The sweet potatoes were still steaming when my phone rang. I had spent six hours on that casserole\u2014roasting each one individually the way my grandmother taught me, making the praline topping from scratch, letting the pecans caramelize until they looked like little pieces of amber. Outside my apartment, the city carried that rare Thanksgiving quiet, as if even the traffic had decided to lower its voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was 9:12 a.m. My sister Ashley hadn\u2019t sent the schedule yet. My mom hadn\u2019t called with her usual, \u201cYou\u2019re bringing your fancy casserole, right?\u201d No one had said anything all week. I told myself they were just busy\u2014because that\u2019s what I always did. I made excuses like it was my responsibility.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I finally called Ashley, she picked up on the sixth ring, sounding rushed and out of breath. In the background, I could hear laughter, overlapping conversations\u2014the kind of noise that only comes from a house full of family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh my god,\u201d she said, her voice dropping suddenly. \u201cNathan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My stomach tightened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHey,\u201d I said, trying to sound casual. \u201cJust checking what time I should come by. The casserole\u2019s ready.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The silence that followed said everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI thought Mom told you,\u201d Ashley said at last.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cTold me what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell\u2026 we decided to have Thanksgiving early this year. Last weekend, actually. Mom wanted to avoid the holiday rush at the stores.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the casserole like it had turned against me. They had all been there\u2014my parents, siblings, their families\u2014and no one thought to include me. No one thought I should even know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy didn\u2019t anyone tell me?\u201d I asked, gripping the counter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ashley hesitated. \u201cI really thought Mom had called you. Nathan, I\u2019m sorry. This is\u2026 awkward.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Awkward. As if my absence was just a minor inconvenience, not something meaningful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you want to come now?\u201d she added. \u201cWe still have leftovers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Leftovers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pictured walking into a house where everything was already finished\u2014everyone full, relaxed\u2014my casserole arriving too late, like an afterthought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m good. Enjoy your day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hung up before she could say anything else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stood there in my kitchen\u2014thirty-three years old\u2014looking at a dish I had made for people who had forgotten me. Part of me tried to be rational: It\u2019s just a misunderstanding. Things happen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But another part of me\u2014quieter, older, more tired\u2014refused to ignore it this time. Because this wasn\u2019t new. It was just the first time I stopped making excuses for it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I took the casserole to my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Kowalski. When she opened the door in her robe, her face lit up instantly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, honey,\u201d she said warmly. \u201cThat\u2019s so sweet of you. Come in, sit, have some with me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The invitation hit harder than I expected. A near-stranger offering me a place without hesitation. For a second, I almost accepted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I shook my head. \u201cI\u2019m okay. I\u2019ve got things to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me carefully. \u201cThings can wait,\u201d she said gently. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to be alone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I smiled\u2014the kind of practiced smile meant to reassure people\u2014and left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Back upstairs, I ordered pizza and started scrolling through my phone. At first, I wasn\u2019t looking for proof\u2014just something to make me feel less foolish. But the truth surfaced anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Group chats I\u2019d never been part of. Photos from family gatherings I didn\u2019t know existed\u2014my nephew\u2019s birthday, my brother Kyle\u2019s promotion, Sunday brunches, Ashley\u2019s baby shower I\u2019d only heard about afterward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
These weren\u2019t spontaneous events. They were planned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I just wasn\u2019t included.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At 9:00 p.m., my phone buzzed. A text from my mom:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAshley told me about the confusion. Sorry, honey. Thought your sister told you. Hope you still had a nice, quiet Thanksgiving.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Confusion. Like forgetting me was accidental.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the message without replying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What was I supposed to say? That this wasn\u2019t a mistake\u2014that it was a pattern?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They would apologize just enough to move on. Tell me I was overreacting. Turn it into something I had to fix.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So I said nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next morning, I opened my calendar. It was filled with reminders I had built over the years\u2014birthdays, anniversaries, everything that kept our family connected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I started deleting them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mom\u2019s birthday. Gone.
Kyle\u2019s. Gone.
Ashley\u2019s anniversary. Gone.
My dad\u2019s birthday. Gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Every reminder I had created so I wouldn\u2019t forget them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It took twenty minutes to erase years of effort.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It didn\u2019t feel cruel. It felt\u2026 clean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three weeks later, my mom\u2019s sixty-fifth birthday passed. I didn\u2019t call. I didn\u2019t text.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next day, my dad called.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNathan,\u201d he said, disappointed, \u201cyour mother was hurt you didn\u2019t acknowledge her birthday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI forgot,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A pause. \u201cYou forgot your own mother\u2019s birthday?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s what I said.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not like you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course it wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ve had a lot on my mind,\u201d I replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe\u2019s your mother,\u201d he said. \u201cYou need to call her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI will,\u201d I said\u2014and hung up, knowing I wouldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I buried myself in work. I designed buildings\u2014structures that made sense, where effort led to results. Unlike family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When Kyle\u2019s birthday came, I didn\u2019t show up. No explanation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His voicemail: \u201cWhat the hell, man? This isn\u2019t like you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I deleted it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For Ashley\u2019s anniversary, I went hiking instead. Alone. Somewhere quiet, where no one expected anything from me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I got back, my phone was flooded with messages:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Where are you?
You need to be here.
Stop acting like a child.
This is unacceptable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And my mom\u2019s voicemail:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re hurting people who love you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat there, staring at my phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Did they love me?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Or did they love the version of me that was always available, always giving, never asking for anything in return?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I saved the voicemail. Not because it meant something to me, but because something inside me had started keeping records.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
March came with more family events\u2014my father\u2019s birthday, my nephew\u2019s party, even a dinner I only learned about because a cousin accidentally added me to a Facebook event.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t go to any of them. I didn\u2019t acknowledge a single one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After my dad\u2019s birthday passed, my mom stopped calling. Ashley\u2019s messages, though, became more urgent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nathan, please. I don\u2019t understand what\u2019s happening. Talk to me. Tell me what we did wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The fact that she had to ask\u2014that she genuinely didn\u2019t see it\u2014was answer enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In April, my girlfriend Zara sat across from me on the couch and said gently, \u201cI think you should talk to someone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Zara was different from my family. She didn\u2019t use guilt to control people. She asked questions\u2014and actually listened to the answers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m fine,\u201d I said automatically.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was something in her certainty that tightened my throat. After a moment, I nodded. \u201cOkay. I\u2019ll go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dr. Raymond Woo\u2019s office smelled faintly of coffee and cleaning solution. He was calm, steady\u2014his voice the kind you could lean on. When I told him everything, he didn\u2019t interrupt. Didn\u2019t defend my family. Didn\u2019t tell me to forgive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He just listened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I finished, he paused before saying, \u201cWhat you\u2019re describing sounds like a pattern of invisible labor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cInvisible labor?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEmotional labor,\u201d he clarified. \u201cYou were the one maintaining connections\u2014remembering dates, reaching out, showing up. That\u2019s work. And your family system grew dependent on you doing it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo what happens when I stop?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He gave a small, knowing look. \u201cThe system destabilizes. People react\u2014not necessarily because they miss you, but because they miss what you provided.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The truth of it hit hard\u2014but it also made something inside me loosen. Like someone had finally put a name to what I\u2019d been feeling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Over the next sessions, we broke it down further. In my family, I had been the glue\u2014the organizer, the one who remembered everything, who made sure everyone else stayed connected.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had built their sense of closeness with my effort.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And they called it family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d Dr. Woo asked me one day in May.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the floor for a long time. \u201cI want them to miss me,\u201d I said finally. \u201cI want them to notice I\u2019m not just\u2026 background.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd if they don\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That question stayed in the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen I learn how to live without them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In June, Zara proposed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were hiking when we reached the top of a small mountain. She pulled out a ring, her hands shaking slightly, and said, \u201cNathan Cross, will you marry me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said immediately, my voice breaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
People nearby clapped. Zara laughed through tears and kissed me, and for the first time in a long while, I felt something simple\u2014pure happiness, without conditions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That afternoon, we called our closest friends and planned a small engagement party.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When Zara asked softly, \u201cDo you want to tell your family?\u201d I felt my chest tighten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. And it surprised me how sure I felt. \u201cI don\u2019t want them there.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She didn\u2019t push. She just squeezed my hand. \u201cOkay. Then we celebrate with the people who actually show up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The party was perfect. Her family welcomed me like I had always belonged. Our friends filled the apartment with laughter and genuine excitement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And when I looked around, I realized something unexpected:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wasn\u2019t missing anyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next day, Zara posted photos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Within an hour, my phone lit up\u2014calls from my mom, Ashley, Kyle. I ignored them all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then came the texts:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can\u2019t believe I found out from Facebook.
This should\u2019ve been a family moment.
We\u2019re not even worth a call?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The entitlement was unbelievable. Months of silence\u2014and now they expected to be included in my happiness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Zara read over my shoulder and said quietly, \u201cThey don\u2019t miss you. They miss what you did for them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her sister Rya\u2014blunt and fiercely loyal\u2014added me to a family group chat I\u2019d never been part of before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sent one message:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I got engaged. I had a party. I invited the people who are consistently present in my life. That list didn\u2019t include any of you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then I muted the chat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night, Zara found me standing on the balcony.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour family\u2019s losing it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDo you want to talk?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I shook my head. \u201cI don\u2019t want to be the lesson. I don\u2019t want to be the thing that teaches them consequences.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re not,\u201d she said gently. \u201cYou\u2019re protecting yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was the difference\u2014boundaries, not revenge.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In July, my grandmother passed away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I found out from my uncle. The news hit hard\u2014I hadn\u2019t seen her in months, caught up in my distance from everyone else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll be there,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the funeral, my family sat together in the front. I stayed near the back with Zara.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mom saw me\u2014relief, surprise, then anger crossing her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After the service, she came straight to me. \u201cWe need to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot today,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve ignored us for months,\u201d she said. \u201cWe deserve an explanation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou forgot to invite me to Thanksgiving,\u201d I replied quietly. \u201cAnd that wasn\u2019t the first time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father stepped in. \u201cThis is not the time for your drama.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Drama.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy point exactly,\u201d I said calmly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As I turned to leave, Ashley stopped me. \u201cWe miss you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at her\u2014really looked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t miss me,\u201d I said. \u201cYou miss what I used to do for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We left soon after.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the first time, I didn\u2019t feel guilty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A week later, my uncle gave me a letter from my grandmother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In it, she wrote that she had seen everything\u2014how hard I tried, how often I was overlooked, how her silence had been a mistake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You deserve better, she wrote.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I broke down reading it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For years, I felt invisible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now I knew I hadn\u2019t imagined it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Someone had seen me all along.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In October, we got married.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was perfect\u2014sunlight, autumn leaves, a small ceremony filled with people who genuinely cared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the first time, I was surrounded not by obligation\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2026but by real belonging.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When the officiant said, \u201cWe\u2019re not only born into family\u2014we also choose it,\u201d something in my chest settled. Not bitterness. Peace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We danced until midnight, toasted until we were giddy, laughed until our faces hurt. For the first time in my life, I experienced a family celebration without obligation or tension\u2014just love, mutual and present.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The photos went up the next day. Among the comments were familiar names. My cousin: Congratulations! Wish I could\u2019ve been there. Ashley: a simple heart emoji.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They\u2019d seen the wedding they weren\u2019t invited to. Now they knew exactly how it felt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Months passed. Work flourished. Life was full\u2014in a good way. Quiet weekends. Long hikes. Dinners with Zara\u2019s family. At some point, I realized I wasn\u2019t thinking about my birth family constantly anymore. When they did cross my mind, it was with less heat, less ache, more distance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In January, Ashley emailed me. No expectations, just thoughts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She wrote about therapy, noticing patterns she\u2019d never questioned, realizing she\u2019d relied on me without acknowledging it. Thanksgiving wasn\u2019t \u201cone mistake\u201d\u2014it was the crack revealing the foundation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m sorry, she wrote. I\u2019m not asking you to come back. I just needed you to know I see it now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I replied: Thank you for acknowledging it. I\u2019m not ready to rebuild yet, but I\u2019m glad you\u2019re working on understanding your part.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her answer: I understand. Take all the time you need.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No guilt. No demands. Just respect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In August, Kyle showed up at my office. I let him in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m in therapy,\u201d he said. \u201cI owe you an apology. You were right. We forgot you. Not just Thanksgiving\u2014years. We treated you like you existed to serve us. And when you stopped, we got angry instead of reflecting.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His eyes were wet. \u201cI don\u2019t expect forgiveness. I just needed you to hear it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy now?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI got divorced,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd I realized I treated Morgan like we treated you\u2014took her for granted. She left. Losing her made me understand losing you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We sat in silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI appreciate the apology,\u201d I said finally. \u201cIt matters. But the relationship we had is gone. I don\u2019t know what comes next.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know. I just wanted to say it,\u201d he replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In September, my mother called. Unknown number.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNathan,\u201d she said, voice shaky, \u201cyour father and I are getting divorced.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t know what to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She laughed bitterly. \u201cTurns out, strip everything away\u2014kids, grandkids, holidays\u2014we don\u2019t actually like each other much. I\u2019m not calling to make you come home. I just\u2026 I see now. The way we treated you, assumed you\u2019d always be there. That was wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
An apology. The thing I\u2019d once longed for.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But I didn\u2019t need it the way I once did. I had already built a life without it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you for saying that,\u201d I said carefully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We talked briefly, awkwardly, then hung up. I felt done\u2014not cold, finished. A chapter closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
October came\u2014our first anniversary. Zara and I returned to the botanical garden, walking under gold-leafed trees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThis has been the best year of my life,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDespite all the family stuff?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause of how you handled it,\u201d she corrected. \u201cYou chose yourself. You chose us. That takes courage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night, she told me she was pregnant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cA baby?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes,\u201d she smiled through tears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our daughter was born on a rainy April morning. Tiny. Perfect. Loud enough to make the nurses laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We named her Lily Ruth\u2014Ruth for my grandmother, who saw me when I felt invisible, a legacy of fierce love and quiet truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When Ashley held Lily, she cried. \u201cShe\u2019s beautiful. Nate\u2026 you\u2019re going to be an amazing dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Looking at my daughter, I felt something settle completely. She would never wonder if she mattered. She would never be forgotten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Years ago, my family forgot to invite me to Thanksgiving. I stopped remembering their birthdays and more. But in that forgetting, I reclaimed myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stopped building a family out of obligation and started building one out of reciprocity. I built a life where people showed up because they wanted to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the first time, family didn\u2019t feel like a job. It felt like love.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The sweet potatoes were still steaming when my phone rang. I had spent six hours on that casserole\u2014roasting each one individually the way my grandmother taught me, making the praline topping from scratch, letting the pecans caramelize until they looked like little pieces of amber. Outside my apartment, the city carried that rare Thanksgiving quiet, …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":6070,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6069","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6069","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=6069"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6069\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6071,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6069\/revisions\/6071"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/6070"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=6069"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=6069"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/cehre.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=6069"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}