{"id":13805,"date":"2026-04-20T06:42:23","date_gmt":"2026-04-20T06:42:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/?p=13805"},"modified":"2026-04-20T06:42:23","modified_gmt":"2026-04-20T06:42:23","slug":"i-sent-them-3000-every-month-until-i-stopped-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/?p=13805","title":{"rendered":"$3,000 a month gone. So was I."},"content":{"rendered":"

The Cost of Silence<\/span><\/h1>\n
\n

Chapter 1: The Monthly Sacrifice<\/span><\/h3>\n

I learned the hard way that blood isn\u2019t just thicker than water; sometimes, it is stickier, designed to trap you in a web of someone else\u2019s making. My name is\u00a0Naomi Keller<\/span><\/strong>. I am thirty-four years old, and for the better part of a decade, I believed that love was a currency. I thought that if I paid enough, if I sacrificed enough of my own stability, I could buy a version of \u201cfamily\u201d that actually felt like home.<\/span><\/p>\n

I was wrong.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

For three years, the first day of every month followed a ritual as cold and mechanical as the banking app on my phone. I would sit at my kitchen table, the morning sun casting long, accusatory shadows across the wood, and I would initiate the transfer.<\/p>\n

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

$3,000 \u2014 Mom (Household Support)<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

That number wasn\u2019t just a mortgage payment. It was the price of my admission into the Keller family. It was the hush money I paid to ensure my mother wouldn\u2019t cry on the phone and my brother wouldn\u2019t have to face the indignity of a forty-hour work week.<\/p>\n

It began in the wake of my father\u2019s funeral. The air in our small house outside\u00a0Cleveland, Ohio<\/span><\/strong>, had been thick with the scent of lilies and rot. While the soil was still fresh on Dad\u2019s grave, the bank notices began arriving like vultures circling a dying animal. The mortgage was a looming crisis, a mountain of debt that my mother,\u00a0<\/span>Eleanor<\/span><\/strong>, had no way of climbing.<\/span><\/p>\n

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

I remember her sitting in my kitchen, her hands trembling as she clutched a floral handkerchief. \u201cI don\u2019t want to lose the home, Naomi,\u201d she had sobbed, her voice a fragile reed. \u201cYour father\u2019s spirit is in these walls. If we lose the house, I lose him all over again.\u201d<\/p>\n

My brother,\u00a0Brent<\/span><\/strong>, sat on the velvet sofa nearby, his eyes glued to his smartphone, his thumb flicking rhythmically through a social media feed. He was twenty-nine, able-bodied, and perfectly content to let the silence stretch until it became unbearable. He didn\u2019t offer a solution. He didn\u2019t offer a dime. He just waited.<\/span><\/p>\n

I was the one who broke. I was the one who said, \u201cI\u2019ll help.\u201d<\/p>\n

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

At the time, I viewed it as a temporary bridge. I had a lucrative career in\u00a0Cybersecurity Consulting<\/span><\/strong>\u2014a remote position that allowed me to work from anywhere as long as I had a secure connection. I was stable. I was successful. I could afford to be the hero for a few months. Just until Mom found her footing. Just until Brent finally finished that \u201cbusiness certification\u201d he was always talking about.<\/span><\/p>\n

But months turned into years, and the bridge I built became a permanent highway for their entitlement. The \u201ctemporary\u201d support became an expectation, as vital to them as the oxygen they breathed\u2014and just as invisible. Brent didn\u2019t become grateful; he became a landlord of a property he didn\u2019t own, treating my financial contributions like a natural resource he had an inherent right to exploit.<\/p>\n

I should have seen the end coming. I should have noticed how the calls only happened on the 31st of the month. I should have realized that I wasn\u2019t a daughter to them anymore; I was a treasury.<\/p>\n

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

But then came that Sunday afternoon, the day the bridge finally collapsed.<\/p>\n

I had just returned from a grueling ten-day work trip to Chicago. I was exhausted, my bones aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can\u2019t touch. When I let myself into the house, I didn\u2019t find a \u201cwelcome home\u201d or a hot meal.<\/p>\n

I found my suitcase sitting in the middle of the hallway.<\/p>\n

And Brent was standing over it, his jaw set, looking for all the world like a man who had finally decided to take out the trash.<\/p>\n

The look in his eyes wasn\u2019t one of guilt; it was a declaration of war.<\/p>\n

\n

Chapter 2: The Parasite Protocol<\/span><\/h3>\n

\u201cWhat is this, Brent?\u201d I asked, my voice hovering somewhere between confusion and a rising, cold dread.<\/p>\n

Brent didn\u2019t flinch. He crossed his arms over his chest, puffing it out as if he were the master of the domain. \u201cYou can\u2019t keep living here, Naomi. You\u2019re thirty-four years old, hiding out in your mother\u2019s house. It\u2019s pathetic, honestly. We need our own space.\u00a0I<\/span>\u00a0need my own space.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I felt the air leave my lungs. \u201cHiding out? Brent\u2026 I pay the mortgage. I pay for the groceries you eat. I pay for the internet you\u2019re using right now to look for \u2018opportunities\u2019 you never actually take.\u201d<\/p>\n

He let out a laugh\u2014a sharp, jagged sound that cut through the quiet of the hallway. \u201cYeah, you pay. Because you\u2019re a\u00a0parasite<\/span><\/strong>, Naomi. You cling to this house and this family because without us, you\u2019d have no one. You buy your way into our lives because you\u2019re too socially stunted to have one of your own. You pretend you\u2019re needed so you don\u2019t have to admit you\u2019re lonely.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The word\u00a0parasite<\/span>\u00a0hit me with the force of a physical blow. My ears began to ring. I looked past him, searching for the one person who could stop this madness.<\/span><\/p>\n

My mother appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, her fingers nervously pleating the hem of her apron. She wouldn\u2019t look me in the eye. Her gaze flitted from the suitcase to Brent, then to the floor.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom?\u201d I whispered. \u201cAre you hearing this?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNaomi, please,\u201d she said, her voice thin and tight with that familiar, manipulative anxiety. \u201cDon\u2019t start a fight. Brent\u2019s been under so much pressure lately. He\u2019s stressed about his future.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe just called me a parasite,\u201d I said, my voice trembling. \u201cIn the house\u00a0I<\/span>\u00a0am paying for.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Mom finally looked at me, but there was no warmth in her expression. Only a cold, simmering resentment. \u201cYou always have to make things so difficult, Naomi. You have all this money, all this success\u2026 why do you have to rub it in his face? He just wants to feel like a man in his own home. If you really loved us, you\u2019d understand that.\u201d<\/p>\n

The revelation was like a bucket of ice water over my head. This was the hierarchy of the Keller household: Brent was the prince who stayed, the son who provided \u201cemotional presence,\u201d no matter how toxic it was. I was the labor. I was the silent engine. I was the bank. And in their eyes, the bank didn\u2019t get to have feelings. The bank didn\u2019t get to be a person.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo that\u2019s it?\u201d I asked, the words feeling like shards of glass in my throat. \u201cYou\u2019re choosing him. You\u2019re choosing the person who contributes nothing over the daughter who has kept you from the streets for three years.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mom didn\u2019t answer. She simply turned back into the kitchen, the swinging door clicking shut behind her.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t scream. I didn\u2019t throw a fit. I didn\u2019t even argue further with Brent. There is a certain kind of silence that takes over when a heart finally shatters\u2014it\u2019s not a bang; it\u2019s a vacuum.<\/p>\n

I picked up my suitcase. My laptop was already in my backpack. I walked to the kitchen counter, placed my house keys on the granite, and walked out the front door.<\/p>\n

As I pulled out of the driveway, I saw Brent watching me from the window, a smug, victorious grin on his face. He thought he had won. He thought he had successfully evicted the \u201cnuisance\u201d while keeping the \u201cutility.\u201d<\/p>\n

He had no idea that when you kick out the power company, the lights go out.<\/p>\n

I headed straight for the airport, but I wasn\u2019t booking a hotel in Cleveland. I was looking for a flight that went much, much further.<\/p>\n

\n

Chapter 3: The Lisbon Silence<\/span><\/h3>\n

Two weeks later, the air was different. Instead of the heavy, humid heat of an Ohio summer, I was breathing in the salt spray of the Atlantic and the scent of roasting coffee and grilled sardines.<\/p>\n

I was in\u00a0Lisbon, Portugal<\/span><\/strong>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Months ago, my firm had offered me a senior position in our European Union headquarters. It came with a massive relocation package, a significant raise, and a chance to lead a global team. I had turned it down. I had told my boss, \u201cMy family needs me in Ohio.\u201d<\/p>\n

When I called him from a airport lounge in NYC, he didn\u2019t even ask questions. He just said, \u201cThe desk is still yours, Naomi. Get here.\u201d<\/p>\n

I found a small, sun-drenched apartment in the\u00a0Alfama<\/span><\/strong>\u00a0district, where the cobblestone streets were too narrow for cars and the walls were covered in intricate blue tiles. I didn\u2019t post on Facebook. I didn\u2019t update my LinkedIn. I changed my phone number and only gave the new one to my HR department and two trusted friends.<\/span><\/p>\n

I simply vanished.<\/p>\n

The first few days were hauntingly quiet. I kept waiting for the guilt to settle in, for that old familiar \u201cdaughterly duty\u201d to claw at my stomach. But as I walked through the\u00a0Pra\u00e7a do Com\u00e9rcio<\/span><\/strong>, watching the sunset turn the Tagus River into liquid gold, all I felt was a lightness I hadn\u2019t known since childhood.<\/span><\/p>\n

They didn\u2019t notice right away, of course. When people are used to your support, they don\u2019t feel your absence; they only feel the cessation of your services.<\/p>\n

The first of the month arrived. In Lisbon, it was a beautiful Tuesday. I spent the morning in a local\u00a0padaria<\/span>, sipping an espresso and eating a\u00a0<\/span>pastel de nata<\/span>. I looked at my banking app. For the first time in thirty-six months, there was no transfer scheduled.<\/span><\/p>\n

I felt a surge of adrenaline, a cocktail of terror and triumph. I put my phone away and went for a long walk along the river.<\/p>\n

The storm broke on the second of the month, at exactly 9:03 a.m. EST.<\/p>\n

I had kept my old US SIM card in a spare phone, purely for the purpose of observation. I turned it on, and the notifications began to scream.<\/p>\n

MOM: Naomi, the mortgage hasn\u2019t cleared. Did you change the password?<\/span><\/strong>
MOM: Please call me. The bank says the funds aren\u2019t there.<\/span><\/strong>
MOM: Brent says the app might be glitching. Fix it soon, honey, the late fee is $150.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

A \u201cglitch.\u201d They truly believed the universe would simply continue to provide for them, and that any interruption was merely a technical error.<\/p>\n

By noon, the tone shifted.<\/p>\n

BRENT: Stop being dramatic. We know you\u2019re mad about the suitcase thing, but the bills don\u2019t care about your feelings. Send the money now.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

I stared at the screen, a cold smile touching my lips. No \u201cAre you okay?\u201d No \u201cWhere are you?\u201d Not even a \u201cI\u2019m sorry for calling you a parasite.\u201d Just the raw, naked demand of a child who had realized his toy was broken.<\/p>\n

That evening, I decided to give them the one thing they dreaded most: the truth. I dialed my mother\u2019s number.<\/p>\n

She picked up on the first ring. \u201cNaomi! Thank God. What is going on? The bank is calling, and Brent is frantic!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not in Ohio, Mom,\u201d I said, my voice steady, echoing slightly off the stone walls of my Lisbon flat.<\/p>\n

Silence. A long, heavy silence. \u201cWhat do you mean? Are you on another work trip?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI moved,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019ve relocated to Europe. Permanently.\u201d<\/p>\n

I heard a sharp intake of breath. Then, the screeching. \u201cYou can\u2019t just leave! What about the house? What about the mortgage? You know I can\u2019t pay that on my social security!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d I replied. \u201cAnd I know Brent doesn\u2019t have a job. But as Brent pointed out, I\u2019m a parasite. And I decided it was time to stop \u2018clinging\u2019 to the family. I\u2019ve taken his advice. I\u2019m living my own life now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe didn\u2019t mean it!\u201d she wailed, the classic defense mechanism springing into action. \u201cHe was just stressed! Naomi, you are punishing us for a few words spoken in anger. We\u2019re family! Family doesn\u2019t abandon each other over money!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re right, Mom,\u201d I said. \u201cFamily doesn\u2019t. But you didn\u2019t treat me like family. You treated me like an insurance policy. And policies can be canceled.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you don\u2019t send the money, we\u2019ll lose everything!\u201d she screamed.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen I suggest Brent starts filling out applications,\u201d I said. \u201cI have to go. My dinner is getting cold.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hung up. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, but for the first time in my life, I didn\u2019t reach for the cage door. I let it beat. I let it hurt.<\/p>\n

I thought that would be the end of it. I thought they would find a way. I underestimated how deep the rot of entitlement truly went.<\/p>\n

\n

Chapter 4: The House of Cards<\/span><\/h3>\n

The following month was a masterclass in the consequences of enabling.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t block them\u2014I wanted to see the arc of their realization. It was a form of self-inflicted penance, a way to ensure I never went back.<\/p>\n

Brent, it turned out, had more access to the finances than I realized. Mom had added him to her primary account \u201cfor convenience\u201d years ago. When my $3,000 failed to arrive, the mortgage auto-drafted anyway, pulling the account into a massive overdraft. The bank fees began to compound.<\/p>\n

Then came the utilities. Brent, in his infinite wisdom, tried to pay the electricity bill with a high-interest cash advance from a credit card I didn\u2019t even know he had. He was trying to plug a dam with Scotch tape.<\/p>\n

By week three, the messages from my mother changed from anger to a chilling, hollow desperation.<\/p>\n

MOM: They turned off the water, Naomi. Brent is out looking for work, but nobody is calling him back. Please. Just $500. Just to get the water back on.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

I looked at the message while sitting in a lush garden in\u00a0Sintra<\/span><\/strong>, surrounded by ancient castles and the scent of blooming jasmine. I felt a pang of visceral grief. I pictured my mother sitting in the dark, the house Dad loved falling into disrepair.<\/span><\/p>\n

But then I remembered the suitcase. I remembered her silence while Brent insulted my very soul. I remembered how she had called\u00a0me<\/span>\u00a0the problem for being hurt.<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t send the $500. Instead, I sent her a link to a local food bank and the contact information for a social worker who specialized in senior housing transitions.<\/p>\n

The response was a vitriolic text from Brent.<\/p>\n

BRENT: You\u2019re a monster. You\u2019re sitting over there in luxury while your mother suffers. I hope you can live with yourself when she\u2019s on the street. You killed this family.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

It was the ultimate gaslighting. In his mind, the person who stopped providing the free ride was the murderer, not the people who refused to walk.<\/p>\n

As the second month drew to a close, the \u201cFor Sale\u201d sign went up on the Cleveland house. It wasn\u2019t a choice anymore; it was a foreclosure avoidance strategy. The bank was circling. The \u201cSpirit of my Father\u201d that Mom had been so worried about was being evicted by the greed of the son she had protected.<\/p>\n

I received an email from my mother. No subject line.<\/p>\n

\u201cNaomi, we\u2019re moving. Brent found a room in a shared house near the warehouse district. He\u2019s working night shifts now, loading trucks. I\u2019m moving into a studio apartment in a senior complex. It\u2019s small. It\u2019s loud. I\u2019ve had to sell most of the furniture. I hope you\u2019re happy with what you\u2019ve done to us.\u201d<\/p>\n

I sat in my Lisbon apartment, the moonlight streaming across the floor, and I cried. Not because I was guilty, but because it was finally over. The \u201cKeller House\u201d was gone. The burden was lifted.<\/p>\n

I replied with a single sentence:\u00a0\u201cI\u2019m not happy that you lost the house, Mom, but I am relieved that you finally allowed Brent to grow up.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I thought the story ended there. But there was one final confrontation I didn\u2019t see coming.<\/p>\n

\n

Chapter 5: The Final Audit<\/span><\/h3>\n

Three months later, my mother requested a video call.<\/p>\n

I agreed, but with strict conditions: Brent was not to be in the room, and the moment the word \u201cmoney\u201d was mentioned, I would disconnect.<\/p>\n

When her face appeared on my laptop screen, I gasped. She looked ten years older. Her hair, usually perfectly coiffed, was thin and gray. The background of her studio apartment was cluttered and dim.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou look well, Naomi,\u201d she said, her voice devoid of its usual sharp edge. There was a tiredness there that seemed to reach into her marrow.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am well, Mom. I\u2019m happy.\u201d<\/p>\n

She nodded slowly. \u201cBrent hates you. He talks about you like you\u2019re the devil himself.\u201d<\/p>\n

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

\u201cBut I realized something last night,\u201d she said, her eyes welling with tears. \u201cI was looking through some old boxes of your father\u2019s papers. I found the records of the house. I saw how much was left on the mortgage when he died. And I looked at my bank statements from the last three years.\u201d<\/p>\n

She paused, wiping her eyes with a shaking hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cI never actually looked at the numbers, Naomi. I just saw the balance stay the same, and I assumed\u2026 I don\u2019t know what I assumed. I chose to believe it was easy for you. I chose to believe you were doing it because you had \u2018so much\u2019 that it didn\u2019t matter.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt mattered,\u201d I said quietly. \u201cEvery dollar was an hour of my life I spent working to keep a roof over a brother who hated me and a mother who wouldn\u2019t defend me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know that now,\u201d she whispered. \u201cBecause now that it\u2019s gone, I see what it cost. Brent didn\u2019t lose the house. I didn\u2019t lose the house. You\u2019re the only one who actually gave anything up. I made you the responsible one because it meant I didn\u2019t have to be. I used your love as a shield for his failures.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was the apology I had waited a lifetime for. It didn\u2019t fix the past, but it validated the present.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you stop him, Mom? That day with the suitcase?\u201d<\/p>\n

She looked down at her lap. \u201cBecause if you stayed, the fighting would continue. If you left, I thought you\u2019d just keep sending the money and the fighting would stop. I thought I could have the money without the conflict. I didn\u2019t realize that\u00a0you<\/span>\u00a0were the only thing holding the peace together.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry it had to end this way,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be,\u201d she said, a small, sad smile appearing. \u201cBrent is working. He\u2019s miserable, and he complains every day, but he\u2019s working. And I\u2026 I\u2019m learning how to live on what I actually have. It\u2019s not much, but it\u2019s mine. I don\u2019t have to lie to myself anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n

We didn\u2019t talk about money. We didn\u2019t talk about me coming home. We talked about the weather in Lisbon and the books she was reading at the library. For twenty minutes, we were just a mother and a daughter.<\/p>\n

When I closed the laptop, I felt a profound sense of closure. The debt was settled\u2014not the financial one, but the emotional one.<\/p>\n

But as I looked out at the lights of Lisbon, I realized the biggest surprise wasn\u2019t my family\u2019s collapse. It was the woman I had become in their absence.<\/p>\n

\n

Chapter 6: The Sovereign Life<\/span><\/h3>\n

A year has passed since I left Ohio.<\/p>\n

The woman who used to check her banking app with a shaking hand is gone. In her place is someone who understands that boundaries aren\u2019t walls; they are gates. They decide who is worthy of entry.<\/p>\n

I have built a life here that isn\u2019t a transaction. I have friends who like me for my dry humor and my love of Fado music, people who don\u2019t even know what I earn. I am dating a man named\u00a0Mateo<\/span><\/strong>, an architect who recently took me to dinner for my birthday. When the check came, I instinctively reached for my purse, the old \u201cprovider\u201d muscle twitching in my arm.<\/span><\/p>\n

He gently placed his hand over mine and smiled. \u201cNaomi,\u201d he said. \u201cLet me take care of this. You do enough for everyone else. Let someone do something for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I almost cried right there in the restaurant.<\/p>\n

My mother and I speak once a week. It\u2019s still strained, and there are still moments where she hints at her \u201cstruggles,\u201d but I no longer feel the urge to \u201cfix\u201d it. I listen, I offer sympathy, and I offer \u201coptions\u201d\u2014never cash.<\/p>\n

Brent is\u2026 Brent. He still lives in that shared house. He still blames me for the loss of the \u201cfamily legacy.\u201d I don\u2019t see him, and I don\u2019t plan to. Some bridges are better left burned; the light from the fire helps you see the path forward.<\/p>\n

The lesson I learned cost me over $100,000 and three years of my life, but I would pay it again to be where I am now.<\/p>\n

If your love is only recognized when it\u2019s paid for, it isn\u2019t love. It\u2019s a subscription service. And the moment you stop the payments, you find out exactly who people are.<\/p>\n

I left the country. They called it abandonment. I called it survival.<\/p>\n

And for the first time in my life, the money I earn supports the one person who had always been last in line:<\/p>\n

Me.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

I am not a parasite. I am the host who decided she was tired of being eaten alive. And the view from the other side is absolutely breathtaking.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Cost of Silence Chapter 1: The Monthly Sacrifice I learned the hard way that blood isn\u2019t just thicker than water; sometimes, it is stickier, designed to trap you in … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":13803,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[24,22,20],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-13805","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-family","category-inspiration","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13805","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=13805"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13805\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13806,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13805\/revisions\/13806"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/13803"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=13805"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=13805"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=13805"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}