\nI made coffee. I ate toast with jam. I fed myself slowly, like I mattered.
\n<\/span>Then I opened my journal and wrote one line:
\nToday, I choose life again.
\n<\/span>I didn\u2019t know if Rebecca thought about me on her birthday.
\nMaybe she did. Maybe she didn\u2019t. Maybe she felt regret. Maybe she felt anger. Maybe she felt nothing.
\n<\/span>I couldn\u2019t control her feelings.
\nWhat I could control was whether I returned to the role that made me disappear.
\n<\/span>Later that afternoon, Emma sent me a photo: she and Lucas standing outside their school, arms slung around each other, smiling.
\nHer message read: We got accepted into the exchange program. We might be back next summer.
\nI smiled so hard my cheeks hurt.
\nThat was the ending.
\nNot a courtroom victory. Not a dramatic reunion with a tearful apology. Not a daughter collapsing into my arms begging forgiveness.
\nThe ending was quieter and stronger:
\nI left, and I stayed gone.
\nI protected myself legally and emotionally.
\nI built a life where my worth was not measured by how much I could give away.
\nMy grandchildren found their way to me because love, when it\u2019s real, looks for you.
\n<\/span>And Rebecca\u2014whether she healed or not\u2014was finally forced to live with the consequences of her own words.
\nThe greatest gift she demanded was my death.
\nSo I gave her the death of the version of me she exploited.
\nAnd what I left on her table destroyed her illusion forever.
\nNot because I wanted her ruined.
\nBecause the truth, once placed in front of you, has a way of breaking whatever false life you built around it.
\nI stood at my balcony that evening, watching the mountains turn pink with sunset, and I felt peace settle into me like a warm blanket.
\nI wasn\u2019t missing.
\nI wasn\u2019t confused.
\nI wasn\u2019t broken.
\nI was alive.
\nAnd for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.<\/p>\n
![](\"https:\/\/cdn.qwenlm.ai\/output\/cdd50396-66c6-48e7-b7b2-d04497f1ac75\/image_gen\/9d3ba684-8b98-4226-acee-35f02fe71b2c\/1779222610.png?key=eyJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiIsInR5cCI6IkpXVCJ9.eyJyZXNvdXJjZV91c2VyX2lkIjoiY2RkNTAzOTYtNjZjNi00OGU3LWI3YjItZDA0NDk3ZjFhYzc1IiwicmVzb3VyY2VfaWQiOiIxNzc5MjIyNjEwIiwicmVzb3VyY2VfY2hhdF9pZCI6ImFkY2IzNzhmLWQxYjktNDE4ZS1iZDU5LWM3ODZmMGQ5NjVhNSJ9.xZ6NvZ7e6Yqtrc8hOXoHWzi3ZQR7ECmMjkVqH81OGc4\")
<\/p>\n
Part 10<\/h3>\n
The first time I saw Rebecca again, it wasn\u2019t in person.<\/p>\n
It was in a video I didn\u2019t click on for three days.<\/p>\n
Emma texted me a link with no warning and a single line underneath.<\/p>\n
Grandma, please watch when you\u2019re ready.<\/p>\n
I stared at the message, thumb hovering, heart doing that old thing where it tried to protect me by pretending not to care.<\/p>\n
I told myself I didn\u2019t need to know. I\u2019d built a life that didn\u2019t require Rebecca\u2019s mood, Rebecca\u2019s approval, Rebecca\u2019s regret.<\/p>\n
But the link sat there like a stone in my pocket. Heavy. Unignorable.<\/p>\n
On the third day, I poured tea, sat at my table, and clicked.<\/p>\n
The video was from the community center back home\u2014the same one where I\u2019d volunteered sometimes after retirement, before my world narrowed to Rebecca\u2019s needs. The center hosted a \u201cfamily resilience\u201d series now: short talks, panels, stories. Someone had posted the most recent event online.<\/p>\n
The camera quality was shaky. The audio was imperfect. But the voice was unmistakable.<\/p>\n
Rebecca sat on a folding chair under fluorescent lights, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She looked older than fifty should look. Not in the way that comes from time, but in the way that comes from consequences that don\u2019t let you sleep.<\/p>\n
A moderator asked her a question I couldn\u2019t hear.<\/p>\n
Rebecca\u2019s response came clearly enough.<\/p>\n
\u201cI used my mother like\u2026 like she was a utility,\u201d she said, voice tight. \u201cLike something I could turn on when I needed help and turn off when I was annoyed. And I didn\u2019t realize how much of my life I\u2019d built on her sacrifices until she stopped making them.\u201d<\/p>\n
My throat tightened.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t trust it yet. It was easy to say words in public when the stakes were image again. It was easy to tell a story that made you look like someone \u201clearning.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then Rebecca said something that made the room go still even through a screen.<\/p>\n
\u201cI told her the greatest gift would be if she died.\u201d<\/p>\n
The moderator flinched.<\/p>\n
The audience made a low sound\u2014shock, disgust, disbelief.<\/p>\n
Rebecca\u2019s face twisted like she\u2019d bitten down on glass.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd she did,\u201d she continued. \u201cNot physically. But she died to me. She disappeared. And she left a letter that\u2026 it wasn\u2019t angry. It was exact. It was receipts and legal documents and a map of all the ways I\u2019d been living off her.\u201d<\/p>\n
She swallowed hard. \u201cIt destroyed me because I couldn\u2019t argue with it.\u201d<\/p>\n
I sat back in my chair, tea cooling on the table.<\/p>\n
She kept going.<\/p>\n
\u201cI told people she had dementia. I tried to undo her will. I tried to get her money back. I tried to make the system force her home. And the system documented my lies.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room in the video was silent.<\/p>\n
Rebecca\u2019s voice dropped.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m saying this because I don\u2019t want my kids to grow up thinking love is something you squeeze until it gives you what you want. I did that. I\u2019m ashamed.\u201d<\/p>\n
There it was. Shame, spoken plainly.<\/p>\n
Not \u201cstress.\u201d Not \u201cI was angry.\u201d<\/p>\n
Shame.<\/p>\n
I paused the video, pressing my fingers against my lips.<\/p>\n
My body wanted to do two things at once.<\/p>\n
Believe her.<\/p>\n
Protect myself from believing her.<\/p>\n
I watched the rest anyway.<\/p>\n
At the end, someone in the audience asked, \u201cHave you apologized to your mother?\u201d<\/p>\n
Rebecca\u2019s laugh was short, bitter. \u201cI wrote her a thousand versions of an apology,\u201d she said. \u201cNone of them felt real enough. And she doesn\u2019t owe me the chance to deliver them.\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked down at her hands. \u201cBut if she ever reads this or hears about it, I want her to know I know exactly what I did.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shut my laptop slowly.<\/p>\n
Outside my window, Zurich moved quietly: trams, footsteps, bicycles, swans on the lake like soft punctuation.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t feel victory.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t feel satisfaction.<\/p>\n
I felt something more complicated: the ache of truth arriving too late to repair what it broke.<\/p>\n
That night, Emma called me.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you watch it?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n
There was a pause. \u201cDo you think she meant it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI think she meant it enough to say it out loud,\u201d I said carefully. \u201cThat doesn\u2019t mean it fixes anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
Emma\u2019s voice trembled. \u201cShe\u2019s in therapy now. Dad is too. They\u2019re\u2026 trying.\u201d<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes. \u201cTrying is better than pretending,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Emma exhaled. \u201cShe asked me to ask you something.\u201d<\/p>\n
I waited.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe asked if you\u2019d be willing to read a letter,\u201d Emma said. \u201cNot respond. Just read.\u201d<\/p>\n
My chest tightened again.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can read it,\u201d I said, surprising myself. \u201cBut I\u2019m not opening the door. Not yet. Not like that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI understand,\u201d Emma whispered. \u201cI just\u2026 I want you to have the truth from her, not filtered through me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSend it,\u201d I said softly.<\/p>\n
When the letter arrived, it wasn\u2019t an email. It was a scanned handwritten page, three pages, the ink slightly smeared in places like she\u2019d stopped to wipe her face.<\/p>\n
Dear Mom,<\/p>\n
I am writing this without asking for anything. I\u2019m not asking you to come back. I\u2019m not asking you to forgive me. I\u2019m not asking you to make it easier for me.<\/p>\n
I am writing because I finally understand what I did, and because I owe you the truth.<\/p>\n
The letter didn\u2019t start with excuses.<\/p>\n
It started with a confession.<\/p>\n
She wrote about the way she\u2019d grown used to me rescuing her, the way she\u2019d learned that if she acted annoyed enough, I\u2019d try harder, pay more, give more, just to regain warmth.<\/p>\n
She wrote about watching other women in her neighborhood treat their parents like backup plans, and deciding that was normal.<\/p>\n
She wrote about the day she said she wished I\u2019d die, and how she\u2019d felt powerful for about five seconds.<\/p>\n
Then she wrote about the moment Elva brought the letter to her table.<\/p>\n
I thought I could bully you back into place, she wrote. I thought you\u2019d cave. I thought you\u2019d cry and then you\u2019d forgive me like always.<\/p>\n
But you didn\u2019t. And the silence was the loudest thing I\u2019ve ever heard.<\/p>\n
She wrote about the house foreclosure, how humiliating it was, but also how it forced her to work, to budget, to learn the life skills she\u2019d let me replace.<\/p>\n
She wrote about the children asking where Grandma was and her realizing she didn\u2019t have a truthful answer that didn\u2019t make her look like a monster.<\/p>\n
She wrote about the dementia accusation.<\/p>\n
I am sick when I think about it, she wrote. Not because it failed, but because I did it at all.<\/p>\n
The last paragraph was the one that made my hands shake.<\/p>\n
I used you because I didn\u2019t know how to be grateful without feeling weak. I thought if I depended on you, it meant I was still small. So I punished you for loving me. That\u2019s the ugliest thing I\u2019ve ever admitted.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t expect anything from you. I just needed you to know I finally see you as a person, not a function.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m sorry. Not in the way people say it to make things go away. I\u2019m sorry in the way that means I will carry the weight of what I did for the rest of my life.<\/p>\n
Rebecca<\/p>\n
I set the letter down and sat very still.<\/p>\n
It didn\u2019t erase the past.<\/p>\n
But it did something else.<\/p>\n
It confirmed what I\u2019d already learned: my leaving had forced a truth she couldn\u2019t avoid.<\/p>\n
And that truth had finally cracked something open.<\/p>\n
Whether it was enough to build anything new was a different question.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Part 11<\/h3>\n
In the months after Rebecca\u2019s letter, I learned something about boundaries that surprised me.<\/p>\n
They aren\u2019t only walls.<\/p>\n
Sometimes they\u2019re doors with locks.<\/p>\n
Sometimes they\u2019re rules that keep you safe while still allowing you to breathe.<\/p>\n
Emma and Lucas came back to Zurich the next summer, this time for a longer stay. They were taller, louder, more confident. Lucas wanted to try everything\u2014Swiss trains, mountain hikes, weird cheeses. Emma wanted quiet cafes and bookstores and long walks by the lake where she could talk without interruption.<\/p>\n
One afternoon, Emma and I sat on a bench watching a street musician play violin near the water. The music floated over the lake like something light enough to lift grief.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom wants to come,\u201d Emma said suddenly.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t flinch outwardly, but inside my chest everything tightened.<\/p>\n
\u201cTo Switzerland?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Emma nodded. \u201cJust for a day. She said she\u2019d stay at a hotel. She said she won\u2019t come to your apartment unless you invite her. She said she\u2019ll leave immediately if you say no.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at the water. The swans moved slowly, unbothered by human dilemmas.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d I asked Emma.<\/p>\n
Emma\u2019s eyes filled. \u201cI want\u2026 honesty,\u201d she said. \u201cI want her to stop lying. And I want you to not have to pretend you\u2019re fine. I want you both to be real, even if it\u2019s messy.\u201d<\/p>\n
I breathed out slowly.<\/p>\n
Messy was an understatement.<\/p>\n
But I thought about Rebecca\u2019s public talk. Her letter. The fact that she\u2019d finally said the words she\u2019d spent years avoiding.<\/p>\n
I also thought about my own life now: stable, safe, full.<\/p>\n
Seeing her wouldn\u2019t take that away unless I handed it over.<\/p>\n
\u201cI will meet her,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Emma\u2019s shoulders sagged with relief. \u201cReally?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIn a public place,\u201d I added. \u201cOn my terms. One hour.\u201d<\/p>\n
Emma nodded quickly. \u201cShe\u2019ll agree.\u201d<\/p>\n
The next week, Rebecca arrived in Zurich.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t go to the airport. I didn\u2019t greet her with open arms. I didn\u2019t stage anything dramatic.<\/p>\n
I chose a quiet caf\u00e9 by the lake with outdoor seating. A place where I could leave easily. A place where other people existed around us like witnesses and anchors.<\/p>\n
I arrived early and sat at a table near the edge, watching the water.<\/p>\n
When Rebecca walked up, I barely recognized her.<\/p>\n
She wasn\u2019t dressed expensively. Her hair wasn\u2019t perfect. Her face looked tired in a real way, like she\u2019d finally stopped spending all her energy on appearing untouchable.<\/p>\n
She stopped a few steps away, hands hanging awkwardly at her sides.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom,\u201d she said, voice small.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t stand. I didn\u2019t hug her.<\/p>\n
I nodded once. \u201cRebecca.\u201d<\/p>\n
She swallowed and sat when I gestured to the chair across from me. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for her water glass.<\/p>\n
For a moment, neither of us spoke.<\/p>\n
Then she said quietly, \u201cThank you for agreeing to meet.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m here,\u201d I replied. \u201cThat\u2019s what I agreed to.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rebecca nodded, accepting the limitation without argument.<\/p>\n
She looked at the lake, then back at me. \u201cYou look\u2026 peaceful,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n
Her eyes filled. \u201cI\u2019m glad.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t soften. Not yet.<\/p>\n
She took a shaky breath. \u201cI won\u2019t defend myself,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019ve spent years defending myself instead of facing what I did. I just want to say it out loud to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I waited.<\/p>\n
Rebecca\u2019s voice cracked. \u201cI told you to die. I wanted you gone. And I used your love like it was something I could drain.\u201d<\/p>\n
Tears slid down her cheeks. She didn\u2019t wipe them immediately. She let them fall.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI know it doesn\u2019t fix anything. I know I don\u2019t deserve your forgiveness. But I need you to know I\u2019m not the same person who said that.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at her for a long time.<\/p>\n
When I spoke, my voice was steady.<\/p>\n
\u201cI believe you\u2019re not the same,\u201d I said. \u201cBut you need to understand something.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rebecca nodded, eyes wide like a child being corrected.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe day you said that,\u201d I continued, \u201csomething died in me. Not my love for you. But my belief that I could love you into being kind.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her mouth trembled.<\/p>\n
\u201cI can care about you from a distance,\u201d I said. \u201cI can hope you become better. But I cannot go back to the old relationship.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want that,\u201d Rebecca whispered quickly. \u201cI don\u2019t. I don\u2019t want the money. I don\u2019t want\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
I lifted a hand slightly. \u201cStop. Don\u2019t promise things you think I want to hear.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rebecca closed her mouth.<\/p>\n
I leaned forward a little. \u201cIf we have any relationship,\u201d I said, \u201cit will be small. Slow. And it will not involve my finances. It will not involve you demanding access. It will not involve you using the twins as leverage. And the first time you slip into contempt again, I\u2019m gone.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rebecca nodded, tears dripping onto her blouse. \u201cI understand.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you?\u201d I asked, not harshly, but firmly. \u201cBecause understanding means you accept that you may never get back what you lost.\u201d<\/p>\n
Rebecca\u2019s shoulders shook. \u201cI accept it,\u201d she said. \u201cI hate it. But I accept it.\u201d<\/p>\n
We sat in silence again, the lake moving, the caf\u00e9 noises continuing around us as if our family rupture was just one more human story among many.<\/p>\n
After a while, Rebecca said, \u201cElva told me something. She said, \u2018Your mother didn\u2019t punish you. She stopped saving you.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n
I blinked.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s true,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Rebecca nodded slowly. \u201cIt feels like punishment,\u201d she admitted. \u201cBut I know it isn\u2019t. It\u2019s reality.\u201d<\/p>\n
We talked for the rest of the hour. Not about money. Not about court filings. Not about the house.<\/p>\n
We talked about smaller things.<\/p>\n
Emma\u2019s love of books. Lucas\u2019s obsession with trains. My German classes. Her therapy sessions. The way she\u2019d learned how much rage she\u2019d been carrying and how she\u2019d aimed it at the safest target.<\/p>\n
Me.<\/p>\n
When the hour ended, I stood.<\/p>\n
Rebecca stood too, wiping her face quickly like she was embarrassed by the evidence of feeling.<\/p>\n
\u201cI won\u2019t hug you,\u201d she said softly. \u201cUnless you want it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n
Rebecca nodded once, accepting again.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m glad you\u2019re alive,\u201d she said. \u201cNot just breathing. Alive.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at her, and for a moment I saw the outline of the little girl she used to be, buried under years of entitlement and fear.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd I intend to stay that way.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then I walked away.<\/p>\n
Not running.<\/p>\n
Not collapsing.<\/p>\n
Just leaving on my own terms.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Part 12<\/h3>\n
After Rebecca went home, my life didn\u2019t tilt.<\/p>\n
That was how I knew I\u2019d done it right.<\/p>\n
In the past, any interaction with her would have swallowed my entire nervous system, made me obsess, made me try harder, made me shrink myself into usefulness.<\/p>\n
This time, I returned to my routines.<\/p>\n
I met Ingrid for coffee. I went to my painting class. I helped Emma and Lucas with their summer projects. I slept through the night.<\/p>\n
Rebecca emailed me once a month after that. Short updates, no demands.<\/p>\n
Emma started calling her mother out gently when she slipped into old patterns. Lucas, blunt as always, said things like, \u201cMom, that\u2019s your ego talking,\u201d and Rebecca, to her credit, didn\u2019t punish him for it.<\/p>\n
David remained respectful and distant. He thanked me once, privately, for continuing the trust for the kids.<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t do it for you,\u201d I replied. \u201cI did it for them.\u201d<\/p>\n
A year later, Emma turned eighteen.<\/p>\n
She asked me to come to her graduation.<\/p>\n
I went.<\/p>\n
Not to Rebecca\u2019s house. Not for a family dinner. I stayed at a hotel.<\/p>\n
At the ceremony, I sat in the crowd and watched my granddaughter walk across the stage with her shoulders back and her eyes bright.<\/p>\n
Afterward, Emma ran to me first.<\/p>\n
She hugged me hard.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou came,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cI told you I would,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n
Rebecca approached slowly from behind Emma, stopping a respectful distance away.<\/p>\n
She didn\u2019t force herself into the hug. She didn\u2019t try to claim the moment.<\/p>\n
She just stood there, hands clasped, eyes damp.<\/p>\n
\u201cHi, Mom,\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n
I nodded. \u201cHi, Rebecca.\u201d<\/p>\n
She swallowed. \u201cThank you for coming for Emma.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI came for Emma,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Rebecca nodded, accepting the boundary.<\/p>\n
Later, Emma pulled me aside near the bleachers.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need to tell you something,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
My heart tightened. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
Emma took a breath. \u201cMom sold the last expensive stuff,\u201d she said. \u201cThe jewelry, the designer bags. She\u2019s paying down debt. She\u2019s trying to be\u2026 real. She also started a savings account for herself instead of assuming someone will rescue her.\u201d<\/p>\n
I blinked, surprised.<\/p>\n
Emma\u2019s voice softened. \u201cShe\u2019s learning the lesson you tried to teach her for forty-five years, but she\u2019s learning it the hard way.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked across the crowd at Rebecca standing alone for a moment, watching families hug and laugh.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood,\u201d I said quietly. \u201cThat\u2019s how lessons stick.\u201d<\/p>\n
That night, alone in my hotel room, I thought about the phrase that started all of this: the greatest gift would be if you just died.<\/p>\n
I had died, in the way that mattered.<\/p>\n
I had died as the woman who believed love meant endless self-sacrifice.<\/p>\n
I had died as the woman who could be spoken to with contempt and still show up with a cake.<\/p>\n
And in that death, I had been reborn into something steadier.<\/p>\n
A woman with a life.<\/p>\n
A woman with money she controlled.<\/p>\n
A woman with boundaries strong enough to protect her peace.<\/p>\n
Rebecca had been destroyed by what I left on her table because it shattered the illusion that she could treat me any way she wanted and still keep the benefits of my devotion.<\/p>\n
But destruction isn\u2019t always the end.<\/p>\n
Sometimes it\u2019s the beginning of accountability.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t get a perfect ending.<\/p>\n
Rebecca didn\u2019t transform overnight into a gentle, grateful daughter. We didn\u2019t become best friends. I didn\u2019t move back. I didn\u2019t return to the role of family rescuer.<\/p>\n
What I got was something better than fantasy:<\/p>\n
A real ending.<\/p>\n
I left.<\/p>\n
I stayed gone.<\/p>\n
I built a life that belonged to me.<\/p>\n
My grandchildren found me and loved me without conditions.<\/p>\n
And my daughter finally learned that the people you treat as disposable can, in fact, walk away.<\/p>\n
That is the lesson that truly destroyed her old self.<\/p>\n
And it is the lesson that saved mine.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Part 9 On Rebecca\u2019s fiftieth birthday, five years after the day she told me she wished I\u2019d die, I woke up in Zurich to sunlight spilling across my kitchen floor. … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1939,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1938","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1938","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1938"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1938\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1940,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1938\/revisions\/1940"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1939"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1938"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1938"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1938"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}