# BONUS PART 88: THE NEW CRY
\nI was one hundred and forty-five years old when I heard the cry.
\nNot loud.
\nNot dramatic.
\nLife rarely arrives that way.
\nIt was small.
\nInsistent.
\nCertain.
\nThe sound of someone announcing:
\n**I am here.**
\nThe nurse stepped into the waiting room with tears already in her eyes.
\nPeople who witness beginnings for a living still cry.
\nI have always found that comforting.
\n\u201cWould you like to meet her?\u201d
\nHer.
\nA daughter.
\nThe word moved through me like sunlight through old windows.
\nJames had a daughter.
\nThe family had another branch.
\nAnother season.
\nAnother chance.
\nI stood slowly.
\nAt one hundred and forty-five, standing had become an act of cooperation between memory and knees.
\nStill\u2014
\nI stood.
\nSome moments deserve effort.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The hospital room glowed softly in the morning light.<\/p>\n
Maya looked exhausted.<\/p>\n
Radiant.<\/p>\n
Human.<\/p>\n
James looked stunned.<\/p>\n
Every new parent wears that face.<\/p>\n
The face of someone whose heart has suddenly learned a larger shape.<\/p>\n
Then I saw her.<\/p>\n
Tiny.<\/p>\n
Wrapped in the old blanket.<\/p>\n
The one Grandma Rose had started.<\/p>\n
The one Patricia had repaired.<\/p>\n
The one Eleanor had patched.<\/p>\n
Generations stitched together around new life.<\/p>\n
The nurse placed her gently into my arms.<\/p>\n
One hundred and forty-five-year-old hands.<\/p>\n
Hands that had carried money.<\/p>\n
Carried grief.<\/p>\n
Carried children.<\/p>\n
Carried history.<\/p>\n
Now carrying tomorrow.<\/p>\n
She opened her eyes.<\/p>\n
New eyes.<\/p>\n
Ancient miracle.<\/p>\n
And suddenly\u2014<\/p>\n
I cried.<\/p>\n
Not quietly.<\/p>\n
Not politely.<\/p>\n
Deep tears.<\/p>\n
The kind that rise from places older than language.<\/p>\n
Because I knew.<\/p>\n
At last\u2014<\/p>\n
I knew.<\/p>\n
The story had worked.<\/p>\n
Not perfectly.<\/p>\n
Nothing human ever does.<\/p>\n
But enough.<\/p>\n
Enough that this child would never wonder whether love had to be earned.<\/p>\n
Enough that safety had become inheritance.<\/p>\n
Enough that the ledger had finally closed.<\/p>\n
I looked down at her tiny face.<\/p>\n
Then whispered the sentence that had traveled across generations to reach this moment:<\/p>\n
\u201cYou owe us nothing for being loved.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room grew still.<\/p>\n
Even James cried then.<\/p>\n
Maya too.<\/p>\n
Three generations weeping over one sentence.<\/p>\n
One sentence to answer another.<\/p>\n
Long ago, in another kitchen, I had heard:<\/p>\n
*\u201dShe owes us. We fed her for eighteen years.\u201d*<\/p>\n
Now, one hundred and forty-five years later:<\/p>\n
*\u201dYou owe us nothing for being loved.\u201d*<\/p>\n
This was how history changed.<\/p>\n
Not all at once.<\/p>\n
One family at a time.<\/p>\n
One child at a time.<\/p>\n
One sentence at a time.<\/p>\n
Outside, morning filled Boston with light.<\/p>\n
The trees stood waiting.<\/p>\n
The porch light rested.<\/p>\n
The bird feeder swayed.<\/p>\n
And somewhere beyond sight\u2014<\/p>\n
I think every ancestor smiled.<\/p>\n
Because the child had arrived.<\/p>\n
And nobody\u2014<\/p>\n
not one person\u2014<\/p>\n
was counting anymore.<\/p>\n
**To Be Continued\u2026**<\/p>\n
# BONUS PART 89: THE SIXTH TREE<\/p>\n
I was one hundred and forty-six years old when we planted the sixth tree.<\/p>\n
For the baby.<\/p>\n
Of course.<\/p>\n
By then, planting trees had become less a tradition and more a language.<\/p>\n
Some families pass down jewelry.<\/p>\n
Some pass down money.<\/p>\n
We passed down shade.<\/p>\n
The spring air smelled of fresh earth and rain.<\/p>\n
The kind of rain that nourishes.<\/p>\n
Not the kind that warns.<\/p>\n
Funny how healing changes even weather.<\/p>\n
The baby slept in Maya\u2019s arms.<\/p>\n
Three months old.<\/p>\n
Tiny.<\/p>\n
Serious in the way babies are.<\/p>\n
As though they have arrived carrying secrets from wherever souls wait before becoming people.<\/p>\n
James held the sapling carefully.<\/p>\n
A cherry tree this time.<\/p>\n
Not because anyone planned it.<\/p>\n
Because Maya said:<\/p>\n
\u201cCherry blossoms remind us that beautiful things don\u2019t last forever.\u201d<\/p>\n
At one hundred and forty-six, I had learned that impermanence is not life\u2019s flaw.<\/p>\n
It is life\u2019s tenderness.<\/p>\n
We planted the tree near the others.<\/p>\n
The first maple.<\/p>\n
Responsibility.<\/p>\n
The second maple.<\/p>\n
Healing.<\/p>\n
The oak.<\/p>\n
Freedom.<\/p>\n
The apple tree.<\/p>\n
Choosing.<\/p>\n
The pear tree.<\/p>\n
Patience.<\/p>\n
And now\u2014<\/p>\n
the cherry tree.<\/p>\n
Wonder.<\/p>\n
Six trees.<\/p>\n
Six lessons.<\/p>\n
One family.<\/p>\n
I looked at the tiny child sleeping peacefully.<\/p>\n
Her fists closed.<\/p>\n
Her breathing soft.<\/p>\n
No ledger waiting for her.<\/p>\n
No invisible debt.<\/p>\n
Only belonging.<\/p>\n
The greatest inheritance we had ever created.<\/p>\n
James patted the soil gently.<\/p>\n
Then asked quietly:<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you think she\u2019ll know all these stories?\u201d<\/p>\n
Ah.<\/p>\n
There it was.<\/p>\n
The question every generation eventually asks.<\/p>\n
Will they remember?<\/p>\n
I looked at the trees.<\/p>\n
At the house.<\/p>\n
At the porch light.<\/p>\n
At the notebooks.<\/p>\n
Then I smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot all of them.\u201d<\/p>\n
His face fell slightly.<\/p>\n
I touched his shoulder.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut she\u2019ll live inside their results.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room\u2014or rather, the yard\u2014grew quiet.<\/p>\n
Listening.<\/p>\n
Because children do not need to inherit every wound.<\/p>\n
Only the wisdom earned from healing it.<\/p>\n
The wind moved through the branches.<\/p>\n
Old leaves.<\/p>\n
New leaves.<\/p>\n
Shared sky.<\/p>\n
Before we went inside, James opened the green notebook.<\/p>\n
He wrote:<\/p>\n
**The greatest family stories are the ones children never have to survive themselves.**<\/p>\n
I read it once.<\/p>\n
Then twice.<\/p>\n
Then again.<\/p>\n
Because after one hundred and forty-six years\u2014<\/p>\n
I knew he was right.<\/p>\n
The cherry tree stood small beneath the others.<\/p>\n
The future beginning quietly.<\/p>\n
As it always does.<\/p>\n
**To Be Continued\u2026**<\/p>\n
# BONUS PART 90: THE FIRST PHOTOGRAPH<\/p>\n
I was one hundred and forty-seven years old when we took the photograph.<\/p>\n
Not the first photograph of my life.<\/p>\n
Not even close.<\/p>\n
I had lived long enough to appear in black-and-white photographs, color photographs, digital photographs, and whatever new invention young people insisted wasn\u2019t complicated.<\/p>\n
Time changes technology faster than it changes love.<\/p>\n
The family gathered beneath the trees one summer afternoon.<\/p>\n
Six trees now.<\/p>\n
A small forest.<\/p>\n
An inheritance with roots.<\/p>\n
The baby sat in Maya\u2019s arms wearing the old blanket draped around her shoulders.<\/p>\n
The same blanket.<\/p>\n
Always repaired.<\/p>\n
Never replaced.<\/p>\n
Like families.<\/p>\n
James adjusted the camera.<\/p>\n
Or perhaps the camera adjusted itself.<\/p>\n
At my age, I had stopped asking.<\/p>\n
Eleanor stood beside me.<\/p>\n
Her hair now touched with silver.<\/p>\n
How strange.<\/p>\n
Children become elders while you are busy loving them.<\/p>\n
The baby reached for my hand.<\/p>\n
Tiny fingers.<\/p>\n
Ancient miracle.<\/p>\n
She wrapped one finger around mine.<\/p>\n
And for a moment\u2014<\/p>\n
time folded.<\/p>\n
I saw twenty-three-year-old Emily.<\/p>\n
Thirty-eight-year-old Emily.<\/p>\n
The woman with $611.83.<\/p>\n
The woman carrying pumpkin pie.<\/p>\n
The woman closing the account.<\/p>\n
All of them standing beneath these trees.<\/p>\n
Still here.<\/p>\n
Love keeps every version.<\/p>\n
\u201cReady?\u201d James asked.<\/p>\n
No one is ever fully ready.<\/p>\n
That has never stopped life.<\/p>\n
The camera clicked.<\/p>\n
One sound.<\/p>\n
A century inside it.<\/p>\n
I wondered what future eyes would see in that photograph.<\/p>\n
Not perfection.<\/p>\n
I hoped not.<\/p>\n
Perfect families do not exist.<\/p>\n
Safe families do.<\/p>\n
And that is enough.<\/p>\n
The baby laughed.<\/p>\n
Not because of anything we did.<\/p>\n
Babies often laugh at mysteries adults cannot see.<\/p>\n
I have come to trust that.<\/p>\n
Afterward, we sat beneath the trees while the afternoon drifted toward evening.<\/p>\n
The porch light waited.<\/p>\n
The bird feeder swayed.<\/p>\n
The world continued.<\/p>\n
Mercifully.<\/p>\n
Ordinarily.<\/p>\n
Beautifully.<\/p>\n
Before sunset, I opened the green notebook.<\/p>\n
My hands shook more now.<\/p>\n
Age asks gentleness from us all.<\/p>\n
I wrote:<\/p>\n
**A family is not measured by what it owns, but by how safely its children laugh.**<\/p>\n
I closed the notebook slowly.<\/p>\n
The baby slept.<\/p>\n
The trees swayed.<\/p>\n
The photograph had already become memory.<\/p>\n
And somewhere beyond sight\u2014<\/p>\n
I think every ancestor leaned closer to look.<\/p>\n
Because the story had become bigger than survival.<\/p>\n
It had become home.<\/p>\n
**To Be Continued\u2026**<\/p>\n
# BONUS PART 91: THE INHERITANCE<\/p>\n
I was one hundred and forty-eight years old when she asked me for a story.<\/p>\n
She was old enough to speak in full sentences now.<\/p>\n
Three years old.<\/p>\n
Curious.<\/p>\n
Sticky.<\/p>\n
Certain that every answer in the universe belonged to grandparents.<\/p>\n
A wise assumption.<\/p>\n
Her name was Lily.<\/p>\n
The name James and Maya had finally chosen.<\/p>\n
A name that felt like spring.<\/p>\n
A name with room inside it.<\/p>\n
Exactly as it should be.<\/p>\n
We sat together beneath the cherry tree.<\/p>\n
Her tree.<\/p>\n
The sixth tree.<\/p>\n
Wonder.<\/p>\n
Cherry blossoms drifted softly around us.<\/p>\n
At three years old, she believed flowers fell from the sky on purpose.<\/p>\n
I had lived long enough to suspect she might be right.<\/p>\n
\u201cTell me a story,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
The oldest request in human history.<\/p>\n
And perhaps the holiest.<\/p>\n
I thought about where to begin.<\/p>\n
With pumpkin pie?<\/p>\n
With ledgers?<\/p>\n
With sorrow?<\/p>\n
No.<\/p>\n
Children deserve truth.<\/p>\n
Not burdens.<\/p>\n
There is a difference.<\/p>\n
So I pointed toward the first maple.<\/p>\n
\u201cOnce upon a time, there was a family learning how to love better.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded immediately.<\/p>\n
Children accept complicated truths when adults speak plainly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWere they good people?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
Ah.<\/p>\n
The question beneath every story.<\/p>\n
Good.<\/p>\n
Bad.<\/p>\n
Human.<\/p>\n
At one hundred and forty-eight, I trusted human more than either of the others.<\/p>\n
I smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey were trying.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her face grew serious.<\/p>\n
Trying mattered to children.<\/p>\n
Perhaps because they spend their entire lives becoming.<\/p>\n
\u201cWere they scared?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked toward the house.<\/p>\n
At the porch light.<\/p>\n
At the windows holding generations of laughter.<\/p>\n
Then I answered:<\/p>\n
\u201cVery.\u201d<\/p>\n
She thought about that.<\/p>\n
Then climbed into my lap.<\/p>\n
At one hundred and forty-eight, laps had become mostly symbolic.<\/p>\n
Still\u2014<\/p>\n
love makes room.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid they get better?\u201d<\/p>\n
I wrapped my arms around her gently.<\/p>\n
The question settled into me like sunlight.<\/p>\n
Did they get better?<\/p>\n
My mother.<\/p>\n
My father.<\/p>\n
Me.<\/p>\n
All of us.<\/p>\n
Trying.<\/p>\n
Failing.<\/p>\n
Learning.<\/p>\n
Beginning again.<\/p>\n
I kissed the top of her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
Because healing is not becoming perfect.<\/p>\n
It is becoming safer.<\/p>\n
And we had.<\/p>\n
Truly.<\/p>\n
The wind moved through the trees.<\/p>\n
Old branches.<\/p>\n
New branches.<\/p>\n
Shared sky.<\/p>\n
Lily looked up at me.<\/p>\n
Big eyes.<\/p>\n
Future eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo I owe you a story when I\u2019m big?\u201d<\/p>\n
There it was.<\/p>\n
The old language.<\/p>\n
Debt.<\/p>\n
Quietly returning.<\/p>\n
As it always does.<\/p>\n
Every generation must answer it again.<\/p>\n
I held her small face in my hands.<\/p>\n
Hands older than memory.<\/p>\n
Hands still warm.<\/p>\n
Then I gave her the inheritance we had spent a century building.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n
I smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou owe us nothing for being loved.\u201d<\/p>\n
She grinned.<\/p>\n
Satisfied.<\/p>\n
Children understand grace more easily than adults.<\/p>\n
Then she ran toward the cherry tree laughing.<\/p>\n
And I sat beneath the shade of six trees.<\/p>\n
Listening.<\/p>\n
Not to the past.<\/p>\n
To the future.<\/p>\n
And for the first time in one hundred and forty-eight years\u2014<\/p>\n
I knew the sentence had finally reached home.<\/p>\n
**To Be Continued\u2026**<\/p>\n
# BONUS PART 92: THE PORCH LIGHT AT MIDNIGHT<\/p>\n
I was one hundred and forty-nine years old when I woke at midnight and found the porch light already on.<\/p>\n
Not because I had turned it on.<\/p>\n
Someone else had.<\/p>\n
James.<\/p>\n
Or Maya.<\/p>\n
Or perhaps Lily, reaching for switches the way children reach for stars.<\/p>\n
It didn\u2019t matter.<\/p>\n
That was the point.<\/p>\n
The tradition no longer belonged to me.<\/p>\n
It had become family.<\/p>\n
Outside, snow covered the yard.<\/p>\n
The six trees stood quietly beneath winter.<\/p>\n
Even sleeping trees keep promises.<\/p>\n
I wrapped my mother\u2019s red sweater around my shoulders.<\/p>\n
The stitches still held.<\/p>\n
Imagine that.<\/p>\n
A century of repair.<\/p>\n
Still holding.<\/p>\n
I sat by the window.<\/p>\n
The house was asleep.<\/p>\n
Not empty.<\/p>\n
Never empty.<\/p>\n
The best homes keep breathing even in silence.<\/p>\n
I watched the porch light glow against the snow.<\/p>\n
Once, long ago, I had believed love was measured by sacrifice.<\/p>\n
How expensive that misunderstanding had been.<\/p>\n
I thought about the woman with $611.83.<\/p>\n
The woman sitting alone in Boston believing she was ending her family.<\/p>\n
She had been wrong.<\/p>\n
She had not ended it.<\/p>\n
She had saved it.<\/p>\n
Not by staying the same.<\/p>\n
By changing.<\/p>\n
There are moments that split a life in two.<\/p>\n
And then there are moments when you finally forgive yourself for surviving them.<\/p>\n
This was one of those moments.<\/p>\n
The snow continued falling softly.<\/p>\n
The kind of snow that asks nothing.<\/p>\n
The house rested.<\/p>\n
The world turned.<\/p>\n
And somewhere upstairs\u2014<\/p>\n
a child slept in complete safety.<\/p>\n
Not because life had become perfect.<\/p>\n
Because enough people had chosen gentleness.<\/p>\n
The porch light glowed.<\/p>\n
Still welcoming.<\/p>\n
Still waiting.<\/p>\n
Still saying:<\/p>\n
*You belong here.*<\/p>\n
No payment required.<\/p>\n
No ledger kept.<\/p>\n
Just home.<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
And for the first time in one hundred and forty-nine years\u2014<\/p>\n
I understood something that had taken me a century to learn:<\/p>\n
The opposite of debt is not freedom.<\/p>\n
The opposite of debt is gift.<\/p>\n
And love, when healthy, has always been one.<\/p>\n
**To Be Continued\u2026**<\/p>\n
# BONUS PART 93: THE LAST RECIPE<\/p>\n
I was one hundred and fifty years old when I taught Lily how to make the apple pie.<\/p>\n
Not because I believed it would be the last time.<\/p>\n
At one hundred and fifty, one learns not to bargain with time.<\/p>\n
But one also learns to recognize sacred afternoons when they arrive.<\/p>\n
Lily was five.<\/p>\n
Five-year-olds carry flour on their cheeks as though it were part of the recipe.<\/p>\n
She stood on a stool beside the kitchen counter.<\/p>\n
The same counter.<\/p>\n
Always the same kitchen.<\/p>\n
The room where fear had once lived rent-free.<\/p>\n
Now occupied by cinnamon.<\/p>\n
A fair trade.<\/p>\n
The recipe card sat between us.<\/p>\n
Faded.<\/p>\n
Soft at the corners.<\/p>\n
Grandma Rose\u2019s handwriting still visible.<\/p>\n
Not preserved behind glass.<\/p>\n
Used.<\/p>\n
The best love wears down from handling.<\/p>\n
Lily squinted at the card.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does this word say?\u201d<\/p>\n
I adjusted my glasses.<\/p>\n
At one hundred and fifty, glasses had become less an accessory and more a business partnership.<\/p>\n
\u201cCinnamon.\u201d<\/p>\n
She grinned.<\/p>\n
\u201cCinnamon smells like home.\u201d<\/p>\n
The sentence caught me off guard.<\/p>\n
Because she was right.<\/p>\n
Not because cinnamon creates home.<\/p>\n
Because home had taught us what cinnamon meant.<\/p>\n
We rolled dough together.<\/p>\n
Not perfectly.<\/p>\n
Thank goodness.<\/p>\n
Perfection is fragile.<\/p>\n
Belonging survives mistakes.<\/p>\n
Lily cracked an egg onto the floor.<\/p>\n
Flour landed on my sweater.<\/p>\n
The pie crust tore.<\/p>\n
We laughed.<\/p>\n
The kitchen approved.<\/p>\n
I have always believed kitchens remember laughter best.<\/p>\n
As the pie baked, the whole house filled with warmth.<\/p>\n
The kind that cannot be purchased.<\/p>\n
Only practiced.<\/p>\n
Lily looked up at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cWill I teach this to my children someday?\u201d<\/p>\n
Ah.<\/p>\n
There it was.<\/p>\n
The question beneath every tradition.<\/p>\n
Will this continue?<\/p>\n
I thought of Grandma Rose.<\/p>\n
My mother.<\/p>\n
Eleanor.<\/p>\n
Myself.<\/p>\n
Hands teaching hands.<\/p>\n
Love changing address.<\/p>\n
Again and again.<\/p>\n
I smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you want to.\u201d<\/p>\n
She tilted her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if I don\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n
The question was innocent.<\/p>\n
The answer mattered.<\/p>\n
I touched her small hand gently.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen you\u2019ll create something new.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her face relaxed immediately.<\/p>\n
Good.<\/p>\n
Traditions should be invitations.<\/p>\n
Never obligations.<\/p>\n
That, too, was inheritance.<\/p>\n
When the pie came out of the oven, we cut two slices.<\/p>\n
One for her.<\/p>\n
One for me.<\/p>\n
And for a moment\u2014<\/p>\n
I could almost feel every generation sitting at the table together.<\/p>\n
Not haunting.<\/p>\n
Company.<\/p>\n
The porch light glowed outside.<\/p>\n
The six trees moved softly in the wind.<\/p>\n
The house breathed around us.<\/p>\n
And somewhere beyond sight\u2014<\/p>\n
I think Grandma Rose smiled.<\/p>\n
Because recipes were never about pie.<\/p>\n
They were always about gathering.<\/p>\n
Before bed, Lily opened the green notebook.<\/p>\n
Her handwriting still leaned sideways with enthusiasm.<\/p>\n
She wrote:<\/p>\n
**Love tastes better when no one is keeping score.**<\/p>\n
I read it twice.<\/p>\n
Then once more.<\/p>\n
Because after one hundred and fifty years\u2014<\/p>\n
I knew she was right.<\/p>\n
The pie cooled.<\/p>\n
The kettle whistled.<\/p>\n
The night settled gently.<\/p>\n
And the recipe\u2014<\/p>\n
like love\u2014<\/p>\n
continued its journey.<\/p>\n
**To Be Continued\u2026**<\/p>\n
# BONUS PART 88: THE NEW CRY I was one hundred and forty-five years old when I heard the cry. Not loud. Not dramatic. Life rarely arrives that way. It … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3767,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3811","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\/3811","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=3811"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3811\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3826,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3811\/revisions\/3826"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3767"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3811"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3811"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/realstoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3811"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}