\u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n
She told me.<\/p>\n
It was a judge.<\/p>\n
Not a federal judge. Not someone famous. But a local juvenile court judge who had signed off on custody cases for years.<\/p>\n
Suddenly, the network was not just bigger.<\/p>\n
It had teeth inside the system meant to stop it.<\/p>\n
### Part 10<\/p>\n
The arrests happened before dawn.<\/p>\n
Federal agents moved like weather: fast, coordinated, impossible to argue with. Willie and Sue were taken from their house while neighbors stood on lawns in robes and slippers. Bernard Meadows was arrested outside a motel. Lance Wilkinson was pulled from his brother\u2019s cabin in West Virginia. Robbie Berger tried to leave through a back door with a suitcase and enough cash to start over badly.<\/p>\n
The news broke by noon.<\/p>\n
Local Youth Leaders Among Several Arrested in Child Exploitation Investigation.<\/p>\n
The word \u201calleged\u201d appeared everywhere. Alleged network. Alleged abuse. Alleged victims.<\/p>\n
I understood why newspapers used it.<\/p>\n
I hated it anyway.<\/p>\n
Emma was at my parents\u2019 house when the story appeared. I had asked Mom to keep the television off, but kids hear adults whisper. By dinner, Emma knew something had happened.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre Grandma and Grandpa in jail?\u201d she asked me over video call.<\/p>\n
I looked at her face on the screen. She was wearing one of my father\u2019s old Cincinnati Reds sweatshirts, sleeves covering her hands. Behind her, my mother pretended to wipe the kitchen counter while clearly listening.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause of me?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her eyes dropped.<\/p>\n
I leaned closer to the camera.<\/p>\n
\u201cEmma, listen carefully. They are in jail because of what they chose to do. Not because of what you said. Not because of what you saw. Not because I came home. Because of them.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded, but she did not look convinced.<\/p>\n
Children blame themselves for storms they did not create. I saw that now. Maureen had done it. Kathleen had done it. Maybe every child who survived something too large for them carried some false piece of guilt until someone helped them put it down.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs Mommy in jail too?\u201d Emma asked.<\/p>\n
The question cut differently.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot right now.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid she know?\u201d<\/p>\n
I had prepared for this. Therapists had warned me. Don\u2019t lie. Don\u2019t give more detail than the child asks for. Keep it simple. Keep it safe.<\/p>\n
\u201cI think Mommy knew some things and didn\u2019t protect you the way she should have.\u201d<\/p>\n
Emma\u2019s face went still.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe was supposed to protect me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLike you did?\u201d<\/p>\n
My throat tightened.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
Emma looked off screen. \u201cI don\u2019t want to talk to her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if she cries?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not your job.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if she says sorry?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou still don\u2019t have to.\u201d<\/p>\n
She rubbed one sleeve over her cheek.<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
After the call, I sat in my dark kitchen for a long time.<\/p>\n
The house felt contaminated. Emma\u2019s cereal bowl was still in the cabinet. Her soccer cleats still sat by the garage door, mud dried along the soles from the last game I missed. Maureen\u2019s lavender shampoo still haunted the upstairs bathroom.<\/p>\n
My lawyer called at nine.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaureen wants contact.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe says she\u2019ll cooperate with prosecutors if you allow supervised calls with Emma.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe may be charged.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGood.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cKeith.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said again. \u201cDo not bring me bargains that use my daughter as currency.\u201d<\/p>\n
Two weeks later, Maureen was arrested.<\/p>\n
Child endangerment. Obstruction. Conspiracy-related charges prosecutors would later narrow but not erase.<\/p>\n
The news showed her walking into court with her hair over her face. She looked small, frightened, human.<\/p>\n
I felt nothing.<\/p>\n
That scared me at first.<\/p>\n
Then I drove to Cincinnati and found Emma in my parents\u2019 backyard, kicking a soccer ball softly against the fence. She missed twice, then scored through two lawn chairs my father had set up as goalposts.<\/p>\n
When she saw me, she ran.<\/p>\n
I caught her carefully.<\/p>\n
\u201cI scored,\u201d she said into my shirt.<\/p>\n
\u201cI saw.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI wanted you to see.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll see all of them now.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pulled back and looked at me, serious as a judge.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou promise?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI promise.\u201d<\/p>\n
Behind her, my father stood on the porch, watching us with wet eyes.<\/p>\n
Then my phone buzzed.<\/p>\n
Agent Carroll.<\/p>\n
The message was short.<\/p>\n
The judge\u2019s name checked out. This goes deeper than we thought.<\/p>\n
For the first time, I wondered whether the arrests were the end of the nightmare.<\/p>\n
Or only the part they were willing to show on television.<\/p>\n
### Part 11<\/p>\n
The investigation widened quietly.<\/p>\n
That was the strangest part.<\/p>\n
The first arrests had been loud: cameras, headlines, neighbors giving interviews beside mailboxes. But after Kathleen remembered the judge, everything became careful. Doors closed. Calls happened late. Agent Carroll stopped telling me details and started asking me questions that felt like traps, not for me, but for someone listening beyond the room.<\/p>\n
Had Maureen ever mentioned custody cases?<\/p>\n
Did Sue know police officers socially?<\/p>\n
Had Willie ever bragged about people owing him favors?<\/p>\n
I gave answers when I had them and silence when I did not.<\/p>\n
Meanwhile, Emma began therapy three times a week.<\/p>\n
Her therapist\u2019s office had soft chairs, a sand tray, and a white noise machine outside the door. The first time I took her, Emma asked if therapy was punishment. I told her no, it was where people helped carry heavy things.<\/p>\n
\u201cLike groceries?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cExactly like groceries.\u201d<\/p>\n
She thought about that.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan I leave some there?\u201d<\/p>\n
I had to turn my face toward the window.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, peanut. That\u2019s the point.\u201d<\/p>\n
Healing was not cinematic. It was ugly, slow, and ordinary.<\/p>\n
Some mornings, Emma ate pancakes and laughed at my terrible French braid attempts. Some nights, she woke screaming and could not tell me what dream had found her. She refused pink pajamas. She stopped using her old stuffed rabbit after admitting Sue had given it to her. My mother bought her a new one, a gray elephant with floppy ears, and Emma named him Roadblock because \u201cnothing bad gets past him.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wanted to fix everything.<\/p>\n
Instead, I learned to sit on the floor outside her bedroom door until she fell asleep.<\/p>\n
The custody hearing came before the criminal trial.<\/p>\n
Maureen appeared in a beige suit, wrists bare, eyes sunken. Her attorney argued that she was also a victim, that her actions had to be understood through a history of coercion, trauma, and fear.<\/p>\n
All of that was true.<\/p>\n
None of it changed what mattered.<\/p>\n
My attorney presented school pickup records. Messages. Calendar entries. Times Maureen had denied me access while arranging visits with Sue. The storage unit under her name. Her text warning me to return the box.<\/p>\n
Then the judge asked Maureen one question.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you know your parents posed a danger to your daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n
Maureen cried for almost a minute before answering.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room went silent.<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
There are words you expect to feel good because they prove you right. They don\u2019t. Sometimes they only prove the world is worse than you begged it to be.<\/p>\n
I received full custody. Sole decision-making authority. A restraining order preventing Maureen from contacting Emma except through court-approved therapeutic channels Emma could refuse.<\/p>\n
Emma refused.<\/p>\n
When I told her, she was sitting cross-legged on my parents\u2019 living room rug, building a Lego house with too many windows.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo I don\u2019t have to see her?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEver?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot unless you choose to.\u201d<\/p>\n
She pressed a yellow brick into place.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if I never choose?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen never.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded once.<\/p>\n
Then she added a tall wall around the Lego house.<\/p>\n
The criminal trial began six months after the garage.<\/p>\n
The courthouse smelled like old paper, wet wool, and coffee that had been sitting too long. Reporters waited outside every morning. Some shouted questions. I ignored them. Kathleen walked in beside me on the first day, shoulders straight, diary pages sealed in evidence bags.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou ready?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d she said. \u201cBut I\u2019m here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Willie and Sue sat at the defense table looking older than I remembered. Sue wore pearls. Willie wore a suit too big in the shoulders. They did not look at me.<\/p>\n
But Sue looked at Kathleen.<\/p>\n
And smiled.<\/p>\n
Not warmly. Not nervously.<\/p>\n
Possessively.<\/p>\n
Kathleen\u2019s hand found mine under the bench and squeezed once.<\/p>\n
The prosecutor stood.<\/p>\n
\u201cLadies and gentlemen of the jury,\u201d she began, \u201cthis case is about a family secret that was never a family\u2019s right to keep.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sue\u2019s smile disappeared.<\/p>\n
And for the first time, I saw her understand that silence had finally changed sides.<\/p>\n
### Part 12<\/p>\n
Trials do not feel like justice while they are happening.<\/p>\n
They feel like waiting rooms with better furniture.<\/p>\n
Day after day, experts explained evidence in calm voices. Investigators described storage units, files, bank transfers, old calendars, coded notes, church access logs, sports schedules, and the quiet architecture of harm. The defense objected. The judge ruled. Reporters scribbled. Jurors watched screens no one should ever have had to see.<\/p>\n
I kept my eyes on the jury.<\/p>\n
Not the evidence.<\/p>\n
Never the evidence.<\/p>\n
Kathleen testified on the fourth day.<\/p>\n
She walked to the stand in a navy dress and low shoes, one hand wrapped around a small silver necklace. Her voice shook only when she stated her name. After that, she became steady in a way that made the courtroom lean toward her.<\/p>\n
She talked about being a child no one believed. About reporting and being dismissed. About learning that adults with clean houses and church friends could still be monsters. She did not perform pain. She did not beg for sympathy. She told the truth like she was placing bricks, one after another, building a wall no defense attorney could knock down.<\/p>\n
Sue stopped looking at her.<\/p>\n
Willie stared at the table.<\/p>\n
Three other adult survivors testified after Kathleen. One was a nurse. One was a mechanic. One was a stay-at-home father with shaking hands who said he had driven two states because he saw the news and recognized Sue\u2019s voice in his nightmares.<\/p>\n
Emma did not testify in open court.<\/p>\n
Her forensic interview was played privately under strict limits. I sat outside the courtroom during that part because the prosecutor told me it was better if I did, and because I was afraid of what my face might do in front of a jury.<\/p>\n
I stood in the hallway, staring at a vending machine full of chips and candy bars, listening to the muffled rhythm of a justice system trying to translate my daughter\u2019s fear into admissible evidence.<\/p>\n
Agent Carroll came to stand beside me.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe did well,\u201d he said when it was over.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe shouldn\u2019t have had to.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was one thing I liked about Carroll. He did not decorate hard truths.<\/p>\n
Maureen\u2019s hearing was separate. She took a plea before trial ended. Twelve years, with eligibility rules I refused to memorize. She gave a statement through tears, admitting she knowingly exposed Emma to danger and lied to protect her parents.<\/p>\n
Her attorney called it a tragic cycle.<\/p>\n
The prosecutor called it a choice.<\/p>\n
I agreed with the prosecutor.<\/p>\n
Maureen asked to address me.<\/p>\n
I could have refused.<\/p>\n
I did not.<\/p>\n
She stood in an orange jail uniform, hands cuffed, hair cut shorter than I had ever seen it.<\/p>\n
\u201cI loved you,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I looked at her through the courtroom air between us.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot enough.\u201d<\/p>\n
She cried then.<\/p>\n
\u201cI loved Emma.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cYou needed Emma. You loved the idea that if she survived what you survived, then maybe what happened to you wasn\u2019t unforgivable.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her face crumpled.<\/p>\n
I should have felt cruel.<\/p>\n
I felt clean.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can hate me,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t hate you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Hope flickered in her eyes.<\/p>\n
I let it die.<\/p>\n
\u201cI nothing you.\u201d<\/p>\n
That hurt her more than anger would have.<\/p>\n
Good.<\/p>\n
The jury deliberated for four hours.<\/p>\n
Four hours to weigh decades.<\/p>\n
When they returned, the courtroom filled with the sound of everyone holding their breath.<\/p>\n
Guilty.<\/p>\n
Willie Riggs. Guilty on all major counts.<\/p>\n
Sue Riggs. Guilty.<\/p>\n
Bernard Meadows. Guilty.<\/p>\n
Lance Wilkinson. Guilty.<\/p>\n
Robbie Berger. Guilty.<\/p>\n
Phillip Knowles. Guilty.<\/p>\n
Sonia Davidson. Guilty.<\/p>\n
Two connected officials were charged later. One died before trial. The judge Kathleen named resigned, then faced federal charges after investigators found enough to strip the robe off his reputation forever.<\/p>\n
Sentencing took another month.<\/p>\n
Life without parole for Willie and Sue.<\/p>\n
Decades for the others.<\/p>\n
Twelve years for Maureen.<\/p>\n
When the judge read Sue\u2019s sentence, she turned to look at me.<\/p>\n
For years, that woman had made children feel small.<\/p>\n
Now she was the one shrinking.<\/p>\n
I waited for satisfaction.<\/p>\n
It never came.<\/p>\n
Only exhaustion.<\/p>\n
Outside the courthouse, cameras flashed and reporters shouted.<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Rice, do you feel justice was served?\u201d<\/p>\n
I thought of Emma\u2019s wrists. Kathleen\u2019s diary. Maureen\u2019s confession. The gray elephant named Roadblock sleeping in my daughter\u2019s bed.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
The shouting stopped.<\/p>\n
Then I added, \u201cBut the danger is over.\u201d<\/p>\n
And for that day, it had to be enough.<\/p>\n
### Part 13<\/p>\n
We left Ohio in the spring.<\/p>\n
Not because we were running.<\/p>\n
Because Emma deserved a place where every grocery aisle did not hold a memory, where every soccer field did not come with whispers from parents who had seen our family on the news.<\/p>\n
Portland was gray, green, and far enough away to breathe.<\/p>\n
I took a job with a logistics company that shipped medical equipment across the Pacific Northwest. Smaller team. Less travel. My new boss asked during the interview why I was leaving a senior position in Ohio.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy daughter needs me home,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
He nodded like that was the most reasonable answer in the world.<\/p>\n
We rented a small house with a red front door and blackberry bushes that fought the fence. Emma chose the bedroom facing the backyard. She painted one wall pale yellow, then taped glow-in-the-dark stars above her bed. The old stuffed rabbit did not make the move. Roadblock the elephant did.<\/p>\n
Healing followed us, but so did life.<\/p>\n
Emma joined a soccer league where nobody knew her story. At the first practice, she stood beside me with her cleats planted in the grass, watching the other girls run drills.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if they ask why I\u2019m new?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
\u201cTell them we moved.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if they ask why?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTell them your dad got a job.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat if they ask about Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTell them whatever feels true and safe.\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked up at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI might say I don\u2019t have one.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nodded and ran onto the field.<\/p>\n
Ten minutes later, she stole the ball from a girl taller than me and scored.<\/p>\n
I yelled so loudly a woman beside me laughed.<\/p>\n
\u201cFirst kid?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cOnly kid,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cExplains the volume.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her name was Nora. She had a son on the younger team, worked as a librarian, and had the calm confidence of someone who returned shopping carts even in the rain. We talked during practices. Then games. Then over coffee while the kids complained about homework nearby.<\/p>\n
I did not make her a promise I could not keep. I did not turn her into a reward at the end of pain. I was honest about the past without handing her every bloody piece of it.<\/p>\n
She never pushed.<\/p>\n
That mattered.<\/p>\n
Kathleen visited in July. She stayed in our guest room and helped Emma bake a lopsided chocolate cake for my birthday. My parents flew in the same weekend. We sat around the backyard under string lights, eating too much and talking about ordinary things: school, soccer, my father\u2019s terrible knees, my mother\u2019s aggressive opinions about Oregon rain.<\/p>\n
At one point, Kathleen stood beside me near the fence.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe looks lighter,\u201d she said, watching Emma laugh as my father pretended not to know how water balloons worked.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe is.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at my daughter.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m trying.\u201d<\/p>\n
Kathleen bumped my shoulder with hers.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat counts.\u201d<\/p>\n
A letter arrived from Maureen in September.<\/p>\n
The envelope came through my lawyer first. Emma\u2019s therapist said Emma could decide whether she wanted to know about it. Emma was ten by then, older in some ways, still a child in all the ways that mattered.<\/p>\n
We sat at the kitchen table. Rain tapped the windows. Roadblock sat beside her cereal bowl like legal counsel.<\/p>\n
\u201cIs it an apology?\u201d Emma asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you read it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
She thought for a long time.<\/p>\n
Then she pushed the envelope back to me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan we throw it away?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
She carried it herself to the trash can under the sink.<\/p>\n
Then she washed her hands.<\/p>\n
Not dramatically. Not crying. Just washed them, dried them on a towel, and asked if we could make grilled cheese for dinner.<\/p>\n
That was when I knew she was not only surviving.<\/p>\n
She was choosing.<\/p>\n
On her eleventh birthday, Emma\u2019s team made the regional finals. The game was played under a sky the color of wet cement, parents huddled in jackets along the sideline. With two minutes left, tied score, Emma got the ball near midfield.<\/p>\n
I saw the old hesitation flash across her face.<\/p>\n
Then she moved.<\/p>\n
Fast. Sharp. Alive.<\/p>\n
She cut left, slipped between two defenders, and sent the ball into the corner of the net.<\/p>\n
The sideline exploded.<\/p>\n
Emma turned toward me, mouth open in disbelief, and I raised both arms like I was guiding in an airplane that had finally found its runway.<\/p>\n
After the game, she ran to me, muddy and breathless.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid you see?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI saw.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe whole thing?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe whole thing.\u201d<\/p>\n
She hugged me hard.<\/p>\n
I held her and looked over her shoulder at the field, the wet grass, the laughing girls, the parents packing chairs, the ordinary miracle of a child being allowed to be a child.<\/p>\n
That night, after cake and presents, Emma fell asleep on the couch with Roadblock tucked under her chin. I carried her to bed, careful though she was no longer fragile in the same way.<\/p>\n
At her door, she opened one eye.<\/p>\n
\u201cDad?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you ever wish the flight hadn\u2019t been cancelled?\u201d<\/p>\n
The question stole the air from me.<\/p>\n
I sat on the edge of her bed.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cNever.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cEven though everything got bad after?\u201d<\/p>\n
I brushed a strand of hair from her face.<\/p>\n
\u201cEverything was already bad. The cancelled flight just brought me home in time to see the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n
She considered that.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen I\u2019m glad it got cancelled too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMe too, peanut.\u201d<\/p>\n
She closed her eyes.<\/p>\n
A minute later, she whispered, \u201cWe\u2019re okay now, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked around her room: yellow wall, glow stars, muddy cleats by the closet, a shelf full of books, a life no one had permission to steal.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cWe\u2019re okay.\u201d<\/p>\n
And this time, I believed it.<\/p>\n
The people who hurt her did not get forgiveness. They did not get second chances wrapped in pretty words. They did not get to call silence family anymore.<\/p>\n
They got cells, records, names spoken aloud, and doors locked from the outside.<\/p>\n
Emma got mornings.<\/p>\n
She got soccer games.<\/p>\n
She got a father in the stands.<\/p>\n
And I got the only ending I cared about.<\/p>\n
My daughter came home to herself.<\/p>\n
THE END!<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u201cWho?\u201d She told me. It was a judge. Not a federal judge. Not someone famous. But a local juvenile court judge who had signed off on custody cases for years. … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":7167,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7172","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\/7172","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=7172"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7172\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7173,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7172\/revisions\/7173"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/7167"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7172"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=7172"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storyintheworld.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=7172"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}