{"id":2843,"date":"2026-03-14T14:08:15","date_gmt":"2026-03-14T07:08:15","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/?p=2843"},"modified":"2026-03-14T14:08:15","modified_gmt":"2026-03-14T07:08:15","slug":"my-stepmother-kicked-me-out-of-the-house-after-my-fathers-death-but-i-made-her-pay-for-it","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/?p=2843","title":{"rendered":"My Stepmother Kicked Me Out of the House After My Father\u2019s Death \u2013 But I Made Her Pay for It"},"content":{"rendered":"
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When 19-year-old Abby loses her father, she expects grief, but not betrayal. Cast out of her childhood home by her stepmother, she believes everything has been stolen. Then a secret from her father\u2019s will emerges, forces Abby to confront loss, reclaim love, and begin again.<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
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When I was 12, I lost my mother, Anna, in a sudden, brutal car accident. One moment, she was driving home from work, singing along to the radio; the next, she was gone, taken by a stranger running a red light.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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My father, Matthew, and I were left reeling.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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And I remember clutching her scarf at the funeral so tightly my knuckles turned white. It still smelled faintly of her perfume and anchored me to the memory of her warmth.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A little girl holding a green scarf | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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There were relatives who tried to take the scarf away from me.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cNo!\u201d I remember screaming. \u201cIt\u2019s hers!\u00a0It\u2019s my mom\u2019s!\u00a0<\/i>She\u2019ll be so cold without it.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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They paused, startled, their hands frozen in midair. Then came the whispering, the soft murmurs of pity and confusion.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cShame, she doesn\u2019t understand death.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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But I did. I understood perfectly. I knew my mom was gone. But what I didn\u2019t understand was why everyone around me seemed so quick to let her go, as if moving on could be neatly boxed into a casserole dish or a polite card conveyed with sympathy.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"Casseroles<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Casseroles of food on a kitchen counter | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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My dad knelt in front of me then, his face pale and streaked with tears. His hands were shaking, and his voice was barely audible.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cSweetheart,\u201d he whispered. \u201cWe have to be calm. We have to let Mom rest. She deserves the peace. Let\u2019s put the scarf in her casket as she\u2019s lowered\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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He reached out gently and pried the scarf from my grip. I didn\u2019t fight him, not physically, but inside\u2026 it felt like something had cracked. It was like I\u2019d been robbed all over again, once by the accident, and now by the world insisting I forget her.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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It was the first time I realized grief doesn\u2019t just take people; it takes pieces of you too, and you never know which ones you\u2019ll never get back.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A grieving little girl | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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I sobbed until my ribs ached, curled into the corner of our living room while adults walked around me like I was part of the furniture.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The years that followed blurred together. The house was quieter, the kind of quiet that doesn\u2019t just mean silence.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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It meant absence.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Something was missing in the air, and in the way the light used to hit the kitchen table where my mom sat, and in the way my dad moved through the house, slower now, like the grief was weighing him down.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"An<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

An empty kitchen table | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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He tried though. I\u2019ll always give him that.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Sticky notes on the fridge reminded me about soccer practice and lunch money. He made boxed mac and cheese with a level of determination like he was cooking for royalty. And every night, even if he was bone-tired, he kissed my forehead before bed.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Then, when I was 16, he sat me down after dinner, pushing his untouched plate aside.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cAbby,\u201d he said carefully. \u201cI want to tell you something. I\u2019ve met someone\u2026 her name\u2019s Joanna.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A bowl of mac and cheese on a table | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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He waited, searching my face. I didn\u2019t say anything at first.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cShe\u2019s kind. She makes me laugh, baby,\u201d he added softly. \u201cAnd I think you\u2019d really like her.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cIf she makes you happy, Dad,\u201d I said, nodding. \u201cThen\u2026 that\u2019s enough for me.\u00a0Really<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I wanted him to be okay. I just didn\u2019t know then how much that choice would cost me.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Joanna had two children, Hannah and Mark. They were both a few years older than me. I remember standing beside them at the wedding, my hands folded tightly in front of me, smiling as if I wasn\u2019t silently begging the universe to let this go well for my father.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A smiling woman with curly hair | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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I wanted to be happy for my dad. I wanted him to have another chance at joy. And for a while, it seemed like maybe he had found it. The house was louder, fuller, and less haunted by silence. Yet sometimes, in the middle of the noise, I felt lonelier than ever, like my mother and I were being erased one memory at a time.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I told myself that was a good thing. But that illusion didn\u2019t last.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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It started small. One day, I noticed the framed photo of my mom on the hallway shelf was missing. When I asked Joanna about it, she waved a hand.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cOh, Abigail,\u201d she said. \u201cWe just needed space for something new. It didn\u2019t match the aesthetic.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A teenage girl leaning against a wall | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Later, I found the frame in a drawer, face down. The piano disappeared not long after. I came home from school and found an empty corner where it used to stand.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cBut\u2026 why?\u201d I asked my stepmother.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cYour mother was the only one who played, Abigail. None of us do. It\u2019s just taking up space,\u201d she said casually when I confronted her.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cIt was hers,\u201d I whispered. \u201cIt meant something\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cTo who?\u201d she asked, already turning away.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A piano in a living room | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Mom\u2019s mug, the one with chipped edges from wear and sunflowers, went next. I found it in a box in the garage, broken.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cAccidents happen,\u201d Joanna said with a shrug. \u201cI mean, really, Abigail. Are you one of those people who keep everything? At this rate, you\u2019re going to be on an episode of Hoarders before you know it.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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But these \u201caccidents\u201d kept happening. And they\u00a0always\u00a0<\/i>seemed to involve the things that reminded me of my mother.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cWhy are you always talking about her?\u201d Hannah muttered one night. \u201cShe\u2019s not coming back, Abigail.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A white mug with sunflowers on it | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cIt\u2019s time to grow up,\u201d Mark said. \u201cYou have to make room for the living.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I stopped mentioning my mom after that. But it didn\u2019t stop the ache.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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By the time I turned 19, the house felt like a museum of someone else\u2019s life. Hannah was away at college, but still treated her bedroom like sacred ground. Mark lounged around like he owned the place.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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And Dad\u2026\u00a0oh Dad,<\/i>\u00a0was fading. Heart disease was eating away at the man who used to lift me onto his shoulders and dance me around the kitchen.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A close-up of an ill man | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Joanna said little to him, except when she was complaining. One night, I overheard her talking to someone on the phone.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cMatthew is nothing but a burden now, Mary. He\u2019s a shell of the man I met. Honestly, this isn\u2019t the life I signed up for.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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But I stayed. I cooked, cleaned, and carried us. I held my father\u2019s hand when no one else would. Because love doesn\u2019t walk away. I learned that from him.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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And still, I was the one who showed up every day, waiting with him through long appointments, jotting down notes the doctor rattled off too quickly, and reminding him to take his pills when he forgot.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A woman talking on a phone | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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I learned how to cook his favorite meals from memory, even though he barely had an appetite. I helped him dress on the days his fingers trembled too much to button his shirt, and I held his hand through the long nights when coughing stole his breath and left him gasping.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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It was hard. It was exhausting. But exhaustion felt safer than indifference, because at least it meant I was still fighting for him.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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But I would do it all again in a heartbeat, because those quiet hours together were sacred. In those final months, it felt like we had built a world of our own, one where grief and illness didn\u2019t erase love.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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A world where he was still my dad, and I was still his little girl.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A teenage girl busy in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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One night, when Dad couldn\u2019t sleep, I sat beside him. Joanna had moved into Hannah\u2019s room, needing to get away from my ailing father. His breathing was shallow, his body frail, but he reached for my hand with surprising strength.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cAbby,\u201d he whispered, his voice barely more than air. \u201cI need you to promise me something.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cAnything, Dad,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cDon\u2019t let this house, or your life, slip away,\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019ve always had more grit than you know. You deserve to dream, not just survive.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"An<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

An ill man lying in bed | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cMy dream feels stupid now,\u201d I admitted, blinking back tears.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cTell me, Abby,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cCulinary school, Dad. I want to cook. And maybe open up my own place one day. But it feels impossible right now.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cImpossible is just another word for\u00a0not yet,<\/i>\u201d he said. His thumb brushed weakly over my knuckles. \u201cIt will happen one day\u2026 and call it what it is\u2014Anna\u2019s, Matthew\u2019s, and Abby\u2019s. That way your mom and I can always sit at your table.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Even then, half-human in a bed, he still found ways to hand me courage like it was a platter of bread on the table.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"An<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

An emotional teenager sitting in a bedroom | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cI\u2019ll try,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cDon\u2019t try,\u201d he murmured. \u201cDo<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Then one morning, I came in like I always did, carrying a tray with toast, a bowl of oatmeal, his morning pills, and a glass of orange juice. But the moment I opened the door, I felt it.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The air was too still. And the silence wasn\u2019t empty. It was full.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cDad?\u201d I whispered. \u201cDaddy? No. Please\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"Food<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Food on a wooden tray | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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He lay there, tucked in neatly, his face peaceful. One hand rested on his chest, the other limp on the blanket. I knew. And still, I stood frozen, waiting for him to stir, to blink, to crack some dry joke about the toast being too cold.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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But he didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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My knees buckled and I sank to the floor beside him, pressing my forehead to his arm.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cI\u2019m here,\u201d I whispered. \u201cYou\u2019re not alone. I\u2019m here.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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A close-up of a sleeping man | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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The funeral felt like I was watching my life from the outside. I held his folded flag the way I had once held my mother\u2019s scarf, gripping it like an anchor in a storm.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Everything blurred together\u2014hymns, flowers, strangers\u2019 hands on my shoulder. But all I could think about was going home. I needed to be somewhere familiar, somewhere that still held traces of him.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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But when I reached the porch, I saw my life scattered like trash. There were bags, broken zippers, and split rubbish bags with my clothes.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"Flowers<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Flowers and candles on a casket | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. My bras hung half out of a ripped plastic bag, books with bent covers toppled into the dirt. A sweater of Mom\u2019s, the one I had begged Dad never to give away, was trampled at the edge of the porch step.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I froze, humiliation scorching my skin. Across the street, Mrs. Whitaker was watering her hydrangeas, her eyes darting toward us before quickly looking away. Curtains shifted in the neighbors\u2019 windows.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cMy father just died,\u201d I said, my voice trembling but loud enough for the street to hear. \u201cAnd this is what you do?!\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Joanna stepped into the doorway.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"Rubbish<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Rubbish bags and a suitcase on a porch | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cIt\u2019s time you learned the world won\u2019t hand you any comfort. You don\u2019t belong here anymore. It\u2019s time for you to move on,\u201d she declared.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cFinally, I can take\u00a0your<\/i>\u00a0room,\u201d Hannah giggled.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Mark shoved one of the bags with his shoe so hard a notebook spilled open, pages fluttering like wounded wings.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I wanted to scream, but instead, I bent and gathered the pieces of my life. Joanna told me the house had been left to her. I didn\u2019t know any better. She said I had no claim, and I believed her.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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An open notebook on the grass | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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That night at Aunt Lydia\u2019s, I cried harder than I ever had before. Until morning came. And with it, Wayne, Dad\u2019s lawyer.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cYour father left this for you, Abigail,\u201d he said, handing me the folder.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Inside was the will. The house deed.\u00a0My name.<\/i>\u00a0The house was mine. Even in death, my father never stopped protecting me.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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We drove back in silence. I clutched the folder in my lap, my fingers trembling. I didn\u2019t know what would happen next, but I knew I had to go home and face her.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A person holding an envelope | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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That evening, with Aunt Lydia steady beside me, I returned to the house. My old key slipped into the lock, and to my surprise, it turned easily, as if the door itself had been waiting for me to come back.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I stepped inside with quiet determination, set the legal documents on the kitchen table, and sat down. The house smelled the same, of faint wood polish and a trace of lemon cleaner\u2026 but it felt different.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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It felt like mine.<\/i><\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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It wasn\u2019t long before the front door slammed open. Joanna stormed in, her heels clicking hard against the floor, Hannah and Mark trailing close behind.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cWhat do you think you\u2019re doing here, girl?\u201d she spat.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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A teenage girl sitting at a table | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Her face drained of color when she saw me calmly seated at the table. Joanna didn\u2019t argue. She had seen the documents too, and deep down, she knew she had no ground to stand on.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cThese papers say that this house belongs to me,\u201d I said, as I slid the folder across the table.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Joanna\u2019s laugh was brittle, like glass about to shatter.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cWhere are we supposed to go?\u201d Hannah asked, her voice sharp. \u201cYou can\u2019t just kick us out!\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cFunny,\u201d I said evenly. \u201cThat\u2019s exactly what you did to me.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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A manila folder on a dining table | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cThis is nonsense,\u201d Mark said, leaning forward. \u201cYou think one piece of paper makes you queen?\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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I met his gaze and didn\u2019t blink.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cYou threw me out without warning. You didn\u2019t give me time to grieve, or even breathe. But I\u2019m not you. I\u2019m giving you a grace period, Joanna. You and your kids have 24 hours to pack and leave. After that, you\u2019ll be trespassing. On my property.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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The words hung heavy in the air. Hannah shifted uncomfortably and looked away. Mark clenched his jaw but said nothing. Aunt Lydia\u2019s hand found mine under the table, her grip firm, her presence a lifeline.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A close-up of a smiling woman | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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Over the next day, I watched them gather their things. Doors slammed, voices rose, drawers were yanked open in rage. Joanna cursed me under her breath, calling me a thief, calling me ungrateful.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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Neighbors I\u2019d known my entire life peeked from behind curtains, watching the scene unfold. The shame of it lingered on Joanna\u2019s face, though she tried to mask it with anger.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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By the afternoon, their cars pulled away, weighed down with their bags and bitterness. Only then did I finally exhale, the house falling silent around me. I walked through each room slowly, my fingertips brushing walls, letting the quiet and the memories seep back in until I believed it again: this was my home.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A woman looking through a window | Source: Unsplash<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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A week later, Aunt Lydia and I sat in the park with melting cones in our hands. It was something we had done since I was little\u2014ice cream as a balm for wounds we couldn\u2019t name.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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She licked her vanilla swirl, then sighed.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cYour father would be proud of you, Abby,\u201d she said. \u201cYou were braver than he ever knew how to be. Your mother kept him strong, my girl. Without her\u2026 well, see what happened.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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My chest tightened.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A teenage girl sitting on a park bench | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cI still feel like I lost him twice, Aunt Lydia,\u201d I confessed. \u201cFirst to Joanna\u2019s cruelty, then to his illness. I kept thinking, maybe I should have done more.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cYou did everything, darling,\u201d she said. Her eyes softened. \u201cYou gave him love when no one else did. That\u2019s what matters. Now it\u2019s time to give something back to yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cI don\u2019t even know how. My life feels like\u2026 rubble,\u201d I said, glancing down at my cone.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cYou\u2019ve always known,\u201d Aunt Lydia said gently. \u201cRemember culinary school? You used to talk about it like it was your secret kingdom. Why not go back? Build that dream, Abby.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

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\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A smiling woman with her hair in a bun | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\u201cI wanted to open a caf\u00e9 one day,\u201d I said, a smile tugging at my lips. \u201cI even planned the menu. Starters would be Anna\u2019s, for Mom. You know how she\u2019d always order multiple starters and never a main meal. Mains would be Matthew\u2019s, for Dad. And desserts,\u201d I paused, laughing softly.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cGo on,\u201d Aunt Lydia encouraged.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

\u201cAbby\u2019s,\u201d I said. \u201cThe dessert page would be called Abby\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

She reached over, wiping a smear of chocolate from my wrist like she had done when I was little.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n
\n
\"The<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

The interior of a caf\u00e9 | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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

\u201cThen do it,\u201d she said. \u201cLet grief build you, not bury you. You\u2019ve reclaimed your home, Abby. Now reclaim your future.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n

For the first time in months, I felt it\u2014a flicker of possibility. Like maybe life wasn\u2019t just about loss anymore. Maybe it was about beginning again. It was fragile,\u00a0yes<\/i>, but it was mine. And sometimes that\u2019s all you need to start building a life worth living again.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n
\n
\"A<\/picture><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

A pensive teenage girl | Source: Midjourney<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

When 19-year-old Abby loses her father, she expects grief, but not betrayal. Cast out of her childhood home by her stepmother, she believes everything has been stolen. Then a secret … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2844,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2843","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2843","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2843"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2843\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2845,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2843\/revisions\/2845"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2844"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2843"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2843"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2843"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}