{"id":1402,"date":"2026-04-29T13:26:41","date_gmt":"2026-04-29T13:26:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/?p=1402"},"modified":"2026-04-29T13:26:41","modified_gmt":"2026-04-29T13:26:41","slug":"part1-i-bought-my-parents-a-house-then-i-found-them-sleeping-in-the-corner","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/?p=1402","title":{"rendered":"Part1: I Bought My Parents A House. Then I Found Them Sleeping In The Corner."},"content":{"rendered":"
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The feeling in my chest wasn\u2019t just anger. It was a physical blow. A sudden, sickening drop in my stomach that felt like I had missed a step on a steep staircase. I stood in the entryway of the house\u2014the house, the Craftsman bungalow with the wraparound porch that I had spent the last eight months renovating in secret\u2014and I couldn\u2019t process the visual data my eyes were sending to my brain. I had curated every inch of this space. As an interior designer, this wasn\u2019t just a purchase.<\/p>\n

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It was my magnum opus, a love letter written in hardwood floors, quartz countertops, and the specific shade of sage-green paint my mother, Martha, had always admired in magazines but could never afford.<\/p>\n

I had handed them the keys three weeks ago. It was supposed to be their sanctuary, the place where my father David could finally rest his aching back after forty years of laying brick, and where Mom could read her mystery novels in the sunroom without worrying about a leaking roof or rising rent.<\/p>\n

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But as I stood there clutching a bottle of expensive champagne I had brought to celebrate their first month of freedom, the house didn\u2019t look like a sanctuary. It looked like a nightclub. And my parents weren\u2019t the owners. They were the help.<\/p>\n

The air was thick with the cloying scent of heavily perfumed lilies and expensive catering. Dozens of women I didn\u2019t recognize were milling about the open-concept living room, holding crystal flutes filled with mimosa orange. Pink and gold balloons formed a massive archway over the fireplace\u2014the fireplace I had restored by hand\u2014blocking the view of the family portraits I had carefully hung. But that wasn\u2019t what made my blood run cold. I scanned the room, looking for the guests of honor, or at least the homeowners.<\/p>\n

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I found my mother first. She wasn\u2019t sitting in the custom velvet armchair I had bought specifically for her bad hip. She was curled up on the small, stiff loveseat in the far corner, the one piece of furniture we had brought from their old apartment because we hadn\u2019t found a replacement yet. She looked small, shrinking into the fabric, clutching a coaster as if terrified to set it down.<\/p>\n

Then I saw my father. My dad\u2014a man who had worked twelve-hour days in the scorching sun to put me through design school\u2014was standing in the hallway that led to the kitchen. He was holding a paper plate. On it sat a cold, pathetic scoop of pasta salad.<\/p>\n

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He was eating standing up, his back pressed against the wall, trying to make himself as flat as possible so the servers rushing past wouldn\u2019t bump into him. He looked displaced. He looked like an intruder in the home I had bought for him.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, excuse me,\u201d a woman in a floral dress chirped, brushing past me and nearly knocking the champagne from my hand. \u201cAre you with the catering staff? We need more napkins by the diaper cake station.\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t breathe. The rage was rising so fast it choked me.<\/p>\n

I looked toward the center of the room where a white, throne-like wicker chair had been set up, and there she was. Vanessa. My sister-in-law. She was glowing, radiating that specific brand of smug satisfaction that only she could master. She was holding court, laughing, her hand resting protectively over her baby bump.<\/p>\n

My brother Jason was hovering nearby, holding a tray of appetizers, looking less like a father-to-be and more like a nervous waiter.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis house is just perfect for us,\u201d I heard Vanessa say, her voice carrying over the low hum of jazz music. \u201cWe really needed the space. You know how it is\u2014expanding the legacy.\u201d<\/p>\n

My grip tightened on the champagne bottle until my knuckles turned white. I had walked into a war zone I didn\u2019t know existed, and the casualties were the two people I loved most in the world. The betrayal wasn\u2019t just in the theft of the space. It was in the erasure of their dignity.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t scream. I wanted to. I wanted to hurl the champagne bottle into the center of the diaper cake and scream until the windows rattled. But years of navigating high-stakes real estate deals and managing difficult clients had taught me one thing. Emotional outbursts get you ignored. Cold, calculated strategy gets you results.<\/p>\n

I took a deep breath, forcing my heart rate to slow, and stepped fully into the room. I navigated through the sea of pastel dresses, dodging the women who were oohing and aahing over the crown molding I had installed. I made a beeline for my father.<\/p>\n

\u201cDad,\u201d I whispered, coming up beside him.<\/p>\n

He jumped, startled, nearly dropping his paper plate. When he saw it was me, a look of profound relief washed over his face, followed immediately by shame. He tried to hide the plate behind his back like a child caught snacking before dinner.<\/p>\n

\u201cGeorgia,\u201d he said, his voice raspy. \u201cI\u2026 I didn\u2019t know you were coming today. I didn\u2019t know there was a party.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know there was a party,\u201d I repeated, my voice low and dangerous. \u201cWhy are you eating in the hallway? Why aren\u2019t you sitting at the table?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dad looked down at his shoes, scuffed work boots that looked jarringly out of place against the polished hardwood.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, well, you know, Vanessa needed the table for the gifts, and the chairs are all taken by her friends. It\u2019s fine, really. I don\u2019t mind standing. Keeps the circulation going.\u201d<\/p>\n

He forced a weak smile that broke my heart into a thousand jagged pieces.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd Mom?\u201d I looked toward the corner. \u201cWhy is she squeezed in like a piece of old luggage?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s just resting,\u201d Dad said, but his eyes wouldn\u2019t meet mine. \u201cVanessa said the main seating area was for the active guests, you know, the younger crowd. Mom didn\u2019t want to be in the way of the photos.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the way. I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see Vanessa. She didn\u2019t look happy to see me. She looked annoyed, like I was a stain on a newly cleaned rug.<\/p>\n

\u201cGeorgia,\u201d she said, her smile tight and not reaching her eyes. \u201cYou\u2019re here. We didn\u2019t think you\u2019d make it. Jason said you were busy with some big project in the city.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI decided to surprise Mom and Dad,\u201d I said, keeping my face impassive. \u201cSince, you know, this is their house.\u201d<\/p>\n

Vanessa let out a small, dismissive laugh, waving her hand as if swatting away a fly.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, sure, sure. But we\u2019re all family, right? And honestly, look at this place. It was just screaming for an event like this. Martha and David barely use the living room anyway. They prefer the quieter corners.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey prefer them?\u201d I asked, tilting my head. \u201cOr were they told to stay in them?\u201d<\/p>\n

Vanessa\u2019s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered quickly. She stepped closer, lowering her voice, her tone shifting from hostess to conspirator.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, Georgia, let\u2019s be real. They\u2019re old. They don\u2019t need all this space. Jason and I are the ones building a future. We\u2019re the growing family. It just makes sense for us to maximize the utility of the property. We\u2019ve actually been discussing some changes for the nursery upstairs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe nursery?\u201d The room I had designed as a hobby room for my mother\u2019s sewing. \u201cChanges?\u201d I repeated, my voice flat.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Vanessa said, pouting slightly. \u201cThe lighting in there is terrible for a baby and we need to repaint. That sage green is a bit dated. We were thinking a soft gray.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked over her shoulder at Jason. He saw me looking and immediately pretended to be very interested in a tray of deviled eggs. He knew. He knew exactly what was happening and he was letting it happen because it was easier than standing up to her.<\/p>\n

\u201cI see,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you\u2019ve moved in.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re transitioning,\u201d Vanessa corrected, smoothing her maternity dress. \u201cIt\u2019s better for everyone. We can help take care of them, and we get the space we need. It\u2019s a win-win.\u201d<\/p>\n

She looked at me with such absolute confidence. She truly believed that possession was nine-tenths of the law. She believed that because she was pregnant and because my parents were too kind to say no, she had won. She thought this was her house now. She turned back to her guests, clapping her hands.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, everyone, gift opening time!\u201d<\/p>\n

I watched her walk away, treating me like a guest in the home I paid for. She thought she held all the cards. She thought my silence was submission. But she had forgotten one crucial thing. I reached into my oversized tote bag. My fingers brushed against the cool, crisp paper of the folder I had brought with me. I hadn\u2019t brought the deed to give to my parents today. They already knew I bought the house. I had brought the official recorded deed because I wanted to show my dad his name on the county paperwork to prove it was real. But looking at it now, I realized it was more than paperwork. It was ammunition.<\/p>\n

To understand why the sight of my father eating cold pasta in a hallway broke me, you have to understand who David and Martha are. They are the kind of people who apologize to the table when they bump into it. My father spent 35 years as a bricklayer. His hands are permanently calloused, his back permanently curved. He never bought a new car. He drove a succession of rusted beaters so that he could pay for my art supplies and Jason\u2019s hockey gear. My mother worked nights stocking shelves at a grocery store so she could be home when we got off the school bus. They never asked for anything. When I started making real money with my design firm\u2014Georgia Designs\u2014and then later through flipping real estate, I had to practically force them to accept gifts. Buying this house was supposed to be the finish line. It was a $450,000 cottage in a quiet upscale neighborhood. I had liquidated a significant portion of my stock portfolio to pay for it in cash. I wanted them to have zero mortgage, zero worry. I wanted them to have a garden. I wanted them to have dignity.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

And then there was Vanessa.<\/p>\n

Jason had met her three years ago at a marketing conference. At first, she seemed fine\u2014ambitious, polished, perhaps a bit high-maintenance\u2014but Jason seemed happy. He was a soft-spoken guy, an accountant who hated conflict, and he seemed to like having someone who made all the decisions. But as the wedding approached, the cracks started to show. Vanessa didn\u2019t just have preferences. She had demands. She demanded my parents pay for a rehearsal dinner they couldn\u2019t afford. She demanded I design their apartment for free, then complained that the furniture I sourced at cost wasn\u2019t luxury enough. She was 32, a lifestyle consultant\u2014a vague profession that seemed to involve a lot of coffee dates and Instagram posts, but very little actual income. Yet she had a taste for the finer things that Jason\u2019s salary couldn\u2019t support. Since announcing her pregnancy, the entitlement had metastasized.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m carrying the first grandchild,\u201d she would say, as if she were carrying the heir to a throne. \u201cI need stress-free environments. I need resources.\u201d<\/p>\n

I watched her now sitting in that wicker throne, tearing open a gift bag.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, cashmere booties!\u201d she squealed, holding them up for the room to admire. \u201cFinally, something with a little class.\u201d<\/p>\n

The room laughed. My mother sitting in the corner flinched. I knew that flinch. Mom had knitted a pair of booties for the baby last week. She had shown them to me proudly over FaceTime. They were yellow acrylic yarn, not cashmere, but they were made with love. Vanessa had likely tossed them in the trash or buried them in a drawer, deeming them not classy enough.<\/p>\n

I looked at Jason again. He was standing by the punch bowl, looking miserable but compliant. He caught my eye and finally walked over, keeping his voice low.<\/p>\n

\u201cGeorgia, please,\u201d he whispered, his eyes darting toward Vanessa to make sure she wasn\u2019t watching. \u201cDon\u2019t make a scene. She\u2019s hormonal. She\u2019s been under a lot of stress.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStress?\u201d I hissed, tilting my head toward Dad. \u201cJason, look at Dad. He\u2019s eating in the hallway. Mom is cowering in the corner in their house. How long has this been going on?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, sweating.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt just happened. Vanessa said the apartment was too small for the baby gear. We started bringing boxes over. Then she said we should stay a few nights to help Mom and Dad with the maintenance. And then\u2026 well, she just kind of started decorating.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDecorating?\u201d I pointed to the wall where my parents\u2019 wedding photo used to be. It was gone, replaced by a framed print that said boss babe in gold foil script. \u201cShe took down their memories.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe said it clashed with the shower theme,\u201d Jason mumbled. \u201cShe said she\u2019d put it back later. Look, just let her have today, please. For the baby. We\u2019re family.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe are family,\u201d I said, my voice ice cold. \u201cBut I\u2019m starting to wonder if you remember which family you belong to.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked back at Vanessa. She was now unwrapping a high-tech baby monitor.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re going to set this up in the master bedroom,\u201d she announced to the room. \u201cThe acoustics in there are much better for the baby than the guest room.\u201d<\/p>\n

The master bedroom. My parents\u2019 bedroom.<\/p>\n

That was it. The final straw didn\u2019t just break. It incinerated. She wasn\u2019t just visiting. She was actively evicting them within their own walls. She was planning to take the master suite and shove my parents into the guest room\u2014or worse. I looked at the folder in my bag. I looked at my dad wiping his mouth with a cocktail napkin because he couldn\u2019t find a real one. I checked my watch. 2:15 p.m. The party was in full swing.<\/p>\n

Perfect.<\/p>\n

\u201cJason,\u201d I said, stepping away from him, \u201cI\u2019m not going to make a scene.\u201d<\/p>\n

I paused, smoothing my blazer.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m going to make a correction.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t storm into the center of the room immediately. That would have been the emotional reaction\u2014the reaction of a sister defending her brother. But I wasn\u2019t just a sister right now. I was a landlord, an investor, and a woman who knew that in any negotiation, information was the currency that bought you the win. I needed to know the extent of the damage.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need to use the restroom,\u201d I said to Jason, my voice deceptively calm.<\/p>\n

He looked relieved, thinking I was retreating.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, sure. Upstairs. The downstairs one is\u2026 well, Vanessa is storing the extra gifts in there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Of course she was.<\/p>\n

I walked past my father, who was still picking at his pasta salad, and squeezed his shoulder gently.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t go anywhere, Dad,\u201d I whispered. \u201cI mean it.\u201d<\/p>\n

I climbed the stairs. The oak treads I had lovingly refinished felt solid beneath my heels. As soon as I reached the landing, the noise of the party faded into a dull roar, replaced by a different kind of tension. The air up here smelled different\u2014sharper. It smelled of fresh paint and dishonesty.<\/p>\n

I walked to the door of what was supposed to be the guest room, the room intended for me or other relatives to stay in. The door was open. Inside, it looked like a storage unit exploded. Boxes stacked to the ceiling, all labeled in my mother\u2019s handwriting. Kitchen. Living room. Knickknacks. David\u2019s books. My heart hammered against my ribs. Vanessa hadn\u2019t just decorated downstairs. She had purged it. She had packed up my parents\u2019 lives and shoved them into a single ten-by-twelve room, preparing to erase their footprint from the main living areas entirely.<\/p>\n

I moved down the hall to the hobby room. This was the room with the best light in the house, facing south. I had installed custom shelving for my mother\u2019s sewing machine and her vast collection of fabrics. It was supposed to be her happy place.<\/p>\n

I pushed the door open.<\/p>\n

The room was unrecognizable. The walls, which I had painted a warm, creamy white, were now a slapdash, headache-inducing shade of baby blue. The custom shelving I had designed and paid a carpenter to install was gone\u2014ripped out\u2014leaving jagged holes in the drywall that had been hastily spackled over but not sanded. In the center of the room stood a crib. It wasn\u2019t assembled yet, but the box was leaning against the wall. And in the corner, shoved aggressively against the closet door, was my mother\u2019s vintage Singer sewing machine.<\/p>\n

It was upside down.<\/p>\n

I felt a flash of heat behind my eyes. That machine had been her grandmother\u2019s.<\/p>\n

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But the real smoking gun was the master suite.<\/p>\n

I walked to the end of the hall. The door was closed. I turned the handle and stepped inside. The master bedroom was supposed to be my parents\u2019 retreat. I had splurged on a California king bed with a tufted headboard and high thread-count linens. The bed was there, but it was covered in clothes that definitely didn\u2019t belong to Martha or David. Designer shopping bags were strewn across the duvet. On the dresser, my father\u2019s framed photos of his grandkids\u2014my cousins\u2019 kids\u2014were face down. In their place stood a row of ultrasound photos and a framed quote.<\/p>\n

\u201cManifest your dreams.\u201d<\/p>\n

I opened the walk-in closet. My mother\u2019s modest wardrobe had been pushed to the far back, squeezed into a dark corner. The front two-thirds of the rack were filled with Vanessa\u2019s clothes. Not maternity clothes. Her entire wardrobe. High-end coats, evening gowns, rows of shoes.<\/p>\n

This wasn\u2019t a transition or a temporary stay for the baby\u2019s birth. This was a hostile takeover. They had moved in fully, and from the looks of the packed boxes in the guest room, they were in the final stages of pushing my parents out of the master suite entirely\u2014likely relegating them to the small guest room I had just seen.<\/p>\n

I pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the adrenaline of absolute clarity. I dialed my lawyer, Alan. It was Saturday, but I paid a retainer for a reason.<\/p>\n

\u201cGeorgia,\u201d he answered on the second ring. \u201cIs everything okay? You\u2019re supposed to be celebrating the housewarming.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI am,\u201d I said, my voice steel. \u201cAlan, I need you to confirm something for me. The deed transfer to the trust. It\u2019s finalized, right? The trust that lists me as the sole trustee and my parents as the beneficiaries.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, it was recorded three weeks ago,\u201d Alan said, sounding confused. \u201cTechnically, the legal owner is the Martha and David irrevocable trust, but you have full executive power as the trustee until their passing. Why?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd there\u2019s no lease agreement for any other tenants. No subletting clauses.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGeorgia, you know there isn\u2019t. You wrote the bylaws yourself. It\u2019s a single-family residence for the primary use of the beneficiaries. Anyone else is a guest at your discretion.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGreat,\u201d I said, staring at Vanessa\u2019s pile of shoes. \u201cAnd what is the legal definition of a guest who refuses to leave in this state?\u201d<\/p>\n

Alan paused.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf they\u2019ve been there less than thirty days and have no lease, they\u2019re guests. You can ask them to leave. If they refuse, it\u2019s trespassing. Georgia, what is going on?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA hostile takeover,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m about to execute an eviction. Stand by.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hung up. I took a picture of the closet. I took a picture of the sewing machine upside down. Then I turned around, walked out of the master bedroom, and headed downstairs.<\/p>\n

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, the atmosphere had shifted. The gift opening was over, and the cake was being cut. It was a three-tiered monstrosity with fondant baby shoes on it. Vanessa was holding the knife, posing for a picture, while Jason stood awkwardly beside her, his hand hovering near her waist but not quite touching it.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, everyone,\u201d Vanessa chirped, \u201ccake time, and then we\u2019ll do the tour of the nursery.\u201d<\/p>\n

The tour of the nursery. She was going to take these strangers upstairs to show off how she had desecrated my mother\u2019s sewing room.<\/p>\n

I walked into the center of the room. I didn\u2019t push through people. I moved with such directed energy that they parted for me instinctively.<\/p>\n

\u201cVanessa,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

My voice wasn\u2019t loud, but it cut through the chatter like a knife through that fondant.<\/p>\n

Vanessa looked up, the cake knife poised in midair. Her smile faltered, then stiffened.<\/p>\n

\u201cGeorgia, you\u2019re just in time for cake. We were just\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI was just upstairs,\u201d I interrupted, standing five feet from her.<\/p>\n

The room went quiet. The jazz music seemed to suddenly get very loud before someone near the stereo wisely turned it down.<\/p>\n

\u201cI went to use the restroom, but I ended up taking a look at the renovations.\u201d<\/p>\n

Vanessa\u2019s eyes darted to Jason, then back to me.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, well, it\u2019s not finished. Obviously. The nursery is still a work in progress.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd I\u2019m not talking about the nursery,\u201d I said, crossing my arms. \u201cI\u2019m talking about the master bedroom.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jason audibly swallowed.<\/p>\n

Vanessa straightened her spine, gripping the knife tighter.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re storing some things in there. Like I said, we\u2019re maximizing space.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaximize space.\u201d I let out a dry, humorless laugh. \u201cVanessa, your clothes are in the closet. Your shoes are on the rack. My mother\u2019s clothes are shoved into the back corner like dirty laundry. And my father\u2019s things are boxed up in the guest room.\u201d<\/p>\n

I turned to my parents, who were still huddled in the corner. My mom looked terrified, her eyes wide and watery.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom,\u201d I asked, my voice softening just for her, \u201cdid you agree to move into the guest room?\u201d<\/p>\n

The room was dead silent. All eyes turned to the small woman on the loveseat. Martha looked at Vanessa, then at Jason. I saw the fear in her eyes. Not fear of me. Fear of causing a rift. Fear of losing access to her future grandchild.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2026 we just want to help,\u201d Mom whispered, her voice trembling. \u201cVanessa said the baby needs the room near the bathroom and the stairs are dangerous for her right now.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe master bedroom is on the first floor, Mom,\u201d I said gently. \u201cThe room with the ensuite bathroom that I built specifically so you wouldn\u2019t have to climb stairs.\u201d<\/p>\n

I turned back to Vanessa.<\/p>\n

Click Here to continuous Read\u200b\u200b\u200b\u200b Full Ending Story\ud83d\udc49 Part2: I Bought My Parents A House. Then I Found Them Sleeping In The Corner.<\/a><\/h1>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The feeling in my chest wasn\u2019t just anger. It was a physical blow. A sudden, sickening drop in my stomach that felt like I had missed a step on a … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1404,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1402","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-reddit-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1402","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1402"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1402\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1407,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1402\/revisions\/1407"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/1404"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1402"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1402"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1402"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}