Fifteen months after my divorce from Giovanni Moretti became final, I called him from a pediatric emergency room hallway with rain soaking through my blouse and our seven-month-old son fighting for his life behind locked double doors.<\/p>\n
The phone felt slick in my hand. My fingers would not stop shaking. Outside the windows of Boston General, rain hit the glass so hard it sounded like gravel being thrown by handfuls.<\/p>\n
Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed above me, cold and relentless, and every few seconds the pediatric doors opened just wide enough for me to catch a flash of white shoes, blue gloves, or a nurse moving too quickly.<\/p>\n
Then they closed again. Behind them was Luca. My son. Our son. I had spent seven months telling myself those two words did not belong together. Giovanni answered on the fourth ring. His voice was flat with sleep and distance.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho is this?\u201d<\/p>\n
For a second, I could not speak.<\/p>\n
It was not because I had forgotten how his voice sounded.<\/p>\n
It was because I remembered too well.<\/p>\n
I remembered that same voice in penthouse elevators, low and controlled while men twice his age went quiet.<\/p>\n
I remembered it at dinner tables where waiters seemed to know not to interrupt.<\/p>\n
I remembered it through closed doors, speaking in a language of business and threat that I had never been allowed to enter<\/p>\n
Now I was standing in a hospital hallway, my blouse stuck cold to my skin, and my baby had a 103-degree fever.<\/p>\n
\u201cGiovanni,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
My voice cracked around his name.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s Lauren.\u201d<\/p>\n
The silence after that was worse than any insult he could have thrown at me.<\/p>\n
It was not surprise.<\/p>\n
It was not confusion.<\/p>\n
It was the sound of a door being locked from the other side.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow did you get this number?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
I looked across the hallway.<\/p>\n
Dr. Sullivan stood near the hospital intake desk with a clipboard tucked under one arm, checking his watch.<\/p>\n
He was trying to look patient.<\/p>\n
He was failing.<\/p>\n
A nurse hurried past us with a tiny blue blanket folded over her forearm and a stack of forms pressed against her chest.<\/p>\n
Nobody had said the word danger plainly.<\/p>\n
That was how I knew danger had already filled the room.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need your family history,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNow.\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard movement on the other end of the line.<\/p>\n
Fabric shifting.<\/p>\n
A breath.<\/p>\n
Then Giovanni said, \u201cMy family history?\u201d<\/p>\n
His tone sharpened.<\/p>\n
\u201cAfter fifteen months?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBlood type,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
My mouth felt dry.<\/p>\n
\u201cAutoimmune disorders. Clotting disorders. Immune deficiencies. Neurological history. Anything genetic. Anything unusual.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
Dr. Sullivan tapped the glass face of his watch once.<\/p>\n
Not hard.<\/p>\n
Just enough.<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
For seven months, I had rehearsed a dozen possible ways to tell Giovanni the truth if I ever had to.<\/p>\n
None of them began in a hospital hallway.<\/p>\n
None of them had rainwater running down my spine.<\/p>\n
None of them involved a doctor waiting to put a needle into our baby\u2019s spine.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause our son is in the hospital,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
The words came out small.<\/p>\n
\u201cHis name is Luca. He\u2019s seven months old, and they need to know what could be on his father\u2019s side before they do a lumbar puncture.\u201d<\/p>\n
There are silences that are empty.<\/p>\n
This one was full of everything I had done.<\/p>\n
Every unanswered possibility.<\/p>\n
Every choice I had called protection because the word fear made me look weaker.<\/p>\n
I thought the call had dropped.<\/p>\n
Then Giovanni spoke again.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat did you just say?\u201d<\/p>\n
His voice had changed so completely that my hand tightened around the phone.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe have a son,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd he is very sick. You can hate me after this, but please do not punish him for what I kept from you.\u201d<\/p>\n
He did not shout.<\/p>\n
He did not call me a liar.<\/p>\n
He did not ask for proof.<\/p>\n
He said, \u201cPut the doctor on the phone.\u201d<\/p>\n
That frightened me more than anger would have.<\/p>\n
Anger would have been human.<\/p>\n
This was command.<\/p>\n
I walked the phone over to Dr. Sullivan with a hand so numb I almost dropped it.<\/p>\n
The doctor took it from me and turned slightly away, professional voice sliding into place.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is Dr. Sullivan in pediatric emergency,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
For the first minute, his face did not change.<\/p>\n
Then his eyebrows lifted.<\/p>\n
He grabbed a pen from his coat pocket and began writing against the clipboard.<\/p>\n
\u201cAB negative,\u201d he repeated.<\/p>\n
\u201cUnderstood. Any clotting disorders in the family?\u201d<\/p>\n
He listened.<\/p>\n
\u201cImmune deficiencies?\u201d<\/p>\n
He listened again.<\/p>\n
\u201cNeurological history?\u201d<\/p>\n
The more Giovanni spoke, the less Dr. Sullivan looked like a doctor gathering information from a stranger.<\/p>\n
He looked like a man recognizing a pattern he had been missing.<\/p>\n
When the call ended, he did not hand the phone back right away.<\/p>\n
He looked down at it for half a second, as if the device had turned heavier.<\/p>\n
Then he passed it to me carefully.<\/p>\n
\u201cYour ex-husband is extremely precise,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s not my husband anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n
The words came out too quickly.<\/p>\n
I needed somebody to remember that.<\/p>\n
Maybe I needed to remember it most.<\/p>\n
Dr. Sullivan looked toward the rain-smeared windows.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he said quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut he just mobilized a private pediatric specialist, a flight team, and a driver from the roof. He told me to keep your son alive until he gets here.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a moment, the hallway tipped.<\/p>\n
I almost laughed.<\/p>\n
Not because anything was funny.<\/p>\n
Because shock needed somewhere to go, and my body picked the wrong door.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s in Manhattan,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cIn this storm.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dr. Sullivan looked back at the window.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe said three hours.\u201d<\/p>\n
Of course he had.<\/p>\n
Giovanni Moretti had never accepted distance as something real.<\/p>\n
Fifteen months earlier, I had left him with two suitcases, a signed divorce settlement, and the kind of exhaustion that sits inside your bones until even sleep cannot reach it.<\/p>\n
From the outside, our marriage had looked impossible to complain about.<\/p>\n
There were penthouse views over Manhattan.<\/p>\n
There were tailored suits and black SUVs idling outside restaurants.<\/p>\n
There were charity galas where women touched my arm and told me how lucky I was.<\/p>\n
There were private dining rooms where people stood when Giovanni arrived.<\/p>\n
Inside that marriage, there were locks I did not have keys for.<\/p>\n
He came home after midnight with no explanation.<\/p>\n
He took phone calls in rooms I was not allowed to enter.<\/p>\n
Men lowered their voices around him.<\/p>\n
Old scars crossed his ribs, pale and hard under my fingers, and every time I asked where they came from, he kissed my forehead instead of answering.<\/p>\n
At parties, I was Mrs. Moretti.<\/p>\n
At home, I was a woman trying to love a man who had turned silence into architecture.<\/p>\n
One night, six months after the wedding, I found him home before midnight.<\/p>\n
The bedroom smelled faintly of rain and his cologne.<\/p>\n
A lamp glowed over the silk sheets.<\/p>\n
For once, he did not look like he was already halfway out the door.<\/p>\n
I asked him if he ever wanted children.<\/p>\n
His answer came immediately.<\/p>\n
\u201cChildren are leverage, Lauren. Targets. Any man in my world who pretends otherwise is either stupid or cruel.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then he kissed my forehead.<\/p>\n
Softly.<\/p>\n
Almost tenderly.<\/p>\n
As if tenderness could soften the sentence.<\/p>\n
It did not.<\/p>\n
That line stayed with me longer than the kiss.<\/p>\n
It followed me through the divorce.<\/p>\n
It followed me into the little Boston apartment I could barely afford after leaving a life that had looked expensive from every angle except the inside.<\/p>\n
It followed me the morning I stood barefoot in that apartment, grocery bags still on the counter, holding a positive pregnancy test while the refrigerator hummed like nothing in the world had changed.<\/p>\n
But everything had.<\/p>\n
I sat down on the kitchen floor because my legs stopped working.<\/p>\n
There were still unpacked boxes against the wall.<\/p>\n
A carton of eggs sat sweating in a paper bag.<\/p>\n
Outside, someone on the street was honking at another driver.<\/p>\n
Life kept going in all the ordinary ways, and I stared at two lines that had just split my future in half.<\/p>\n
I told myself Giovanni had already made the decision for both of us.<\/p>\n
Children were leverage.<\/p>\n
Children were targets.<\/p>\n
Children did not belong in his world.<\/p>\n
So I kept Luca.<\/p>\n
And I kept him hidden.<\/p>\n
I gave him my last name on the hospital forms.<\/p>\n
I moved quietly.<\/p>\n
I paid cash when I could.<\/p>\n
I let Jessica believe the father was somebody I did not want to discuss.<\/p>\n
For seven months, I turned protection into a routine.<\/p>\n
Bottle.<\/p>\n
Diaper.<\/p>\n
Laundry.<\/p>\n
Rent.<\/p>\n
Pediatric appointments.<\/p>\n
Late-night fevers that turned out to be nothing.<\/p>\n
Tiny socks in the dryer.<\/p>\n
A stuffed rabbit with one ear he chewed until it went soft.<\/p>\n
I loved him so fiercely it scared me.<\/p>\n
And because I loved him, I told myself Giovanni could not know.<\/p>\n
I told myself I was saving Luca from the Moretti name, from the black SUVs, from the men who looked at doors before they looked at people, from the danger I had felt but never seen clearly enough to name.<\/p>\n
But in that hospital hallway, with rain drying cold on my skin, I had to face a harder possibility.<\/p>\n
Maybe I had not only been protecting Luca.<\/p>\n
Maybe I had been protecting myself from the chance that Giovanni would have chosen our son instantly.<\/p>\n
Maybe I never gave him the chance because I was terrified of finding out I had misunderstood the man I married.<\/p>\n
A nurse came out and called my name.<\/p>\n
I nearly dropped the phone again.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can see him for a minute before the procedure,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
Her voice was soft in the way hospital voices get when the news is not soft at all.<\/p>\n
I followed her through the double doors.<\/p>\n
The pediatric room was too bright.<\/p>\n
Everything beeped.<\/p>\n
Everything smelled like disinfectant, plastic tubing, and old coffee.<\/p>\n
Luca looked impossibly small inside the crib.<\/p>\n
His black curls were damp with sweat.<\/p>\n
His cheeks were flushed with fever.<\/p>\n
Clear tape held the IV against his little arm, and wires crossed his chest like the hospital was trying to count every breath before it was allowed to matter.<\/p>\n
His stuffed rabbit lay crooked beside his face.<\/p>\n
One tiny hand was wrapped around the worn ear.<\/p>\n
I gripped the rail.<\/p>\n
My knees almost gave out.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m here,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cMama\u2019s here.\u201d<\/p>\n
His eyes stayed closed.<\/p>\n
But when I slipped my finger into his palm, his fingers tightened around mine.<\/p>\n
It was barely pressure.<\/p>\n
A reflex, probably.<\/p>\n
The nurse saw it and smiled with tired eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s holding on,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s a good sign.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wanted to believe her so badly it hurt.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe has to,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s all I have.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her gaze flicked toward the hallway.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe not anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n
My whole body stiffened.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s my ex-husband.\u201d<\/p>\n
She did not argue.<\/p>\n
She had coffee stains on her scrubs and a crease between her eyebrows that looked permanent.<\/p>\n
\u201cHoney,\u201d she said, \u201cI\u2019ve worked pediatric emergency for twenty-three years. Men who don\u2019t care don\u2019t cross state lines in a storm for a baby they\u2019ve never met.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked back down at Luca.<\/p>\n
I wanted to tell her Giovanni was not like other men.<\/p>\n
I wanted to tell her she did not understand the world he came from.<\/p>\n
I wanted to tell her that a man can cross state lines for many reasons, and not all of them are love.<\/p>\n
But Luca\u2019s fingers were still curled around mine.<\/p>\n
So I said nothing.<\/p>\n
They wheeled him away a few minutes later.<\/p>\n
The doors closed.<\/p>\n
And time stopped making sense.<\/p>\n
Jessica called three times.<\/p>\n
The first call rang until it died.<\/p>\n
The second buzzed against my palm while I stared at the vending machine across the hallway.<\/p>\n
The third made me look down and feel a wave of shame so sharp I almost answered just to hand it to someone else.<\/p>\n
What was I supposed to say?<\/p>\n
My son might be dying.<\/p>\n
I lied to you.<\/p>\n
I lied to everyone.<\/p>\n
The man I hid him from is on his way.<\/p>\n
And somehow, the diagnosis was no longer the only thing terrifying me.<\/p>\n
At 10:41 p.m., the emergency room doors burst open.<\/p>\n
Not opened.<\/p>\n
Burst.<\/p>\n
A security guard shouted, \u201cSir, you can\u2019t go back there.\u201d<\/p>\n
A nurse near reception turned with her hand already lifted.<\/p>\n
Someone in the waiting room gasped.<\/p>\n
Then Giovanni Moretti walked into Boston General like the building itself had made the mistake of standing in his way.<\/p>\n
Rain darkened the shoulders of his black wool coat.<\/p>\n
His hair was damp at the temples.<\/p>\n
His face looked older than it had fifteen months ago, sharper in the angles, as if sleep had become another thing he did not trust.<\/p>\n
Three men followed behind him.<\/p>\n
One carried a hard silver medical case.<\/p>\n
Every conversation in the waiting room seemed to fall apart at once.<\/p>\n
A father holding a paper coffee cup lowered it without drinking.<\/p>\n
A woman with a toddler on her lap turned slowly in her chair.<\/p>\n
The nurse who had tried to stop him dropped her hand before she touched his sleeve.<\/p>\n
Giovanni\u2019s eyes found mine across the room.<\/p>\n
That was the worst part.<\/p>\n
Not the men.<\/p>\n
Not the case.<\/p>\n
Not the way the security guard suddenly looked unsure of his own job.<\/p>\n
It was the fact that Giovanni did not scan the waiting room like a man searching.<\/p>\n
He looked directly at me.<\/p>\n
As if he had known exactly where I would be.<\/p>\n
As if the whole storm had only been weather between him and the truth.<\/p>\n
I stood up too fast.<\/p>\n
The plastic chair scraped backward.<\/p>\n
My phone nearly slipped from my hand.<\/p>\n
I wanted to run to him.<\/p>\n
I wanted to step between him and the pediatric doors.<\/p>\n
Both instincts hit me at the same time and canceled each other out.<\/p>\n
He crossed the floor in a straight line.<\/p>\n
People moved without being asked.<\/p>\n
The man with the silver medical case set it on the intake counter and opened the latches.<\/p>\n
Dr. Sullivan turned at the sound.<\/p>\n
His face changed when he saw the contents.<\/p>\n
Sealed packs.<\/p>\n
Labeled tubes.<\/p>\n
The sight of that case made the nurse beside him whisper, \u201cHow did he get here that fast?\u201d<\/p>\n
Nobody answered.<\/p>\n
Giovanni stopped inches from me.<\/p>\n
Close enough that I could smell rainwater, expensive wool, and the faint trace of the same cologne that used to cling to my pillows long after he left at night.<\/p>\n
For one second, neither of us spoke.<\/p>\n
His eyes moved over my face.<\/p>\n
My wet hair.<\/p>\n
My shaking hands.<\/p>\n
The cracked phone in my grip.<\/p>\n
Then they went to the pediatric doors.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere is he?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
No greeting.<\/p>\n
No accusation.<\/p>\n
No rage.<\/p>\n
Just a question so controlled it sounded like it had been carved out of stone.<\/p>\n
I lifted my hand toward the doors.<\/p>\n
\u201cGiovanni\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere is my son, Lauren?\u201d<\/p>\n
My breath caught.<\/p>\n
My son.<\/p>\n
He had said it without hesitation.<\/p>\n
Not the baby.<\/p>\n
Not your son.<\/p>\n
My son.<\/p>\n
The words should have comforted me.<\/p>\n
Instead, they cut through every excuse I had used to survive the last seven months.<\/p>\n
Dr. Sullivan stepped forward.<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Moretti, we are preparing\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
Giovanni turned his head just enough to look at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo not explain the hallway to me, Doctor. Explain the procedure.\u201d<\/p>\n
The doctor paused.<\/p>\n
For a brief second, I saw irritation cross his face.<\/p>\n
Then he looked at Luca\u2019s folder, at the silver case, at the specialist waiting just behind him, and his expression settled into something more careful.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe are preparing the lumbar puncture,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cHis fever is high, and because we did not have paternal medical history until minutes ago, we were moving with limited information.\u201d<\/p>\n
Limited information.<\/p>\n
That was a clean phrase.<\/p>\n
A professional phrase.<\/p>\n
It did not sound like a mother standing between a doctor and the truth because she had been afraid of the father.<\/p>\n
Giovanni looked back at me.<\/p>\n
For the first time, I saw something crack behind the control.<\/p>\n
Not loudly.<\/p>\n
Not dramatically.<\/p>\n
But enough.<\/p>\n
Seven months of my son\u2019s life sat between us like a third person.<\/p>\n
His first breath.<\/p>\n
His first cry.<\/p>\n
The night he smiled in his sleep.<\/p>\n
The morning he rolled halfway over and scared himself.<\/p>\n
The way he grabbed my hair when he was hungry.<\/p>\n
The way he stopped crying if I hummed the same old song near his ear.<\/p>\n
All of it.<\/p>\n
Gone from Giovanni.<\/p>\n
Not because he refused it.<\/p>\n
Because I never told him it existed.<\/p>\n
I wanted to defend myself.<\/p>\n
I wanted to say, You told me children were targets.<\/p>\n
I wanted to say, You made your world impossible to enter.<\/p>\n
I wanted to say, I was alone.<\/p>\n
All of those things were true.<\/p>\n
But truth does not always make a choice clean.<\/p>\n
Sometimes it only explains the blood on your hands after the cut has already been made.<\/p>\n
The nurse who had spoken to me earlier stood near the wall.<\/p>\n
Her eyes were wet now.<\/p>\n
Not crying, exactly.<\/p>\n
Just full.<\/p>\n
She looked at Luca\u2019s doors, then at Giovanni, then away toward a blank patch of wall as if giving us privacy inside a room full of people.<\/p>\n
Dr. Sullivan cleared his throat.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe need to proceed.\u201d<\/p>\n
Giovanni did not move his eyes from mine.<\/p>\n
\u201cWill he survive?\u201d<\/p>\n
The question did what the rest had not.<\/p>\n
It broke the room open.<\/p>\n
Dr. Sullivan inhaled slowly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe are doing everything we can.\u201d<\/p>\n
Giovanni\u2019s jaw tightened.<\/p>\n
That answer would not have satisfied him in a boardroom.<\/p>\n
It would not have satisfied him in a negotiation.<\/p>\n
It would not have satisfied the men who followed him through storms.<\/p>\n
But this was not a world he could command by lowering his voice.<\/p>\n
This was a hospital.<\/p>\n
This was fever.<\/p>\n
This was a seven-month-old baby behind double doors.<\/p>\n
For the first time since I had known him, Giovanni Moretti looked like he had run into a locked door money could not open.<\/p>\n
I looked toward the pediatric doors and thought of Luca\u2019s hand tightening around my finger.<\/p>\n
That tiny pressure had felt like the whole world asking me not to fall apart.<\/p>\n
Giovanni followed my gaze.<\/p>\n
For the first time, I watched understanding move across his face without any armor in front of it.<\/p>\n
Not confusion.<\/p>\n
Not surprise.<\/p>\n
Grief.<\/p>\n
That was the thing I had not prepared for.<\/p>\n
Anger would have been easier.<\/p>\n
Anger would have let me hate him back.<\/p>\n
But grief looked too much like love arriving late and finding the door already closed.<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought I was protecting him,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
My voice came out barely above a whisper.<\/p>\n
Giovanni looked at me then.<\/p>\n
Not like an ex-husband.<\/p>\n
Not like a man who had won a fight.<\/p>\n
Not even like the dangerous person I had built in my mind to justify every secret.<\/p>\n
He looked at me like a father who had just discovered that seven months of his son\u2019s life had been lived in another room while he stood outside without knowing there was a door.<\/p>\n
Dr. Sullivan said my name.<\/p>\n
The procedure team was ready.<\/p>\n
The specialist moved toward the double doors with the silver case.<\/p>\n
The nurse touched my elbow once.<\/p>\n
A small, human touch.<\/p>\n
\u201cLauren,\u201d she said softly.<\/p>\n
I stepped back.<\/p>\n
Giovanni stepped forward.<\/p>\n
For one second, our shoulders almost touched.<\/p>\n
We both looked at the same doors.<\/p>\n
All the history between us went quiet because behind those doors was someone too small to carry any of it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI will not punish him for what you kept from me,\u201d Giovanni said.<\/p>\n
His voice was low.<\/p>\n
Then he turned his head just enough for me to hear the rest.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut if he lives through this night, Lauren, you and I are going to talk about every second you stole.\u201d<\/p>\n
The doors opened.<\/p>\n
Cold white light spilled into the hallway.<\/p>\n
And for the first time since I had called him, I understood that the storm outside was not the reckoning.<\/p>\n
It was only what he had driven through to reach it.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Fifteen months after my divorce from Giovanni Moretti became final, I called him from a pediatric emergency room hallway with rain soaking through my blouse and our seven-month-old son fighting … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3577,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3576","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\/3576","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=3576"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3576\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3578,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3576\/revisions\/3578"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3577"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3576"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3576"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3576"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}