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<\/p>\nHis eyes moved over me with the same cold disgust he used to reserve for muddy shoes on his pristine rugs. The dinner party had already begun. Two dozen guests stood beneath the warm glow of his dining room chandelier, holding crystal wine glasses and murmuring over expensive cigars and my sister Sarah\u2019s vanilla perfume. Rain ticked rhythmically against the tall windows. Somewhere in the hallway, the grandfather clock counted seconds like it knew something terrible was about to fracture.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
My father, Arthur, lifted his bourbon glass. \u201cLook at yourself, Clara,\u201d he said, loud enough for the closest guests to hear. \u201cYou shame this family.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room went silent so fast I could hear water dripping from the hem of my coat onto the marble.<\/p>\n
I should have turned around. I had survived gunfire, screaming engines, and the kind of darkness that sits behind your ribs long after the sun comes up. I had pulled civilians through smoke while my shoulder burned beneath a makeshift field dressing. I had carried a little girl with one shoe missing across broken concrete. But standing in my father\u2019s foyer, I was twelve years old again, waiting for him to decide whether I was worth loving.<\/p>\n
\u201cDad,\u201d Sarah whispered from the dining room archway. \u201cNot now.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur ignored her. Even at seventy, he looked perfectly arranged. Navy blazer. Silver pocket square. CEO posture, retired but never surrendered. He had built three companies and raised three children with the emotional warmth of a corporate merger.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou couldn\u2019t even bother to change?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI came straight from base,\u201d I said. My voice sounded calm. Training makes a body useful while the soul is somewhere else.<\/p>\n
My older brother, Thomas, stared into his glass as if the answer to courage sat somewhere at the bottom of the bourbon. One of Arthur\u2019s golf buddies glanced at my uniform and gave an awkward laugh. \u201cStill doing all that tactical stuff?\u201d<\/p>\n
I tasted copper at the back of my throat. \u201cSomething like that.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re thirty-eight, Clara,\u201d my father snapped, his mouth a tight line. \u201cMost women your age have stability. A normal life. You mistake recklessness for purpose, disappear for months, come back looking half dead, and somehow expect admiration.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t ask for admiration.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cYou clearly wanted attention. Please go clean up. You\u2019re upsetting people.\u201d<\/p>\n
I walked past him before my face could betray me. The hallway smelled like lemon polish and old money. My boots were entirely too loud on the hardwood. Each step pulled at the torn muscle beneath my sleeve.<\/p>\n
Halfway up the stairs, my phone vibrated.<\/p>\n
Restricted number. My stomach tightened before I answered. \u201cCaptain Clara Bennett.\u201d<\/p>\n
The voice on the line was calm, official, and unmistakably senior. \u201cCaptain Bennett, this is General Sterling. The Joint Chiefs need you in Washington immediately.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stopped on the stairs. Behind me, my father\u2019s party resumed in cautious fragments of laughter and clinking silverware.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd Captain?\u201d Sterling added. \u201cWhat your team accomplished over there is no longer staying behind closed doors. The entire country is about to hear your name. But you need to brace yourself, because what else followed you home is going to tear your world apart.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stayed in the upstairs hallway after the call ended, staring at the rain sliding down the dark window glass. The house sounded distant from up there. Warm voices below. Ice in glasses. Sarah trying too hard to rescue the evening. My father laughing at something Thomas said, as if he had not just gutted me in front of strangers and gone back to his roast beef.<\/p>\n
I stepped into the guest bathroom and locked the door. The woman in the mirror looked hollowed out. Soot lined my jaw. A thin cut sat near my hairline. I turned on the faucet, and the water ran pink when I scrubbed my sleeve.<\/p>\n
Not my blood. Not all of it anyway.<\/p>\n
The smell rose again, sharp and metallic, and suddenly I was back beside the extraction helicopter, one knee in the dirt, shouting for Jason over the rotors while the whole world turned orange. I gripped the porcelain sink. Breathe in for four. Hold. Out for four.<\/p>\n
A knock came at the door. \u201cClare?\u201d Sarah. Only she still called me that.<\/p>\n
I opened the door. Her face fell when she saw my shoulder. \u201cGod, Clara. Let me look at that. I\u2019m a doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere isn\u2019t time,\u201d I said, pulling down my sleeve.<\/p>\n
We went back downstairs because leaving would have become the story, and I was tired of being the problem in rooms where I had done nothing wrong. Dinner glowed beneath the chandelier. My father stood at the head of the table, holding court. He looked briefly at me as I sat down at the far end. Not guilty. Not sorry. Just inconvenienced.<\/p>\n
Then the television in the adjoining sitting room interrupted the ambient jazz with a breaking news alert.<\/p>\n
\u201cTonight, Pentagon officials have confirmed the success of a classified rescue operation involving American aid workers trapped overseas.\u201d<\/p>\n
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth.<\/p>\n
\u201cSources describe the mission as one of the most dangerous extractions conducted this year.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur glanced at the screen with mild interest, completely unaware that while he was calling me an embarrassment, I had been standing inside that very broadcast.<\/p>\n
Then the heavy oak front door groaned. The doorbell rang once. Heavy. The butler hurried from the side hall, his voice returning thin and nervous. \u201cSir? There\u2019s a general here asking for Captain Bennett.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room went still. The kind of silence that presses against your ears until your own pulse feels too loud.<\/p>\n
I stood carefully, my shoulder screaming. The foyer lights glowed amber as I walked toward the front door. Through the glass panels, I saw black government SUVs lining the wet curb. And in the entryway stood General Sterling. Four stars. Silver hair. Dress uniform.<\/p>\n
The second he saw me, his posture changed. Formally. In my father\u2019s house, in front of my father\u2019s guests, the four-star general raised his hand and saluted me first.<\/p>\n
I returned it.<\/p>\n
My father stepped into the foyer behind me, wearing his host smile. \u201cGeneral, Arthur Bennett.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sterling shook his hand briefly. Very briefly. \u201cMr. Bennett. I apologize for arriving unannounced, but Washington requested immediate transport for Captain Bennett.\u201d He turned to the dining room, addressing the silent guests. \u201cEight hours ago, a humanitarian convoy was attacked. Captain Bennett led the extraction team. Five American civilians are alive tonight because your daughter moved toward danger when most people would have frozen.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sarah\u2019s hand flew to her mouth. Thomas stood motionless.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe refused extraction after sustaining injuries to recover the final survivors,\u201d Sterling continued, his eyes locking onto my father\u2019s pale face. \u201cI\u2019m sorry about Specialist Jason Miller, Captain.\u201d<\/p>\n
My hands curled into fists. \u201cThank you, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n
Arthur\u2019s mouth opened, but no sound came out. His eyes darted to my bloody sleeve, finally understanding the cost of my dirt. He looked terrified.<\/p>\n
I walked out the door toward the idling SUVs, refusing to look back at the man who only valued me when someone else told him to. But as I slid into the leather backseat, my phone buzzed. A text from Sarah.<\/p>\n
Clara. Dad went into his study after you left. He was looking for something. I found it. You need to see this before you ever speak to him again. He\u2019s been lying to us for years.<\/p>\n
Washington looked entirely different after midnight. Cleaner, somehow. The monuments glowed pale and stoic against the wet darkness, and rainwater shimmered across the asphalt like liquid glass. From the back seat of the government SUV, I watched the city pass in blurred streaks of white and gold. General Sterling sat across from me in comfortable, heavy silence. It was soldier silence\u2014the kind that instinctively knows some memories need breathing room before words can touch them.<\/p>\n
My reflection stared back from the tinted window. Bruised. Hollow-eyed. A woman who had survived the fire but brought the smoke home with her.<\/p>\n
After a grueling three-hour debriefing deep within the Pentagon, beneath fluorescent lights that flattened every face into a mask of exhaustion, I was finally transported to Walter Reed. The medical wing smelled of aggressive antiseptic, floor wax, and the stale coffee sitting on the nurses\u2019 station. A surgeon meticulously restitched the torn muscle in my shoulder while I stared blankly at the ceiling tiles, trying desperately not to think about the coarse desert sand, or Jason Miller\u2019s final, silent nod before the shockwave hit us.<\/p>\n
By ten o\u2019clock the next morning, my hospital room was a quiet tomb of beeping monitors. Then, the heavy wooden door pushed open.<\/p>\n
My sister, Sarah, marched in, her usual polished demeanor entirely absent. She was followed closely by a pale, grim-looking Thomas.<\/p>\n
\u201cI told the floor nurse I was a doctor,\u201d Sarah said abruptly, dropping a battered, blue metal box onto my rolling tray table. It hit the plastic with a dull thud. \u201cEat your terrible hospital sandwich and look at this.\u201d<\/p>\n
I recognized the box immediately. The paint was chipped at the corners. It used to hold my mother\u2019s sewing needles. I remembered the soft, metallic rattle it made when she opened it at the kitchen table. A cold dread coiled in my gut. \u201cWhere did you get that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDad\u2019s locked desk drawer,\u201d Thomas said quietly, his voice lacking its usual courtroom confidence. \u201cHe left the key in the lock last night after the General humiliated him. He was drinking heavily.\u201d<\/p>\n
I reached out with my good arm and popped the latch. The faint, ghostly scent of lavender sachets drifted out, instantly transporting me back twenty years. Inside were envelopes. Dozens of them. Military stationery. Some unopened, their seals yellowed with age.<\/p>\n
My fingers went completely numb as I picked up the top one. It was an invitation to my commissioning ceremony from over fifteen years ago. Attached to it with a rusted paperclip was a formal response card.<\/p>\n
Declined. Written in my father\u2019s sharp, precise handwriting.<\/p>\n
I pulled another. An invitation to an awards banquet after my first deployment. Declined.<\/p>\n
A letter from my first commanding officer praising my \u201cexceptional leadership under fire,\u201d asking for family contact info. Across the top margin, my father had written a single, devastating word: Unnecessary.<\/p>\n
My heart didn\u2019t break; it sank quietly, like a stone dropped into freezing, dark water. I had spent years meticulously building excuses for them. I told myself my family didn\u2019t attend because travel was hard, because Dad was busy running his empire, because normal people didn\u2019t understand military life. But here was the physical proof. Arthur Bennett hadn\u2019t just ignored my life; he had actively stood guard at the door to ensure no one else could celebrate it either.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m leaving,\u201d I said, kicking my legs over the side of the hospital bed, ignoring the sharp spike of pain in my shoulder.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou have fresh stitches,\u201d Sarah protested, reaching for my arm.<\/p>\n
\u201cI have a ride,\u201d I countered, grabbing my jacket.<\/p>\n
Forty minutes later, Thomas\u2019s car pulled up to the Bennett estate. The red brick and white columns looked exactly the same, but the illusion of respectability had rotted away. Arthur opened the front door before we could even knock. He looked hollowed out, his hair uncombed, his skin gray beneath the porch light. But when his eyes landed on the blue box in Thomas\u2019s hands, a flash of old, desperate authority ignited.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou had no right to go into my study,\u201d he snapped.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou kept my entire existence hidden in a sewing box, and you want to talk about rights?\u201d I pushed past him into the foyer. My left arm was bound in a sling, but my patience was utterly extinct.<\/p>\n
I marched directly into his study. The room smelled oppressively of cigar smoke, leather, and intimidation. \u201cOpen the bottom right drawer. Now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cClara, please,\u201d Arthur\u2019s voice cracked. He stayed in the doorway, physically unable to cross the threshold.<\/p>\n
\u201cOpen it!\u201d I practically snarled.<\/p>\n
Trembling, he slowly pulled a heavy brass key from his pocket and unlocked the massive mahogany drawer. It opened with a dry, wooden scrape. Inside were thick, manila folders. Labeled by year. 2010. 2011. 2012. My entire career, filed away like criminal evidence. Printed emails, local newspaper clippings he had secretly collected, medical updates from when I was injured in Kandahar\u2014a roadside bomb injury he knew about but never called me to discuss.<\/p>\n
At the very bottom, buried beneath the weight of his silence, lay a sealed envelope. My mother\u2019s elegant handwriting covered the front. For Clara. When you are ready to stop asking him to be someone else.<\/p>\n
I snatched it up. Arthur stepped forward, his face twisting into genuine, naked panic.<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t read that,\u201d he begged, his voice dropping to a desperate, ragged whisper. \u201cClara, I swear to you, if you open that letter, you will never be able to unsee what she left behind.\u201d<\/p>\n
I did not listen to him. I took my mother\u2019s sealed letter and walked down the hall to the sunroom.<\/p>\n
This was the place she used to sit when the chemotherapy made the stairs impossible. She would tuck a knitted blanket around her legs and watch the cardinals land in the dogwood tree outside. The room still smelled faintly of dust and dried hydrangeas. Arthur stood in the doorway, practically vibrating with a fear I had never witnessed in him. Sarah and Thomas flanked me like silent sentinels.<\/p>\n
I broke the wax seal.<\/p>\n
My Clara, the letter began, the ink strokes shaky but entirely deliberate. If you are reading this, Arthur has hurt you badly enough that someone finally forced open his vault. I hope it is me handing this to you, but time is a cruel thief.<\/p>\n
I traced the letters with my thumb, my chest tight.<\/p>\n
Your father loves you in the most useless, damaging way I have ever seen. He loves you with fear, and fear, when left unchallenged, metabolizes into control. He lost his brother David in uniform when he was young. A training accident they said, though Arthur never believed the official report. He never forgave the military for bringing grief to his mother\u2019s door. When you chose to serve, he did not see your courage. He saw a folded flag that had not arrived yet.<\/p>\n
I stopped reading. The silence in the sunroom was absolute.<\/p>\n
That explains him, the letter continued, but it does not excuse him. Do not spend your life waiting for him to understand the language your soul speaks. Some people only recognize worth when the rest of the world applauds it. Live unapproved if you must. Live anyway.<\/p>\n
I carefully folded the fragile paper. Outside, a light rain began to fall against the glass.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou punished me for dying in your imagination,\u201d I said, looking up at the man who had cast a long, suffocating shadow over my entire life.<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought if I didn\u2019t encourage it, you might finally come home,\u201d Arthur choked out, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cI did come home. Again and again. After deployments, after injuries, after Mom\u2019s funeral. You just wanted me smaller.\u201d I walked past him, feeling a strange, hollow lightness. The old, desperate bargain was permanently broken.<\/p>\n
I slept at Sarah\u2019s house that night, collapsing into a dreamless sleep on her guest bed. But by eight o\u2019clock the next morning, the illusion of peace shattered.<\/p>\n
My phone was a vibrating brick of notifications. The morning news cycle had caught the clean, sanitized version of the story. Major rescue. Hostile territory. Heroism. But at 10:42 AM, Thomas walked into Sarah\u2019s kitchen. His face was white with a rage so pure it made him look like a stranger. He slid an iPad across the marble island.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou need to see this,\u201d he said, his voice trembling.<\/p>\n
Father of Rescue Hero Speaks: \u201cOur Family Always Believed In Clara\u2019s Calling.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at the screen, my vision tunneling. There was a high-resolution photo of Arthur standing on his front porch earlier that morning, looking impeccably solemn and patriotic beneath a snapping American flag. The article quoted him extensively, detailing our family\u2019s \u201cquiet, unwavering support\u201d and the \u201cdeep private concern every parent of a service member carries in their heart.\u201d<\/p>\n
My hands went ice cold. The coffee in my stomach turned to acid.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe actually spoke to the press?\u201d Sarah asked, horrified, reading over my shoulder.<\/p>\n
He hadn\u2019t just spoken to them. He had weaponized my survival. He had co-opted my blood, my trauma, and Jason\u2019s death to launder his own reputation. He saw the world\u2019s praise, and he moved toward it, deciding the safest place to stand was right beside me in the spotlight, even if he had spent thirty-eight years shoving me into the dark.<\/p>\n
My phone rang, slicing through the kitchen\u2019s tense silence. It was General Sterling.<\/p>\n
\u201cCaptain Bennett,\u201d he said, his tone clipped and grim. \u201cA network crew is asking whether your father will attend the formal commendation ceremony tomorrow as your official family representative. Someone from his PR camp indicated he would be sitting front row. What\u2019s your move?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked down at the iPad, at the man who was currently stealing my truth to feed his insatiable ego. A cold, absolute fury settled into my bones.<\/p>\n
\u201cTell security to let him in,\u201d I said, my voice dropping to a dead, mechanical calm.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you sure about that, Clara?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, sir. Because tomorrow, he\u2019s going to learn exactly what happens when you stand in front of an open microphone and lie about a soldier.\u201d<\/p>\n
I ended the call. Almost immediately, the screen lit up again. An restricted number.<\/p>\n
I answered it, expecting another reporter. Instead, a distorted, heavily synthesized voice whispered through the speaker, the sound scratching against my ear like sandpaper:<\/p>\n
\u201cCaptain Bennett. Your father didn\u2019t just hide your mother\u2019s letters. If you want the real truth about your mission\u2026 ask him what he did to Jason Miller\u2019s deployment orders.\u201d The line went dead.<\/p>\n
The Hall of Honor was significantly smaller than people usually imagined. I had expected marble grandeur, echoing, cavernous ceilings, and flags tall enough to make everyone feel tiny and insignificant. Instead, it was intimate. Contained. It was a room designed so that grief could not hide in the back rows.<\/p>\n
I stood in the staging area, adjusting the cuffs of my dress uniform. My shoulder throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, a physical reminder of the dirt, the smoke, and the cost.<\/p>\n
Jason Miller\u2019s widow, Claire, sat in the very front row. She was pale, dressed in stark black, holding her youngest daughter\u2019s hand with a white-knuckled grip. Sarah and Thomas sat two rows behind them, looking profoundly uncomfortable under the glaring lights.<\/p>\n
And right on the center aisle, wearing a bespoke charcoal suit and a perfectly calibrated expression of solemn, patriarchal pride, sat Arthur.<\/p>\n
The digital voice from the burner phone had haunted me all night. Ask him what he did to Jason\u2019s deployment orders. My father was a man of infinite reach and corporate ruthlessness, but manipulating military orders? It seemed impossible. Yet, as I looked at his composed, camera-ready face, a sickening knot tightened in my stomach. I hadn\u2019t confronted him yet. I needed to survive this next hour first.<\/p>\n
General Sterling approached the podium. He read the official commendation, his voice echoing off the polished wood paneling. He spoke of bravery, of suppressing fire, of the terrified civilians pulled from the concrete rubble. When he finally called me forward and pinned the heavy metal to my chest, his hands were remarkably steady. He stepped back and saluted.<\/p>\n
I returned it, then stepped to the podium. The teleprompter screen embedded in the glass scrolled with my pre-approved, highly sanitized remarks.<\/p>\n
I looked down at the text, then up at Arthur. I ignored the screen entirely.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy father told me three nights ago that I shamed my family,\u201d I said directly into the microphone.<\/p>\n
A collective, sharp breath hitched in the room. The polished veneer of the ceremony cracked instantly. Arthur\u2019s posture went rigidly stiff, his jaw locking. The network cameras stationed at the back of the hall suddenly swiveled, their red recording lights burning into my face like sniper dots.<\/p>\n
\u201cI believed him for a very long time,\u201d I continued, my voice steady, carrying easily over the absolute, suffocating silence. \u201cBecause when you are fed criticism your whole life, you can mistake hunger for love. But this medal does not belong to a narrative of a family\u2019s quiet support. It does not belong to PR statements. It belongs to Specialist Jason Miller, who gave his life so a little girl could go home.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked directly into Arthur\u2019s eyes. He looked utterly terrified. Not of being misunderstood. He was terrified of being fully, publicly seen.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo not,\u201d I said, my voice dropping to a fierce, protective register, \u201cturn his ultimate sacrifice into a cheap redemption story for people who only arrived after the applause began.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stepped back from the podium. The ceremony concluded in a haze of polite, deeply shocked applause. Nobody looked at Arthur.<\/p>\n
Afterward, as the crowd thinned and the brass mingled, I walked toward the exit. Arthur was waiting by the glass lobby doors. In his hands, he held a massive bouquet of white roses\u2014my mother\u2019s favorite. He was actually trying to use her ghost as a shield.<\/p>\n
\u201cClara,\u201d he said, his voice stripped of its usual commanding baritone. \u201cPlease. I watched you up there. I was wrong about you. I\u2019m trying.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI believe you\u2019re trying now,\u201d I said, stopping exactly three feet away, keeping a strict tactical distance. \u201cBut I also believe you only started trying when the world made it unbearable for you not to.\u201d<\/p>\n
I reached out and took the white roses from his hands. For a singular, pathetic second, a flicker of hope lit his aged eyes. Then, without breaking his gaze, I turned and laid the flowers beneath the memorial photograph of Jason Miller resting on a nearby table.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am your father,\u201d he whispered, his voice finally breaking.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou lost access to the version of me that kept waiting for you to act like it.\u201d I turned away from him, walking toward the exit where Sarah and Thomas waited. I didn\u2019t look back as the heavy glass doors hissed shut, leaving him completely alone in the lobby with his empty hands.<\/p>\n
That night, I returned to my small, quiet house near the base. It smelled of stale coffee and laundry detergent. I placed my mother\u2019s letter in my desk drawer. I was officially done bleeding for my father\u2019s approval. The war with Arthur Bennett was over.<\/p>\n
But as I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the rain lashing against the window, the heavy silence of the house was violently broken by a loud, rhythmic knock at my front door.<\/p>\n
I glanced at the digital clock on the stove. 11:30 PM.<\/p>\n
My heart rate spiked. I pulled my service sidearm from the biometric lockbox under the counter, keeping it concealed behind my back as I walked to the entryway. I pulled the door open just a few inches.<\/p>\n
Standing on my porch, soaked by the rain, was an older man in a faded, military-issue field jacket. He looked at me with eyes that were identical to my father\u2019s\u2014the same sharp, calculating gray\u2014though I had been told my entire life that this man was dead.<\/p>\n
\u201cHello, Clara,\u201d the man said quietly, stepping out of the shadows into the porch light. \u201cMy name is David Bennett. And your father and I have a hell of a lot to talk about.\u201d<\/p>\n
If you want more stories like this, or if you\u2019d like to share your thoughts about what you would have done in my situation, I\u2019d love to hear from you. Your perspective helps these stories reach more people, so don\u2019t be shy about commenting or sharing.<\/p>\n
His eyes moved over me with the same cold disgust he used to reserve for muddy shoes on his pristine rugs. The dinner party had already begun. Two dozen guests … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3662,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3661","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\/3661","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=3661"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3661\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3663,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3661\/revisions\/3663"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3662"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3661"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3661"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/redditlovers.live\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3661"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}