<\/p>\n
Finally, we decided to keep it.<\/p>\n
Not forever.<\/p>\n
For now.<\/p>\n
Too much had happened there to sell quickly.<\/p>\n
I walked through the pantry.<\/p>\n
The flour tin remained.<\/p>\n
I opened it.<\/p>\n
Four twenties.<\/p>\n
Mama\u2019s three.<\/p>\n
Russell\u2019s one.<\/p>\n
I added nothing.<\/p>\n
Then I noticed a scratch inside the lid.<\/p>\n
Small.<\/p>\n
Barely visible.<\/p>\n
Numbers.<\/p>\n
18,940.<\/p>\n
Mama had scratched the final amount into the metal.<\/p>\n
I had never noticed.<\/p>\n
Not a clue.<\/p>\n
Not another secret.<\/p>\n
Just accounting.<\/p>\n
Of course.<\/p>\n
I smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou really couldn\u2019t help yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
I closed the lid.<\/p>\n
For the first time, I did not wonder what else might be hidden in the house.<\/p>\n
Maybe something was.<\/p>\n
Life contains things we never discover.<\/p>\n
That no longer frightened me.<\/p>\n
I had enough truth to live inside my own story.<\/p>\n
I did not need omniscience.<\/p>\n
That distinction mattered.<\/p>\n
Before leaving, I stood at the front door.<\/p>\n
Mama\u2019s house behind me.<\/p>\n
My car ahead.<\/p>\n
No sense of point of no return this time.<\/p>\n
No urgent revelation.<\/p>\n
Just choice.<\/p>\n
I locked the door.<\/p>\n
And drove home.<\/p>\n
The cemetery was almost empty when I arrived. A groundskeeper drove a mower far across the hill, the sound rising and falling with the slope. Beyond him, rows of stones … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":4400,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4433","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-feel-every-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4433","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4433"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4433\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4468,"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4433\/revisions\/4468"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/4400"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4433"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4433"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/feeleverystory.online\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4433"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}