\u201dIf Elena found the box, let Attorney Sterling know. But tell him to hurry\u2026 before she reads that I am not her brother.\u201d<\/p>\n
The phone slipped from my hand. It didn\u2019t hit the floor. It fell into my lap, as if even the impact was afraid to make a noise inside that house. I replayed the audio. Once. Twice. Three times. Patricia\u2019s voice in the background sounded nervous. \u2014\u201dRoger, hang up. You dialed the wrong number.\u201d Then the message cut off.<\/p>\n
I sat there amidst dust, wet tin roofs, and papers stating that my mom\u2019s name wasn\u2019t Theresa, that I had nearly nineteen million dollars just inches away, and that the man who had called me \u201clittle sister\u201d since childhood might not be related to me at all. Or he was something much worse.<\/p>\n
I opened another page in the folder. There was an old document from the county clerk\u2019s office. A birth certificate. Name: Roger Lopez Martinez. Mother: Theresa Lopez Martinez. Father: Not listed. But attached to it was a folded, yellowed piece of paper written in my mom\u2019s handwriting.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cElena: Roger was not born from me. I took him in when he was three months old because his mother worked with me and died with no one to claim her. I raised him as my own son. I never told him because no child deserves to feel abandoned twice.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n
I covered my mouth. Roger. The boy my mom carried without ever having gone into labor for him. The man who left her without her medication. The one who now wanted to sell the house before her body had even finished cooling.<\/p>\n
<\/div>\nI kept reading, my soul tied in knots.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBut if you are reading this, it means I could no longer explain it to you myself. Forgive me. Also, forgive me for my name. I was born Mariana Aranda del Valle. Your grandfather, Arthur, owned half of Dallas and too much guilt. When I refused to marry the man they chose for me, they locked me away. When I got pregnant with you, they told me you were a disgrace. Your father was a high school teacher\u2014not rich, not powerful, but good. They made him disappear from my life with threats.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n
My chest ached. My father. I grew up believing I didn\u2019t have one. My mom used to say he left before I was born. She never insulted him. She never explained him. She would just stay quiet and bake bread as if the dough could patch over the past.<\/p>\n
The letter continued.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI escaped with the help of your grandmother, Beatrice. She gave me a new name, the house in East Austin, and an account where, if anything ever happened to me, the money the Aranda family paid for years to keep me from claiming my place would remain. I never spent it because it wasn\u2019t clean money. It was proof.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n
Proof.<\/i>\u00a0Not savings. Not the secret stash of a stingy old woman.\u00a0Proof.<\/i><\/p>\n
The eighteen million wasn\u2019t wealth guarded out of whim. It was years of deposited silence. Years of fear earning interest. Years of a powerful family buying the disappearance of a daughter.<\/p>\n
<\/div>\nOutside, the rain started pouring harder. The drops leaked through the ceiling and fell right onto the table where my mom used to make tamales. I got up quickly, packed everything back into the box, wrapped the savings book in plastic, and tucked the letter inside my blouse.<\/p>\n
Then came a knock on the door. Not a visitor\u2019s knock. A command. \u2014\u201dElena, open up.\u201d It was Roger. I felt my hands turn to ice.<\/p>\n
Patricia\u2019s voice came from right behind him. \u2014\u201dWe know you\u2019re in there.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t answer. I grabbed the box, ran to the small pantry where my mom kept bags of cornmeal, and hid it inside an empty bucket beneath old clothes. Then I grabbed my phone and dialed the only number I could think of. The hospital nurse. She had written her number on the back of a prescription slip.<\/p>\n
She answered on the third ring. \u2014\u201dElena?\u201d \u2014\u201dI found the box.\u201d There was silence on the other end. Then she said: \u2014\u201dDon\u2019t open the door.\u201d \u2014\u201dMy brother is outside.\u201d \u2014\u201dRoger isn\u2019t your biological brother, is he?\u201d I ran out of air. \u2014\u201dYou knew.\u201d \u2014\u201dYour mom asked me that if you ever called, I should give you an address. Downtown. 5th Street. The Serrano Law Firm. Today. Before five o\u2019clock.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/div>\nRoger pounded harder on the door. \u2014\u201dElena! Don\u2019t play dumb!\u201d<\/p>\n
I checked the clock. It was three-thirty. The nurse lowered her voice. \u2014\u201dYour mom left something else behind. And you aren\u2019t the only one looking for it.\u201d<\/p>\n
I hung up. I shoved the phone into my pants pocket and slipped out through the back door, the one that led to Mrs. Lupe\u2019s yard next door. I scrambled over the low chain-link fence as best as I could, scraping my leg. Mrs. Lupe was washing dishes under her patio awning. \u2014\u201dWhat are you doing, girl?\u201d \u2014\u201dI\u2019ll explain later.\u201d She looked toward my house, where Roger kept pounding on the door. She didn\u2019t ask another question. \u2014\u201dGo through the alley. I\u2019ll tell them I didn\u2019t see you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I ran. My sandals were slipping, my heart was in my throat, and my mom\u2019s letter was pressed tight against my chest. I caught a city bus heading downtown. It smelled of rain, sweat, and sweet pastries from a bag a woman was carrying. The city passed by the window with its churches, its wet power lines, its puddle-filled streets, and people walking by as if my entire world hadn\u2019t just split in two.<\/p>\n
I arrived at the law firm soaking wet. It was an old brick building with wrought-iron balconies and a brass plaque.\u00a0Public Notary & Law Office 18. Hector Serrano, Esq.<\/i><\/p>\n
<\/div>\nThe receptionist looked me up and down. \u2014\u201dDo you have an appointment?\u201d \u2014\u201dI\u2019m Elena Lopez. Daughter of Theresa Lopez\u2026 or Mariana Aranda.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her expression shifted instantly. She stood up without a word. Two minutes later, an older man walked out wearing a gray suit, holding a cane, with tired eyes. \u2014\u201dElena.\u201d He didn\u2019t ask who I was. He recognized me as if he had been waiting for me his entire life. \u2014\u201dCome in.\u201d<\/p>\n
I entered an office that smelled of rich wood, coffee, and old documents. On the wall hung a vintage photograph of the city and a portrait of our lady of remedies. The attorney closed the door. \u2014\u201dYour mother came to see me four months ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
I sat down because my knees were shaking too badly. \u2014\u201dWhy didn\u2019t she tell me anything?\u201d \u2014\u201dBecause she was terrified that the Aranda family would act before she passed away. And because she wanted to protect you from Roger.\u201d \u2014\u201dHe knew.\u201d \u2014\u201dHe only started finding out recently. Someone from the Aranda family contacted him.\u201d<\/p>\n
He handed me a folder. Another one. A thicker one. \u2014\u201dThis is the last will and testament of Mariana Aranda del Valle, also known as Theresa Lopez Martinez. It is signed, notarized, and backed by a certificate of mental competency. She left very clear instructions.\u201d<\/p>\n
I opened the first page. My name was right there.\u00a0Elena Lopez Martinez.<\/i>\u00a0Sole recognized daughter of Mariana Aranda del Valle. Universal heiress to her personal property, accounts, and pending hereditary rights.<\/p>\n
<\/div>\nI felt the breath catch in my throat. \u2014\u201dI don\u2019t want their money,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
The attorney looked at me sadly. \u2014\u201dYour mother knew you would say that.\u201d He pulled out a small envelope. It had my name written in my mom\u2019s handwriting. I opened it with damp hands.<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMija: do not reject what cost me my life to guard. It is not so you live like them. It is so you never have to beg anyone ever again. It is so you know we were never poor because God willed it. We were poor because I preferred hunger over letting the Arandas buy your soul.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n
I cried. Right there. In the lawyer\u2019s office, with my sneakers caked in mud, my face wet from the rain and from my mother\u2019s memory.<\/p>\n
\u2014\u201dThere is more,\u201d he said. There was always more. The attorney took a deep breath. \u2014\u201dThe Aranda family wasn\u2019t just paying for silence. Your mother was legally entitled to a share of stocks in the family conglomerate. Her father, Arthur Aranda, died two years ago. In the original will, Mariana was included. The family filed legal paperwork claiming she had passed away back in 1991.\u201d \u2014\u201dWhat?\u201d \u2014\u201dThey declared her dead so they could divide the estate without her.\u201d<\/p>\n
I went entirely cold. My mom was alive, selling tamales in East Austin, while on fine legal parchment her family was burying her to keep everything for themselves. \u2014\u201dAnd she knew about this?\u201d \u2014\u201dShe discovered it late. That\u2019s why she marked March 17th. That was the day she received a final wire transfer and a threat. They told her to accept the final payout or they would come after you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I brought a hand to my chest. \u2014\u201dAfter me?\u201d \u2014\u201dYou are the living proof that Mariana didn\u2019t die. And you are also an heir.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/div>\nThe office phone rang. The receptionist answered outside. Then she knocked on the door, looking pale. \u2014\u201dSir\u2026 Mr. Arthur Aranda Jr. is here.\u201d<\/p>\n
The attorney closed the folder. \u2014\u201dThey\u2019ve arrived.\u201d<\/p>\n
A man walked in without asking for permission. About fifty years old. Blue suit. Expensive shoes. A face straight out of the business news section. I recognized him from the downtown skyscrapers. Arthur Aranda Jr. My mom\u2019s nephew. Or my cousin. Or one of the men who had lived off the last name that had been stripped from her.<\/p>\n
He walked in with two lawyers trailing behind him. And Roger. My supposed brother walked in with a wet shirt and a face twisted with anger. Patricia stayed by the doorway, looking around as if she were already imagining herself living in a mansion with a pool.<\/p>\n
Arthur Aranda smiled. \u2014\u201dElena. What a pleasure to meet you. I am truly sorry about your mother.\u201d<\/p>\n
I believed him as much as I would a three-dollar bill. \u2014\u201dDon\u2019t speak about my mother with that look on your face.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/div>\nHis smile froze. Roger took a step forward. \u2014\u201dElena, don\u2019t make this difficult. These people want to help you.\u201d \u2014\u201dHelp me the way you helped Mom with her medicine?\u201d<\/p>\n
He flushed red. \u2014\u201dDon\u2019t twist things.\u201d Patricia spoke from the doorway: \u2014\u201dOh, come on. Your mom was a liar. Look at everything she was hiding.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stood up. \u2014\u201dDon\u2019t you ever speak about her again.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur raised a hand, feigning peace. \u2014\u201dWe are all overwhelmed. There is a simple solution here. We can agree on a compensation package for you\u2014a very generous amount\u2014and close this matter without any scandals. Your mother lived exactly how she wanted to live.\u201d \u2014\u201dMy mother lived in hiding because you murdered her on paper.\u201d<\/p>\n
The attorney looked at Arthur. \u2014\u201dMiss Elena is already aware of the fraudulent death declaration.\u201d<\/p>\n
For the first time, Arthur lost his color. One of his lawyers intervened. \u2014\u201dThat is a matter of interpretation.\u201d<\/p>\n
The attorney opened another folder. \u2014\u201dShe is also aware of the wire transfers explicitly labeled for silence. The threats. And the existence of the valid will.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/div>\nRoger exploded. \u2014\u201dThe will isn\u2019t valid! I am her son!\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at him. For the first time, it wasn\u2019t with rage. It was with an immense sadness. \u2014\u201dShe raised you as a son. That was far more than you ever deserved.\u201d<\/p>\n
His face dropped. Right then, he understood that I already knew. \u2014\u201dElena\u2026\u201d \u2014\u201dShe took you in when nobody else wanted you. She gave you a name, food, schooling. And you let her die without a single pill.\u201d<\/p>\n
His eyes filled with tears. I couldn\u2019t tell if it was from guilt or fear. \u2014\u201dPatricia told me that old woman didn\u2019t have anything.\u201d \u2014\u201dPatricia didn\u2019t make you miserable, Roger. She just gave you permission.\u201d<\/p>\n
Patricia opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Arthur Aranda tapped his fingers gently on the desk. \u2014\u201dMiss Lopez, think carefully. Pitting yourself against a family like ours can take years. Lawyers, exhaustion, the press. You come from a humble neighborhood. You don\u2019t know how things operate at this level.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stepped closer to the desk. \u2014\u201dYou\u2019re right.\u201d He smiled. \u2014\u201dI\u2019m glad you understand.\u201d \u2014\u201dI don\u2019t know how things operate at this level. But my mom left everything recorded, signed, dated, and with multiple copies. And I learned from her how to endure hunger. Not threats.\u201d<\/p>\n
The door opened again. The hospital nurse walked in. But she wasn\u2019t alone. She came with a white-haired, elegant woman in a wheelchair. Everyone went completely rigid. Arthur whispered: \u2014\u201dGrandmother.\u201d<\/p>\n
The woman raised her eyes toward me. Her eyes were identical to my mom\u2019s. \u2014\u201dYou are Elena.\u201d I didn\u2019t answer. She began to weep. \u2014\u201dI am Beatrice del Valle. Mariana\u2019s mother. Your grandmother.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt the room tilt. The woman who signed as the mother on the birth certificate. The wealthy lady I knew nothing about. The one who supposedly let her daughter die forgotten.<\/p>\n
The attorney stood up. \u2014\u201dMrs. Beatrice requested to be present.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur lost his mask completely. \u2014\u201dYou weren\u2019t supposed to leave the estate.\u201d<\/p>\n
Beatrice looked at him with a fierce exhaustion. \u2014\u201dYour mother wasn\u2019t supposed to steal my daughter\u2019s life either, and look how many years I allowed it.\u201d<\/p>\n
The silence filled with the weight of the past. Beatrice extended a hand to me. I didn\u2019t take it. Not yet. \u2014\u201dI helped Mariana escape,\u201d she said. \u201cBut I was a coward. I let the family erase her so we wouldn\u2019t lose everything. I sent her money for years. She never spent it. She told me she didn\u2019t want to buy bread with shame.\u201d<\/p>\n
My throat tighted. \u2014\u201dShe died saying she didn\u2019t have enough for a sweater.\u201d<\/p>\n
The elderly woman closed her eyes. \u2014\u201dI know.\u201d \u2014\u201dNo. You don\u2019t know. I was the one rubbing her swollen feet. I was the one counting pennies for her pills. I buried her with donations from the neighbors while you guys were making three-hundred-thousand-dollar deposits just to keep her quiet.\u201d<\/p>\n
Beatrice wept without trying to defend herself. That was the only dignified thing she did. \u2014\u201dYou are right.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur Aranda stepped toward her. \u2014\u201dGrandmother, be quiet.\u201d The nurse stepped right in between them. \u2014\u201dDo not speak to her like that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur glared at her with contempt. \u2014\u201dStay out of this.\u201d<\/p>\n
The nurse held up a USB drive. \u2014\u201dI\u2019ve been involved since Theresa asked me to keep this safe.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur froze. The attorney took the flash drive. \u2014\u201dIt\u2019s a recorded statement from Mariana, filmed in the hospital three days before she passed away.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t brace myself. No one can ever truly brace themselves to hear their mother speak from beyond the grave. They pulled up the video on the computer. My mom appeared in a hospital bed, her face pale, her hair clinging to her forehead, and her hands swollen. But her eyes were still alive.<\/p>\n
\u2014\u201dElena,\u201d she said on the screen. \u201cIf you are watching this, forgive me. I wasn\u2019t poor out of humility. I was poor out of fear. I kept the money because every single dollar carried the voice of the people who wanted to buy us. You owe them nothing. Neither does Roger, even though he failed me. I loved him. But loving someone doesn\u2019t mean letting them rob you even when you\u2019re dead.\u201d<\/p>\n
Roger lowered his face. My mom breathed with difficulty. \u2014\u201dMy name was Mariana, but to you, I was Theresa. And that name truly belonged to me because you spoke it with love. Don\u2019t let the Arandas make you feel small. They have skyscrapers. You have the truth. And sometimes, mija, the truth weighs more than a full family name.\u201d<\/p>\n
I sobbed with my hand covering my mouth. The recording continued. \u2014\u201dEverything I left behind will go to Elena and to a foundation for women abandoned by their families, just like I was. I want my house to remain unsold. Fix it up. Let hot meals be served there on Sundays. Because no woman should ever have to pretend she isn\u2019t hungry just so her child can eat.\u201d<\/p>\n
That completely broke me. The nurse held me up. Arthur Aranda slammed the computer shut. \u2014\u201dEnough.\u201d<\/p>\n
The attorney looked right at him. \u2014\u201dOn the contrary. This is just getting started.\u201d<\/p>\n
And it did start. Not with screaming. With legal documents. With formal charges. With the District Attorney\u2019s office. With a probate battle that the Aranda family tried to crush with incredibly expensive corporate lawyers.<\/p>\n
They claimed my mom was senile. The hospital handed over her mental evaluation proving her lucidity. They claimed I had manipulated her. The neighbors testified that I was the only one caring for her while Roger was nowhere to be found. They claimed the money was a gift. The bank ledger literally had the word \u201csilence\u201d written on the documents. They claimed Mariana Aranda had died decades ago. Beatrice finally testified on the record that it was all a lie.<\/p>\n
The local press caught wind of it.\u00a0\u201cAranda Family Reportedly Declared Living Heiress Dead.\u201d<\/i>\u00a0The headline traveled faster than their luxury SUVs.<\/p>\n
Roger tried to approach me weeks later. He showed up at the house one afternoon, alone, without Patricia, his eyes red. \u2014\u201dElena, I didn\u2019t know the whole story.\u201d<\/p>\n
I was busy hauling buckets out of the living room because it was still leaking through the broken roof. I looked at him. \u2014\u201dYou knew Mom needed medicine.\u201d He lowered his eyes. \u2014\u201dYes.\u201d \u2014\u201dThen you knew enough.\u201d<\/p>\n
He cried. For the first time since Mom died. \u2014\u201dShe took me in.\u201d \u2014\u201dYes.\u201d \u2014\u201dAnd I was a monster.\u201d<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t comfort him. Some truths don\u2019t need a hug to be understood. \u2014\u201dWhat do you want?\u201d \u2014\u201dNothing. Patricia left me.\u201d I almost laughed, but it just made me sad. \u2014\u201dOf course she did. The money wasn\u2019t coming to you.\u201d He nodded. \u2014\u201dCan I go to the cemetery?\u201d \u2014\u201dYou don\u2019t need my permission to speak to a dead woman. You needed it to take care of her while she was alive.\u201d He walked away. I didn\u2019t hate him the way I used to. But I didn\u2019t open the door for him either.<\/p>\n
Beatrice passed away six months later. Before she died, she signed exactly what needed to be signed. She legally recognized that Mariana Aranda had lived, that she had been stripped of her rights, and that I was her granddaughter. She didn\u2019t ask me to call her grandmother. Perhaps she understood that blood isn\u2019t enough when it arrives far too late and in a wheelchair.<\/p>\n
The lawsuit dragged on for over a year. The Aranda family lost a significant portion of what they had stolen. Not all of it. The truly wealthy rarely lose everything. But they lost their silence. They lost their clean reputation. They lost the right to say that Mariana never existed.<\/p>\n
And I recovered my mother\u2019s true name. But I never stopped calling her Theresa. On her gravestone, I had them carve:\u00a0Theresa Lopez Martinez, also known as Mariana Aranda del Valle. Mother, tamale vendor, heiress of her own life.<\/i><\/p>\n
When the funds were finally cleared and released, I didn\u2019t buy a mansion. The very first thing I did was fix the roof. A brand-new roof. Fully secured. No more buckets. The day it rained for the first time and not a single drop fell into the living room, I sat on the floor and cried like a little girl.<\/p>\n
Then I bought a blue blanket. Soft. Warm. I placed it over my mom\u2019s bed, even though she was no longer there. \u2014\u201dYou aren\u2019t cold anymore, Mom,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Then I fulfilled her final wishes. The old house in East Austin became a community kitchen on Sundays. We named it \u201cTheresa\u2019s House.\u201d Never \u201cAranda House.\u201d Never.<\/p>\n
Every Sunday we make tamales, rice, coffee, and fresh pastries. Elderly women show up, single mothers, hungry children, and neighbors who had previously chipped in to bury her, entirely unaware they were saying goodbye to a hidden heiress.<\/p>\n
On the wall, I hung up her apron. Along with the golden key tied with the red ribbon. And the old photograph where she is dressed in white. Underneath, I wrote:\u00a0\u201cShe wasn\u2019t poor. They impoverished her. She wasn\u2019t alone. We were just late.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n
Sometimes Roger comes by. He doesn\u2019t step into the kitchen. He helps carry the tables, sweeps the sidewalk, and sits at the very back, completely quiet. I don\u2019t know if I\u2019ll ever be able to call him brother without it hurting. But my mom loved him. And I try not to be harsher than life already is.<\/p>\n
Patricia never returned. Thank God.<\/p>\n
I receive letters from the Aranda family\u2019s lawyers every now and then. My hands don\u2019t shake anymore. I have my own legal team now. But I also have something they will never possess: my mom\u2019s voice telling the truth from a hospital bed, with swollen feet and cold hands.<\/p>\n
The money took my breath away. The last name pulled the floor out from under me. But what almost killed me was understanding that my mother deprived herself of absolutely everything not because she didn\u2019t have it, but because every single dollar was a rope tied to the people who had erased her.<\/p>\n
Now, whenever I see a woman say \u201cI\u2019m not hungry\u201d while serving a double portion to her child, I step up. I place a plate right in front of her. I tell her: \u2014\u201dYou eat too.\u201d<\/p>\n
Because my mom died pretending she didn\u2019t need a single thing. And she left me those millions not to make me rich. She left them to ensure that no other Theresa would ever have to choose between her dignity and her food.<\/p>\n
Sometimes I dream of her. She\u2019s in the kitchen, kneading dough. She isn\u2019t wrapped in that damp blanket anymore. She\u2019s wearing a brand-new, wine-colored sweater. She looks at me and smiles. \u2014\u201dIt doesn\u2019t leak anymore, mija?\u201d<\/p>\n
I tell her no. The roof holds up. The house is full. Her name has returned.<\/p>\n
And she laughs with that tired laugh that now, at long last, sounds entirely at rest. Then I wake up and understand that my mom didn\u2019t leave me a fortune. She left me a purpose. To ensure that no one ever buries a living woman just because her truth makes the powerful uncomfortable.<\/p>\n
And as long as Theresa\u2019s House has hot coffee, tamales in the pot, and an open door, Mariana Aranda del Valle will never be dead on any piece of paper. Theresa Lopez won\u2019t be either. My mother lives every single Sunday. In every plate served. In every woman who eats without asking for permission. In every drop of rain that no longer finds its way through the roof.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u201dIf Elena found the box, let Attorney Sterling know. But tell him to hurry\u2026 before she reads that I am not her brother.\u201d The phone slipped from my hand. It … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3468,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3460","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3460","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3460"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3460\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3470,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3460\/revisions\/3470"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3468"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3460"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3460"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3460"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}