{"id":3436,"date":"2026-06-27T16:45:19","date_gmt":"2026-06-27T16:45:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/?p=3436"},"modified":"2026-06-27T16:45:19","modified_gmt":"2026-06-27T16:45:19","slug":"part-2-i-returned-home-after-10-years-with-the-son-they-tried-to-erase","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/?p=3436","title":{"rendered":"PART 2 – I Returned Home After 10 Years With the Son They Tried to Erase."},"content":{"rendered":"

His name was Noah Whitaker.
\n<\/span>The moment I said it, my father stepped back as though the floor had shifted beneath him.
\n<\/span>My mother gripped the edge of the doorframe. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. For ten years, I had imagined this moment in a hundred different ways. I thought they might yell. I thought they might accuse me of lying. I thought my father might slam the door again and prove that nothing in that house had changed.
\n<\/span>But I had never imagined silence.
\n<\/span>Not this kind.
\n<\/span>Not the kind that seemed to swallow the whole porch.
\n<\/span>Leo stood beside me, holding the strap of his backpack with both hands. He looked from my face to theirs, trying to understand why one name had made three adults look like they had seen a ghost.
\n<\/span>\u201cNoah?\u201d my mother finally whispered.
\n<\/span>I nodded.
\n<\/span>\u201cNo,\u201d my father said, but there was no strength in it. \u201cNoah died.\u201d
\n<\/span>\u201cI know.\u201d
\n<\/span>\u201cHe died before you left.\u201d
\n<\/span>\u201cI know that too.\u201d
\n<\/span>My father stared at Leo then, really stared. His eyes moved over my son\u2019s face\u2014the blue eyes, the soft brown hair, the dimple that appeared only when he was trying not to smile.
\n<\/span>Noah\u2019s dimple.
\n<\/span>My mother made a small sound and covered her mouth.
\n<\/span>Leo moved closer to me.
\n<\/span>\u201cMom?\u201d he asked quietly.
\n<\/span>I placed a hand on his shoulder. \u201cIt\u2019s okay.\u201d
\n<\/span>But nothing about that moment felt okay.
\n<\/span>My father looked older than I remembered. His hair had thinned, and deep lines framed his mouth. My mother seemed smaller, as if ten years of regret had quietly folded her inward. Yet standing there, I was nineteen again, clutching a duffel bag while they watched me leave.
\n<\/span>\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell us?\u201d my mother asked.
\n<\/span>I almost laughed, not because it was funny, but because the question hurt in a place I thought had healed.
\n<\/span>\u201cI tried,\u201d I said. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t listen.\u201d
\n<\/span>My father looked away.
\n<\/span>\u201cI said it would affect all of us. I said one day you\u2019d understand. But you were so angry that you decided my silence meant guilt.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

My mother\u2019s eyes filled with tears. \u201cEmma\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNoah and I were together for almost a year,\u201d I continued. \u201cWe kept it quiet because we wanted to be sure it was real before both families got involved. Then I found out I was pregnant. Noah was scared at first, but happy. He said he wanted to tell everyone properly.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

My voice trembled.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe died three days later.\u201d<\/p>\n

The words hung between us.<\/p>\n

I had said them before, to myself, in the dark. To doctors. To forms that asked for father\u2019s information. To Leo when he was finally old enough to ask why his dad wasn\u2019t at school plays.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

But saying them on that porch felt different.<\/p>\n

It felt like opening a locked room.<\/p>\n

My father rubbed a hand over his face. \u201cNoah came here,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

I froze.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe night before the accident.\u201d His voice was rough. \u201cHe came by. Said he needed to talk to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

My heart began to pound.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou never told me that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were at work,\u201d my mother said faintly.<\/p>\n

My father looked at her, then back at me. \u201cI thought he was just being dramatic. He was nervous. Kept saying it was important, that it involved you. I told him whatever it was could wait.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A coldness moved through me.<\/p>\n

\u201cNoah told me he was coming here,\u201d I said slowly. \u201cHe said after he talked to you, everything would be easier.\u201d<\/p>\n

My father closed his eyes.<\/p>\n

For the first time in my life, I saw him not as the immovable man who had thrown me out, but as someone standing in the shadow of a choice he could never undo.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\u201cHe left upset,\u201d my mother whispered. \u201cYour father thought he was protecting you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cProtecting me from what?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

Neither of them answered.<\/p>\n

Leo tugged lightly on my sleeve. \u201cMom, who was Noah?\u201d<\/p>\n

I knelt in front of him. \u201cHe was your father.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

His face changed in small, careful ways. His eyebrows drew together. His mouth softened. He looked past me toward my parents, then down at the porch boards.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy dad had a name,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

I nodded, tears burning my eyes. \u201cYes. He had a name.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\u201cDid he know about me?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe knew I was pregnant.\u201d<\/p>\n

Leo swallowed. \u201cWas he happy?\u201d<\/p>\n

The question broke something in me.<\/p>\n

I pulled him into my arms. \u201cYes,\u201d I whispered. \u201cHe was scared, but he was happy.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother began crying openly then.<\/p>\n

My father opened the door wider. \u201cCome inside.\u201d<\/p>\n

For a moment, I could not move.<\/p>\n

Ten years earlier, that same doorway had meant rejection. Now it stood open, but I did not know whether walking through it meant forgiveness, surrender, or simply the beginning of a truth none of us could escape.<\/p>\n

Leo looked up at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre we going in?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

I took a breath. \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

The living room looked almost the same.<\/p>\n

The same faded blue curtains. The same family photos on the mantel, though I noticed mine stopped at age eighteen. The same clock ticking above the hallway, loud in the uneasy silence.<\/p>\n

My mother hovered near Leo as if afraid to frighten him away.<\/p>\n

\u201cWould you like something to drink?\u201d she asked. \u201cJuice? Water? I might have lemonade.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWater is okay,\u201d Leo said politely.<\/p>\n

His manners seemed to undo her. She pressed a hand to her chest before hurrying toward the kitchen.<\/p>\n

My father sat slowly in his recliner, the same one from that day. I remained standing.<\/p>\n

Leo wandered toward the mantel and studied the photos.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs that Mom?\u201d he asked, pointing to a picture of me in a graduation gown.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d my father said. His voice cracked slightly. \u201cThat\u2019s your mom.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe looks nervous.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe was always nervous before big things,\u201d my mother said, returning with water. \u201cBut she always did them anyway.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at her.<\/p>\n

It was such a small sentence. Such an ordinary motherly thing to say.<\/p>\n

It hurt more than an apology.<\/p>\n

Leo accepted the glass. \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother smiled through tears. \u201cYou\u2019re welcome, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sweetheart.<\/p>\n

The word settled uneasily in the room.<\/p>\n

My father leaned forward, elbows on knees. \u201cDoes Noah\u2019s family know?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

My mother\u2019s face crumpled.<\/p>\n

\u201cDiane doesn\u2019t know she has a grandson?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat woman mourned herself sick,\u201d my father murmured.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d I said. \u201cDo you think I don\u2019t know that?\u201d<\/p>\n

My voice rose despite my effort to keep calm. Leo looked at me, and I forced myself to breathe.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was nineteen. Pregnant. Alone. You threw me out. Noah was dead. His parents were drowning in grief, and I had no proof except my word. I didn\u2019t know how to walk up to a grieving mother and say, \u2018By the way, your son left something behind.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother sat on the couch, covering her face.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wrote letters,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

She looked up sharply.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat letters?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTo you. To both of you. For almost a year after I left.\u201d<\/p>\n

My father frowned. \u201cWe never got letters.\u201d<\/p>\n

I reached into my purse and pulled out a folded plastic envelope. Inside were copies I had kept for myself, paper worn from being handled over the years.<\/p>\n

\u201cI stopped sending them after the eighth one came back unopened.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother took them with shaking hands.<\/p>\n

My father stared at the envelopes. \u201cI never saw these.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey were returned from this address.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother turned one over, her brow furrowing. \u201cThis says \u2018refused.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

My father stood. \u201cI didn\u2019t refuse them.\u201d<\/p>\n

The room changed again.<\/p>\n

Not dramatically. No thunder. No music.<\/p>\n

Just a quiet shift, like a door opening somewhere in the walls.<\/p>\n

My mother looked at him. \u201cThen who did?\u201d<\/p>\n

He did not answer.<\/p>\n

Leo watched us all, his water untouched.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe the mail carrier made a mistake,\u201d my father said, but even he did not sound convinced.<\/p>\n

\u201cEight times?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

He sank back into the chair.<\/p>\n

For a while, no one spoke.<\/p>\n

Then my mother reached for the first letter and unfolded it. Her eyes moved across the page. I remembered writing it at a kitchen table in a borrowed apartment, Leo kicking beneath my ribs while I tried not to cry onto the paper.<\/p>\n

Mom, Dad, I\u2019m safe. I know you\u2019re angry. I know you think I made a terrible mistake. But this baby is Noah\u2019s. I didn\u2019t tell you because he wanted to speak with you first. Please call me. Please don\u2019t shut the door forever.<\/p>\n

My mother pressed the page against her chest.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Emma.\u201d<\/p>\n

I could not look at her.<\/p>\n

Leo came back to my side and slipped his hand into mine.<\/p>\n

My father stared at the floor. \u201cAll these years,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cWe thought you disappeared because you hated us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI disappeared because I had to survive.\u201d<\/p>\n

He nodded once, like the words had struck him exactly where they needed to.<\/p>\n

That evening, we stayed.<\/p>\n

I had not planned to. I had booked a small motel near the highway, prepared for rejection, awkwardness, maybe a short conversation before driving away again.<\/p>\n

But Leo asked if we could have dinner.<\/p>\n

My mother nearly dropped the pot she was holding.<\/p>\n

So we sat at the kitchen table where I had once done homework and where, ten years ago, I had begged them to hear me. My father ordered pizza because my mother was too nervous to cook. Leo told them about school, about his science fair project, about how he wanted to build robots that helped people after storms.<\/p>\n

My father listened as if every word mattered.<\/p>\n

My mother asked careful questions.<\/p>\n

Leo answered with the cautious openness of a child who wanted to belong but was not sure whether belonging was safe.<\/p>\n

At one point, he looked at the empty chair beside me and asked, \u201cDid my dad sit here?\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother smiled sadly. \u201cMany times. Noah was always here after school. He liked your grandfather\u2019s terrible chili.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was not terrible,\u201d my father said.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was,\u201d my mother and I said at the same time.<\/p>\n

The three of us went still.<\/p>\n

Then Leo laughed.<\/p>\n

The sound loosened something in the room. My father smiled, just barely. My mother wiped her eyes and reached for another napkin.<\/p>\n

After dinner, she brought out a shoebox of old photos. There were pictures of Noah and me at twelve, standing ankle-deep in creek water. Noah at sixteen, holding a guitar. Noah and my father fixing the porch steps. Noah sitting at that very kitchen table, grinning at the camera with the same dimple Leo had.<\/p>\n

Leo touched the photograph with one finger.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe looks like me,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I whispered. \u201cHe does.\u201d<\/p>\n

My father cleared his throat. \u201cNoah was a good boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked up. \u201cHe was.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI should have listened to him.\u201d<\/p>\n

No one rushed to comfort him.<\/p>\n

Some regrets need room to breathe.<\/p>\n

Later, after Leo fell asleep on the couch under a quilt my mother had made years ago, the three of us sat in the dim kitchen.<\/p>\n

The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.<\/p>\n

My father turned his coffee mug in slow circles.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was angry back then,\u201d he said. \u201cNot just at you. At everything. Work was bad. Money was tight. I thought if I controlled the house tightly enough, nothing could fall apart.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it did,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother stared into her tea. \u201cI wanted to call you after you left.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at her.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBecause every day I waited, it became harder. Then your father said you needed to learn responsibility. Then the days became weeks.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd then years,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. \u201cI was ashamed.\u201d<\/p>\n

I wanted to tell her shame was a poor excuse for abandoning your child. But Leo was sleeping in the next room, and I was tired of carrying sharp words like weapons.<\/p>\n

So I said the truest thing I could.<\/p>\n

\u201cI needed you.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother covered her mouth.<\/p>\n

\u201cI needed my mom,\u201d I said. \u201cNot solutions. Not approval. Just you.\u201d<\/p>\n

She bowed her head.<\/p>\n

My father\u2019s voice came quietly. \u201cCan we meet him?\u201d<\/p>\n

I turned. \u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNoah\u2019s parents.\u201d<\/p>\n

My stomach tightened.<\/p>\n

Diane and Paul Whitaker still lived two streets over. I knew because I had driven past their house before coming here, slowing just enough to see the white fence and the maple tree Noah used to climb.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey deserve to know,\u201d my father said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTomorrow,\u201d my mother whispered. \u201cBefore you lose your courage.\u201d<\/p>\n

I almost smiled at that, because it sounded like something the old version of her would have said.<\/p>\n

The next morning, Ohio woke under a pale gray sky.<\/p>\n

Leo ate cereal at my parents\u2019 kitchen table while my mother watched him like he was both miracle and memory. My father stepped outside twice, pretending to check the car, but I knew he was nervous.<\/p>\n

I was nervous too.<\/p>\n

At ten o\u2019clock, the four of us walked to the Whitakers\u2019 house.<\/p>\n

Every step felt heavier than the last.<\/p>\n

Diane opened the door before we knocked, holding pruning shears and wearing gardening gloves. Her hair, once dark and thick, was mostly silver now. For one second, she smiled politely.<\/p>\n

Then she saw me.<\/p>\n

\u201cEmma?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHi, Diane.\u201d<\/p>\n

The pruning shears slipped from her hand onto the porch mat.<\/p>\n

Her eyes moved to Leo.<\/p>\n

I watched the realization arrive slowly. Not because anyone had told her, but because grief has a memory sharper than reason. She saw Noah in him before I said a word.<\/p>\n

Diane reached for the doorframe.<\/p>\n

Paul appeared behind her. \u201cDi? What is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Then he saw Leo too.<\/p>\n

His face changed.<\/p>\n

No one invited us in. No one needed to.<\/p>\n

I stepped forward. \u201cThis is Leo,\u201d I said. \u201cHe\u2019s Noah\u2019s son.\u201d<\/p>\n

Diane made a sound that was almost a sob and almost a laugh. She dropped to her knees in front of Leo, stopping short before touching him.<\/p>\n

\u201cMay I?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

Leo looked at me.<\/p>\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n

He stepped closer, and Diane placed both hands gently on his shoulders.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d she whispered. \u201cOh, Noah.\u201d<\/p>\n

Paul turned away, pressing his fist to his mouth.<\/p>\n

My father stood rigid behind us, guilt written into every line of him.<\/p>\n

Diane looked up at me. \u201cYou were pregnant?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you were alone?\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n

She closed her eyes.<\/p>\n

When she opened them, there was pain there, but not anger. Not yet.<\/p>\n

\u201cCome inside,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Their house smelled like lemon polish and fresh bread. Photos of Noah lined the hallway. Noah at graduation. Noah with muddy soccer knees. Noah laughing beside a lake.<\/p>\n

Leo studied them all with quiet fascination.<\/p>\n

Paul brought out a wooden box from a cabinet in the dining room. His hands shook as he set it on the table.<\/p>\n

\u201cNoah left this in his room,\u201d he said. \u201cAfter he passed, Diane couldn\u2019t bear to open it for months. When she finally did, there was a note on top that said it belonged to you.\u201d<\/p>\n

My breath caught.<\/p>\n

\u201cTo me?\u201d<\/p>\n

Diane nodded. \u201cWe tried to send it through your parents.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother went pale.<\/p>\n

My father frowned. \u201cWe never received a box.\u201d<\/p>\n

Paul looked at him. \u201cI brought it to your house myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

The air tightened.<\/p>\n

My father stared at him. \u201cNo, you didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

Paul\u2019s grief-hardened eyes narrowed. \u201cI handed it to someone at your door.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

Paul looked slowly toward my mother.<\/p>\n

My mother stood very still.<\/p>\n

\u201cMargaret?\u201d my father said.<\/p>\n

She shook her head. \u201cNo. I don\u2019t remember.\u201d<\/p>\n

But her voice had changed.<\/p>\n

Diane opened the box before anyone could speak.<\/p>\n

Inside were pieces of Noah\u2019s life. A guitar pick. A movie ticket stub. A folded photo of us at the county fair. A tiny knitted pair of yellow baby socks I had never seen before.<\/p>\n

At the bottom was an envelope with my name on it.<\/p>\n

My hands trembled as I picked it up.<\/p>\n

Emma.<\/p>\n

Noah\u2019s handwriting.<\/p>\n

For a moment, I couldn\u2019t breathe.<\/p>\n

Leo stood beside me, pressed close against my arm.<\/p>\n

\u201cOpen it,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n

I slid my finger beneath the flap.<\/p>\n

The letter inside was dated the day before Noah died.<\/p>\n

Em,<\/p>\n

I\u2019m going to talk to your dad tonight. I know you\u2019re scared. I am too. But I don\u2019t want our baby starting life as a secret. Whatever happens, I want you to remember this: I choose you. I choose our child. I choose the life we\u2019re building, even if everyone needs time to understand it.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s something else I need to tell you, but not in a letter. It\u2019s about our families. My mom knows part of it, and I think your mom knows the rest. I found something in Dad\u2019s old papers that doesn\u2019t make sense. Maybe it\u2019s nothing. Maybe I\u2019m overthinking it. But if I\u2019m right, this baby connects our families in a way nobody has admitted.<\/p>\n

I read the last sentence twice.<\/p>\n

Then a third time.<\/p>\n

My mother sat down hard in the nearest chair.<\/p>\n

Diane looked at her.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did he mean?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

My mother\u2019s face had lost all color.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom?\u201d<\/p>\n

She pressed her fingers to her lips.<\/p>\n

My father turned to her slowly. \u201cMargaret.\u201d<\/p>\n

Diane\u2019s voice was barely audible. \u201cYou knew.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother shook her head, but tears spilled over. \u201cI didn\u2019t know he had found anything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFound what?\u201d I demanded.<\/p>\n

Paul reached into the wooden box again. \u201cThere\u2019s one more envelope.\u201d<\/p>\n

He pulled out a smaller one, yellowed at the edges.<\/p>\n

It was not addressed to me.<\/p>\n

It was addressed to my mother.<\/p>\n

Margaret, if Emma ever comes home with the child, tell her the truth before someone else does.<\/p>\n

The room seemed to tilt.<\/p>\n

Leo looked up at me. \u201cMom, what truth?\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother stared at the envelope as if it had been waiting ten years to accuse her.<\/p>\n

And then, in a voice I barely recognized, she whispered, \u201cNoah wasn\u2019t supposed to know.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/section>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

His name was Noah Whitaker. The moment I said it, my father stepped back as though the floor had shifted beneath him. My mother gripped the edge of the doorframe. … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2802,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3436","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\/3436","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=3436"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3436\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3437,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3436\/revisions\/3437"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2802"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3436"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3436"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nexttaleus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3436"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}