{"id":21804,"date":"2026-05-30T10:52:17","date_gmt":"2026-05-30T03:52:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/?p=21804"},"modified":"2026-05-30T10:52:17","modified_gmt":"2026-05-30T03:52:17","slug":"what-started-as-a-family-dinner-ended-with-a-secret-nobody-was-supposed-to-find-3","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/?p=21804","title":{"rendered":"One sl@mmed bowl. One locked door. And a truth that shattered the entire family."},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
My name is Jodie Hart, and I was twenty-six the night my mother threw a salad bowl at my face because I refused to pour wine for my younger sister.<\/span><\/div>\n<\/header>\n
\n
\n
\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

That is the sentence people repeat first because it sounds impossible until they hear the rest.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Families like mine survive by making the impossible look decorative.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

We were not poor, not chaotic in the way people recognize from the outside, not the kind of family neighbors worry about when voices rise behind thin walls.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

We were the Harts.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

My father, Kurt Hart, owned two coastal resort properties and liked to say hospitality was in his blood, though most of the actual hospitality was performed by people he underpaid.<\/p>\n

My mother, Felicia, had a closet full of linen dresses and a talent for smiling in a way that made other women apologize first.<\/p>\n

My sister, Tawny, was twenty-three, beautiful in the expensive careless way that makes strangers forgive tone before they understand content.<\/p>\n

And I was the useful one.<\/p>\n

I had been useful for so long that nobody in the house recognized it as labor anymore.<\/p>\n

When Tawny forgot birthdays, I bought the gifts and wrote both names on the card.<\/p>\n

When my mother cried because my father had embarrassed her at a fundraiser, I sat on the bathroom floor and told her she still looked perfect.<\/p>\n

When my father needed someone to proofread investor letters, calm vendors, drive guests, track keys, clean spills, or make excuses, he called me before he called paid staff.<\/p>\n

They called that trust.<\/p>\n

I later understood it was access.<\/p>\n

The trust signal I gave my family was availability, and they weaponized it until my absence felt like rebellion.<\/p>\n

After college, I moved back into my old room because I had accepted a remote design contract and told myself it would be temporary.<\/p>\n

The room still held my old trophies, the quilt my grandmother had made, and three cardboard boxes I had never unpacked.<\/p>\n

Some part of me had known not to settle.<\/p>\n

That summer, my parents began hosting more dinners at the house because my father wanted to court a new circle of resort investors.<\/p>\n

The dinners looked casual from the outside.<\/p>\n

Grilled shrimp, white wine, striped napkins, patio lights, screened air damp from the Atlantic, my mother laughing as if the world had never touched her too hard.<\/p>\n

But underneath all of it was a choreography everyone understood.<\/p>\n

My father spoke.<\/p>\n

\n

My mother polished.<\/p>\n

Tawny performed.<\/p>\n

I served.<\/p>\n

At first it was small.<\/p>\n

Jodie, can you grab the salad?<\/p>\n

Jodie, refill Mr. Cavanaugh\u2019s glass.<\/p>\n

Jodie, find the extra napkins.<\/p>\n

Jodie, sweetie, you know where everything is.<\/p>\n

I did know.<\/p>\n

That was the problem.<\/p>\n

Knowing where everything was had become the same thing as belonging to everyone.<\/p>\n

Tawny had always enjoyed that arrangement most.<\/p>\n

When we were children, she learned that tears brought my mother running and silence brought me responsibility.<\/p>\n

If Tawny broke a vase, I helped sweep.<\/p>\n

If Tawny failed a class, I helped her study.<\/p>\n

If Tawny insulted someone at school, I was told to explain that she had anxiety and did not mean it that way.<\/p>\n

By the time she was grown, apology had become something she expected from the air around her.<\/p>\n

The night of the dinner, I had already worked nine hours before the guests arrived.<\/p>\n

I remember that because my laptop still had the project timestamp open when my mother called up the stairs and asked me to change into something nicer.<\/p>\n

At 6:14 p.m., I saved my file.<\/p>\n

At 6:32 p.m., I put on a pale blouse because it was the closest thing I owned to dinner-party invisible.<\/p>\n

At 7:05 p.m., the first resort friends arrived with sangria and compliments for my mother\u2019s patio.<\/p>\n

By 8:40 p.m., everyone was loose enough to be cruel politely.<\/p>\n

The salad bowl was heavy ceramic, blue and white, one my mother had bought during a weekend trip and described as artisanal every time someone praised it.<\/p>\n

It sat near her right hand during dinner.<\/p>\n

That detail mattered later.<\/p>\n

It proved the bowl did not fall from a table.<\/p>\n

It had distance to cross.<\/p>\n

My father was telling a story about a guest who had mistaken a private cabana for public seating when Tawny snapped her fingers beside me.<\/p>\n

At first I thought the sound was for the dog.<\/p>\n

Then she pointed at the wine bottle by my elbow without even looking at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cPour,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

A few people heard it.<\/p>\n

One woman smiled in the stiff way people smile when they hope a moment will pass without requiring courage.<\/p>\n

I looked at Tawny and said, \u201cYou can reach it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her smile thinned.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be weird.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m eating.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother\u2019s eyes lifted from across the table.<\/p>\n

It was a small thing, really.<\/p>\n

A wine bottle.<\/p>\n

A sister.<\/p>\n

A word.<\/p>\n

But humiliation rarely begins as a thunderstorm. It begins as a cup placed just out of reach by someone who knows you will stand to get it.<\/p>\n

Tawny snapped again, louder.<\/p>\n

\u201cJodie.\u201d<\/p>\n

I kept my fork in my hand.<\/p>\n

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

The patio changed temperature around that word.<\/p>\n

My father stopped speaking.<\/p>\n

My mother\u2019s shoulders tightened.<\/p>\n

The guests looked from face to face, suddenly aware they were not watching family banter.<\/p>\n

Tawny laughed once, sharp and ugly.<\/p>\n

\u201cGod, you\u2019re sensitive.\u201d<\/p>\n

I said nothing.<\/p>\n

Then my mother said, \u201cJust pour your sister the wine.\u201d<\/p>\n

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

The second no did something the first had not.<\/p>\n

It made the disobedience real.<\/p>\n

My mother\u2019s hand moved before her face did.<\/p>\n

I remember the sound before I remember the pain.<\/p>\n

Ceramic has a clean, ugly rush when it leaves somebody\u2019s hand on purpose.<\/p>\n

The bowl cut through warm patio air, through grilled shrimp and vinaigrette, through the wet salt smell clinging to the screens.<\/p>\n

Then it cracked against my cheek.<\/p>\n

For a second, there was no room.<\/p>\n

Only white light.<\/p>\n

Cold lettuce slid down my face before the pain arrived.<\/p>\n

Dressing ran along my jaw and under my collar.<\/p>\n

Then the cut opened below my eye, and I tasted blood.<\/p>\n

Not a lot.<\/p>\n

Enough.<\/p>\n

My teeth locked so hard I thought one might crack.<\/p>\n

The broken bowl hit the tile in pieces.<\/p>\n

One shard spun under the table and stopped against the leg of my chair.<\/p>\n

The table froze.<\/p>\n

Forks hung halfway above plates.<\/p>\n

Wineglasses hovered in fingers that suddenly belonged to statues.<\/p>\n

A drop of red wine slid down the side of a glass, gathered at the base, then fell onto the runner like a small dark punctuation mark.<\/p>\n

One guest stared at that stain instead of my face.<\/p>\n

Nobody moved.<\/p>\n

That silence was not shock alone.<\/p>\n

Shock has breath in it.<\/p>\n

This silence had calculation.<\/p>\n

Every person at that table understood a line had been crossed, and every person waited for someone else to decide whether it counted.<\/p>\n

My father looked at my mother first.<\/p>\n

Then he looked at the guests.<\/p>\n

Then he looked at me.<\/p>\n

In that order.<\/p>\n

My mother stood at the end of the table with her chest rising too fast, one hand still curved from the throw.<\/p>\n

She looked more offended than afraid.<\/p>\n

Across from me, Tawny leaned back.<\/p>\n

She lifted her wineglass with two lazy fingers and said, \u201cServants should know their duties.\u201d<\/p>\n

That line landed harder than the bowl.<\/p>\n

Pain can be treated.<\/p>\n

A sentence like that clarifies history.<\/p>\n

For years, I had believed my family needed me because I was responsible.<\/p>\n

In that moment, I understood they needed me lowered.<\/p>\n

There is a difference between being loved for what you give and being kept because you keep giving.<\/p>\n

One feels warm until the day you stop.<\/p>\n

Then the temperature tells the truth.<\/p>\n

I stood.<\/p>\n

My chair scraped across the patio tile loudly enough that one guest whispered my name.<\/p>\n

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

For one hot second, I pictured picking up the wine bottle and smashing it across the entire performance.<\/p>\n

My fingers even twitched toward it.<\/p>\n

I did not touch it.<\/p>\n

That restraint saved me later.<\/p>\n

Instead, I pressed my palm to my cheek, felt blood under my fingers, and walked inside.<\/p>\n

Nobody stopped me.<\/p>\n

Not my father.<\/p>\n

Not my mother.<\/p>\n

Not Tawny.<\/p>\n

I crossed the kitchen with salad leaves stuck to my shoulder and passed the framed beach photo on the wall.<\/p>\n

In the photo, all four of us were barefoot and laughing in white shirts.<\/p>\n

It had been taken by a professional photographer during a vacation my mother later described as magical.<\/p>\n

I remembered that vacation differently.<\/p>\n

I remembered Tawny crying because the wind ruined her hair.<\/p>\n

I remembered my father yelling into his phone from the balcony.<\/p>\n

I remembered my mother asking me to make everyone happy because I was \u201cso good at it.\u201d<\/p>\n

The photograph had always lied.<\/p>\n

That night, I finally stopped helping it.<\/p>\n

Upstairs, my old bedroom smelled like laundry soap, salt air, and unopened cardboard.<\/p>\n

I shut the door and locked it.<\/p>\n

Then I stood in the middle of the room and shook so hard the floor seemed uneven under my feet.<\/p>\n

Downstairs, the dinner slowly resumed.<\/p>\n

That may have been the cruelest part.<\/p>\n

A laugh rose, too high and too quick.<\/p>\n

Silverware clinked.<\/p>\n

Someone cleared a throat.<\/p>\n

My mother must have said something graceful enough to let everyone step around the blood.<\/p>\n

My family\u2019s real gift was recovery.<\/p>\n

Not love.<\/p>\n

Not loyalty.<\/p>\n

Recovery.<\/p>\n

They could step over almost anything if the story looked clean from the street.<\/p>\n

At 9:18 p.m., I opened my camera.<\/p>\n

My hand was shaking, but I took the first photo anyway.<\/p>\n

My face looked worse on the screen than it had felt in my body.<\/p>\n

A red line sat beneath my eye.<\/p>\n

My cheek was swelling.<\/p>\n

Dressing had dried along my jaw in a glossy trail.<\/p>\n

At 9:19 p.m., I photographed the washcloth after I pressed it to the cut.<\/p>\n

At 9:20 p.m., I photographed the ceramic shard I had somehow carried upstairs in my sleeve.<\/p>\n

It had a smear of dressing and a thin red mark along the edge.<\/p>\n

At 9:24 p.m., I emailed all three photos to myself with the subject line: DINNER INCIDENT.<\/p>\n

At 9:27 p.m., I opened a note and typed every word I could remember.<\/p>\n

Felicia threw bowl.<\/p>\n

Tawny said servants should know their duties.<\/p>\n

Kurt did not intervene.<\/p>\n

Guests present: Cavanaughs, Elaine Mercer, Daniel Price, woman in green scarf, name unknown.<\/p>\n

Those details were not dramatic.<\/p>\n

They were useful.<\/p>\n

Useful, for once, to me.<\/p>\n

At 9:31 p.m., I added one more line.<\/p>\n

No one helped.<\/p>\n

A few minutes later, my mother came up the stairs.<\/p>\n

Her footsteps were soft at first.<\/p>\n

Then they stopped outside my door.<\/p>\n

\u201cOpen the door,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

I sat on the edge of the bed, phone in my lap, washcloth against my cheek.<\/p>\n

\u201cJodie, don\u2019t be dramatic. Open this door.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stayed silent.<\/p>\n

Her voice sharpened.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou embarrassed us in front of your father\u2019s guests.\u201d<\/p>\n

That sentence did something almost impressive.<\/p>\n

It moved the injury entirely out of the story.<\/p>\n

In my mother\u2019s version, the crime was not the bowl.<\/p>\n

The crime was the witness list.<\/p>\n

Then her tone changed.<\/p>\n

\u201cHoney,\u201d she said. \u201cLet me see. Please.\u201d<\/p>\n

That was the voice that used to work on me.<\/p>\n

It was the voice from my childhood bedroom when she wanted me to forgive Tawny.<\/p>\n

It was the voice from college when she needed me to come home early because the caterer canceled.<\/p>\n

It was the voice from every apology that required me to do the apologizing.<\/p>\n

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

Then I heard the tiny metal scrape of the hallway lock turning from the outside.<\/p>\n

The old doors in that house had emergency slots above the knobs.<\/p>\n

My mother had used them when we were children and she wanted no locked doors between her and control.<\/p>\n

The key caught once.<\/p>\n

Then it turned.<\/p>\n

I backed away from the door, and without meaning to, I pressed record.<\/p>\n

The video began with carpet, my own breathing, and my mother whispering, \u201cJodie, I only want to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

My father\u2019s voice came behind her.<\/p>\n

\u201cFelicia, do not make this worse.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was the first sensible thing he had said all night, and even then, he sounded concerned about optics.<\/p>\n

The door opened two inches before the chain caught.<\/p>\n

My mother\u2019s face appeared in the crack.<\/p>\n

She saw me.<\/p>\n

Then she saw the phone.<\/p>\n

Everything about her changed.<\/p>\n

Her eyes dropped to the red line on my cheek, then to the ceramic shard on my desk, then to my laptop screen where the email subject line still glowed.<\/p>\n

DINNER INCIDENT.<\/p>\n

Behind her, Tawny called from the hallway, \u201cIs she still being dramatic?\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother did not answer.<\/p>\n

For the first time all night, she understood I was not performing pain for sympathy.<\/p>\n

I was documenting it.<\/p>\n

I lifted the phone higher and said, \u201cStep away from my door.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother\u2019s mouth opened.<\/p>\n

Nothing came out.<\/p>\n

My father moved into view behind her, and I watched him take in the phone, the chain lock, the blood, and the subject line.<\/p>\n

He whispered, \u201cJodie, put the phone down.\u201d<\/p>\n

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

It was the third no of the night.<\/p>\n

This one belonged entirely to me.<\/p>\n

The next morning, my mother knocked again.<\/p>\n

Not with the emergency key.<\/p>\n

With her knuckles.<\/p>\n

That difference told me more than her words.<\/p>\n

\u201cJodie,\u201d she said through the door. \u201cPlease. I\u2019m begging you. Come downstairs so we can talk like a family.\u201d<\/p>\n

I sat on the bed with my suitcase open.<\/p>\n

I had slept maybe twenty minutes.<\/p>\n

At 6:42 a.m., I had taken another photo of my cheek in morning light.<\/p>\n

The swelling had darkened into a bruise at the edge.<\/p>\n

At 7:03 a.m., I called my doctor\u2019s after-hours line and left a message asking where to go for documentation of a facial injury.<\/p>\n

At 7:18 a.m., I forwarded the photos and video to my personal cloud account and changed the password.<\/p>\n

At 7:41 a.m., I texted my friend Mara.<\/p>\n

Can I stay with you today?<\/p>\n

Her reply came in under one minute.<\/p>\n

Yes. No explanation needed.<\/p>\n

That sentence made me cry harder than the bowl had.<\/p>\n

Real safety is sometimes recognizable by how few questions it asks before opening the door.<\/p>\n

My mother knocked again.<\/p>\n

\u201cHoney, please. I lost my temper. I know that. But you have to understand how humiliating that was.\u201d<\/p>\n

I folded jeans into the suitcase.<\/p>\n

Her voice cracked.<\/p>\n

\u201cTawny didn\u2019t mean it.\u201d<\/p>\n

I zipped the side pocket.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour father is upset.\u201d<\/p>\n

I wrapped the ceramic shard in tissue and put it in a small plastic bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cJodie, answer me.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stayed silent.<\/p>\n

Not because I had nothing to say.<\/p>\n

Because for once, my silence was not surrender.<\/p>\n

It was refusal.<\/p>\n

At 8:12 a.m., I opened the door with my suitcase in one hand and my phone recording in the other.<\/p>\n

My mother stood in the hallway in a robe, bare-faced and smaller than she had looked the night before.<\/p>\n

My father stood behind her.<\/p>\n

Tawny leaned against the wall with her arms crossed until she saw the phone and straightened.<\/p>\n

My mother reached for my arm.<\/p>\n

I stepped back.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t touch me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her face crumpled on command.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m your mother.\u201d<\/p>\n

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

That was all I said.<\/p>\n

Downstairs, the patio had already been cleaned.<\/p>\n

Of course it had.<\/p>\n

The broken bowl was gone.<\/p>\n

The table runner was gone.<\/p>\n

The tile was spotless.<\/p>\n

Only one small fleck of lettuce remained near the leg of the wicker chair, missed by whoever had tried to erase the night before breakfast.<\/p>\n

I photographed it.<\/p>\n

My father said, \u201cThat\u2019s unnecessary.\u201d<\/p>\n

I said, \u201cSo was the bowl.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tawny rolled her eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh my God, Jodie. You\u2019re going to ruin everyone\u2019s life because Mom got upset?\u201d<\/p>\n

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

Really looked.<\/p>\n

She was not scared for my face.<\/p>\n

She was scared of consequences touching her comfort.<\/p>\n

\u201cSay it again,\u201d I told her.<\/p>\n

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

\u201cWhat you said at the table.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her confidence flickered.<\/p>\n

My phone stayed up.<\/p>\n

My father said, \u201cEnough.\u201d<\/p>\n

But enough had arrived too late for him to command it.<\/p>\n

I left through the front door at 8:19 a.m.<\/p>\n

Mara was waiting by the curb with the passenger door already open.<\/p>\n

She did not gasp when she saw my face.<\/p>\n

She did not ask me what I had done to provoke it.<\/p>\n

She took my suitcase, put it in the trunk, and said, \u201cWe\u2019re going to urgent care.\u201d<\/p>\n

The urgent care intake form recorded blunt things my family would never have written down.<\/p>\n

Facial laceration.<\/p>\n

Bruising.<\/p>\n

Assault by household member.<\/p>\n

Patient states ceramic bowl thrown by mother at family dinner.<\/p>\n

The nurse asked if I felt safe returning home.<\/p>\n

I laughed once, not because it was funny.<\/p>\n

Then I said no.<\/p>\n

That word kept getting easier.<\/p>\n

The medical record became the fourth artifact.<\/p>\n

The photos were first.<\/p>\n

The video was second.<\/p>\n

The note was third.<\/p>\n

The intake form was fourth.<\/p>\n

By noon, my father had called twelve times.<\/p>\n

My mother had texted apologies that always curved back toward herself.<\/p>\n

I am sick over this.<\/p>\n

You know I would never intentionally hurt you.<\/p>\n

You scared me by walking away like that.<\/p>\n

Please don\u2019t make this public.<\/p>\n

Tawny sent one message.<\/p>\n

You\u2019re seriously insane.<\/p>\n

I screenshotted all of them.<\/p>\n

That afternoon, I filed a police report.<\/p>\n

I did not know what would happen.<\/p>\n

I did not know if the report would lead anywhere.<\/p>\n

I only knew I wanted one official place in the world where the story did not begin with my mother\u2019s embarrassment.<\/p>\n

The officer took the photos, the video, the medical paperwork, and my statement.<\/p>\n

He asked whether there were witnesses.<\/p>\n

I gave him the names I knew.<\/p>\n

When he asked if anyone intervened, I said no.<\/p>\n

No is a small word until it becomes a record.<\/p>\n

The aftermath did not explode all at once.<\/p>\n

It cracked slowly.<\/p>\n

One guest told my father she had not seen the throw clearly.<\/p>\n

Another admitted the bowl had left my mother\u2019s hand.<\/p>\n

Elaine Mercer, the woman who had stared at the table runner, called me three days later crying.<\/p>\n

She said, \u201cI should have stood up.\u201d<\/p>\n

I said, \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

I did not comfort her.<\/p>\n

That surprised both of us.<\/p>\n

My mother eventually accepted a diversion agreement after the police report moved further than my father expected.<\/p>\n

There was a mandatory counseling component, a no-contact period, and a written admission carefully worded by an attorney who made sure it sounded like an incident instead of a pattern.<\/p>\n

But I had learned to read polished language by then.<\/p>\n

I knew what it was trying to hide.<\/p>\n

My father tried money first.<\/p>\n

Then guilt.<\/p>\n

Then silence.<\/p>\n

Tawny tried mockery until she realized nobody outside our family found the servant line charming.<\/p>\n

After that, she tried pretending she had never said it.<\/p>\n

The video ended that attempt.<\/p>\n

I did not post it online.<\/p>\n

I did not need strangers to punish them for me.<\/p>\n

I needed the truth to stop depending on their permission.<\/p>\n

For six months, I lived with Mara while I rebuilt my life in practical pieces.<\/p>\n

New address.<\/p>\n

New bank login.<\/p>\n

New emergency contact.<\/p>\n

New therapist.<\/p>\n

The small details mattered.<\/p>\n

Every changed password felt like removing one hand from my shoulder.<\/p>\n

Every unopened family text felt like refusing a role.<\/p>\n

Every quiet dinner where nobody snapped fingers at me taught my body a new language.<\/p>\n

A year later, my cheek had healed into the faintest line beneath my eye.<\/p>\n

Most people do not notice it unless the light catches it.<\/p>\n

I do.<\/p>\n

I see it when I wash my face.<\/p>\n

I see it when I put on makeup.<\/p>\n

I see it when someone asks why I do not spend holidays with my family.<\/p>\n

I used to explain too much.<\/p>\n

Now I say, \u201cBecause I\u2019m safer without them.\u201d<\/p>\n

That is enough.<\/p>\n

The framed beach photo is still in my parents\u2019 house as far as I know.<\/p>\n

Maybe they still point to it when guests ask about their daughters.<\/p>\n

Maybe my mother still says we were happy then.<\/p>\n

Maybe my father still lets silence do his dirtiest work.<\/p>\n

But I have my own record now.<\/p>\n

I have the timestamped photos, the urgent care form, the police report, and the video of my mother\u2019s face when she realized the door she thought she could open still had a chain.<\/p>\n

Service only looks like love to people who benefit from it.<\/p>\n

The moment I stopped bowing, they called it betrayal.<\/p>\n

They were wrong.<\/p>\n

It was the first honest thing I had done for myself.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My name is Jodie Hart, and I was twenty-six the night my mother threw a salad bowl at my face because I refused to pour wine for my younger sister. … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":21801,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[24,22,20],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-21804","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\/21804","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=21804"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21804\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":21806,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/21804\/revisions\/21806"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/21801"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=21804"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=21804"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/readinstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=21804"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}