My son gave me the DNA kit on Mother\u2019s Day.<\/p>\n
It came wrapped in bright green paper with a ridiculous bow on top.<\/p>\n
\u201cHappy Mother\u2019s Day, Mom,\u201d he said, grinning. \u201cNow we\u2019ll finally find out if we\u2019re actually Irish.\u201d<\/p>\n
I laughed.<\/p>\n
My family had always claimed we were mostly Irish.<\/p>\n
My father used to say we had \u201cIrish blood, Irish tempers, and Irish luck.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother would roll her eyes and tell him he had forgotten the most important part.<\/p>\n
\u201cIrish stubbornness.\u201d<\/p>\n
I was seventy-one years old, and I had never had much reason to question any of it.<\/p>\n
My parents had been married for forty-eight years.<\/p>\n
They had raised me in a small Ohio town.<\/p>\n
I was their only child.<\/p>\n
At least, that was what I had always been told.<\/p>\n
So I sent the sample away, forgot about it, and went on with my life.<\/p>\n
Seven weeks later, an email arrived.<\/p>\n
Your DNA results are ready.<\/strong><\/p>\n I almost deleted it.<\/p>\n Then I remembered my son.<\/p>\n I opened it at the kitchen table while drinking coffee.<\/p>\n The ancestry results were exactly what I expected.<\/p>\n Some Irish.<\/p>\n Some English.<\/p>\n A little German.<\/p>\n Nothing shocking.<\/p>\n I was about to close the page when I noticed a section called DNA Matches<\/strong>.<\/p>\n I clicked it.<\/p>\n At first, I saw distant relatives I didn’t recognize.<\/p>\n Third cousins.<\/p>\n Fourth cousins.<\/p>\n People with surnames I had never heard before.<\/p>\n Then I saw one match near the top.<\/p>\n I stared at the percentage.<\/p>\n 23.8% shared DNA.<\/strong><\/p>\n That was a lot.<\/p>\n I clicked the profile.<\/p>\n The website said:<\/p>\n Possible relationship: Half-sibling, grandparent, aunt\/uncle, or niece\/nephew.<\/strong><\/p>\n The man’s name was Richard Harlan<\/strong>.<\/p>\n Born in Indiana.<\/p>\n 1952.<\/strong><\/p>\n I sat back in my chair.<\/p>\n My hands went cold.<\/p>\n I looked at the screen again.<\/p>\n Then I laughed.<\/p>\n Not because anything was funny.<\/p>\n Because sometimes the human mind laughs when it doesn’t know what else to do.<\/p>\n A stranger.<\/p>\n A man I’d never heard of.<\/p>\n A man nearly twenty years older than me.<\/p>\n And the website was telling me he could be my half-brother.<\/p>\n Impossible.<\/p>\n Both my parents were dead.<\/p>\n My father had died fourteen years earlier.<\/p>\n My mother followed him six years after that.<\/p>\n Neither had ever mentioned another child.<\/p>\n Not once.<\/p>\n I had grown up hearing the same sentence whenever someone asked whether I had siblings.<\/p>\n \u201cNo. She’s our only one.\u201d<\/p>\n My father said it.<\/p>\n My mother said it.<\/p>\n My grandparents said it.<\/p>\n My aunts said it.<\/p>\n Everybody knew.<\/p>\n I was an only child.<\/p>\n I scrolled down to Richard’s photograph.<\/p>\n And my stomach dropped.<\/p>\n He had my father’s eyebrows.<\/p>\n Not similar.<\/p>\n Not vaguely familiar.<\/p>\n The exact same heavy brow.<\/p>\n And beneath his dark hair was a widow’s peak shaped almost identically to mine.<\/p>\n I enlarged the photograph.<\/p>\n There was something else.<\/p>\n The shape of his nose.<\/p>\n The narrow bridge.<\/p>\n The slight bend near the tip.<\/p>\n My father’s nose.<\/p>\n I whispered, \u201cWho are you?\u201d<\/p>\n The photograph, of course, didn’t answer.<\/p>\n I spent the next three days obsessing over it.<\/p>\n I searched his name.<\/p>\n Richard Harlan.<\/p>\n Born 1952.<\/p>\n Indiana.<\/p>\n I found an old newspaper article about a local charity event with his photograph.<\/p>\n I found a business listing.<\/p>\n A marriage announcement.<\/p>\n A public obituary for someone with his last name.<\/p>\n Every tiny detail made the impossible feel more possible.<\/p>\n Finally, I called my son.<\/p>\n \u201cMom?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI think I have a brother.\u201d<\/p>\n Silence.<\/p>\n Then he laughed.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI took the DNA test.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd it says I have a close family match.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow close?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTwenty-three point eight percent.\u201d<\/p>\n The laughter stopped.<\/p>\n \u201cOh.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI found a man in Indiana.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoes he know about you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don’t know.\u201d<\/p>\n My son immediately said, \u201cDon’t contact him until we know more.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI wasn’t planning to.\u201d<\/p>\n I paused.<\/p>\n \u201cMaybe.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMom.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI said maybe.\u201d<\/p>\n He sighed.<\/p>\n Then I remembered something.<\/p>\n My Aunt Evelyn.<\/p>\n My mother’s younger sister.<\/p>\n She was ninety-two and living in Ohio.<\/p>\n She was the last person alive who had known my mother as a young woman.<\/p>\n If anyone could explain this, it was her.<\/p>\n I called her the next morning.<\/p>\n She answered on the fourth ring.<\/p>\n \u201cHello?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAunt Evie, it’s me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n We exchanged the usual greetings.<\/p>\n Then I said,<\/p>\n \u201cI need to ask you something strange.\u201d<\/p>\n She chuckled.<\/p>\n \u201cAt my age, strange is usually what makes the day interesting.\u201d<\/p>\n I took a breath.<\/p>\n \u201cDo you know a man named Richard Harlan?\u201d<\/p>\n The silence that followed was unlike anything I’d ever heard from her.<\/p>\n Not confusion.<\/p>\n Not surprise.<\/p>\n Fear.<\/p>\n I could hear her breathing.<\/p>\n \u201cAunt Evie?\u201d<\/p>\n Nothing.<\/p>\n Then, very quietly, she said,<\/p>\n \u201cWhere did you get that name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy DNA results.\u201d<\/p>\n Another silence.<\/p>\n I sat up straighter.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n Her voice dropped to a whisper.<\/p>\n \u201cHoney\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n She swallowed.<\/p>\n \u201cThat man isn’t your half-brother.\u201d<\/p>\n My heart started pounding.<\/p>\n \u201cThen what is he?\u201d<\/p>\n She took a long breath.<\/p>\n Then she said the words that changed everything.<\/p>\n \u201cHe’s your father<\/strong>.\u201d<\/p>\n I couldn’t speak.<\/p>\n My aunt continued before I could ask.<\/p>\n \u201cYour biological father.\u201d<\/p>\n I stared at the kitchen wall.<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo. My father was Frank.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy father raised me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe was married to my mother.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe was my father.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n Her voice softened.<\/p>\n \u201cThat’s why I said your biological father.\u201d<\/p>\n I couldn’t understand.<\/p>\n My father’s name was Frank Bennett.<\/p>\n He had taught me to ride a bicycle.<\/p>\n He’d sat beside my bed when I had pneumonia.<\/p>\n He’d walked me down the aisle when I got married.<\/p>\n He’d held my son the day he was born.<\/p>\n He was my father.<\/p>\n There was no room in my life for another one.<\/p>\n But Aunt Evelyn had already opened a door that could never be closed again.<\/p>\n \u201cTell me everything.\u201d<\/p>\n She cried before she answered.<\/p>\n \u201cYour mother was seventeen.\u201d<\/p>\n I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n \u201cSeventeen?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd Richard?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSeventeen too.\u201d<\/p>\n She told me that my mother, Margaret, had grown up with a family that cared deeply about appearances.<\/p>\n She had met Richard at a summer dance.<\/p>\n They fell in love quickly.<\/p>\n Too quickly, according to Margaret’s parents.<\/p>\n Then Margaret became pregnant.<\/p>\n She was terrified.<\/p>\n Her parents were furious.<\/p>\n Richard wanted to marry her.<\/p>\n But there was a problem.<\/p>\n His family was moving to Indiana.<\/p>\n His father had already accepted a job there.<\/p>\n Richard was seventeen.<\/p>\n He had no money.<\/p>\n No car.<\/p>\n No way to support a wife and baby.<\/p>\n Margaret’s parents decided the pregnancy had to disappear.<\/p>\n Not the baby.<\/p>\n The truth.<\/p>\n Margaret was sent away to stay with relatives in Pennsylvania.<\/p>\n She gave birth to a little girl.<\/p>\n Me.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen I was born,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhere was Richard?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe came.\u201d<\/p>\n My breath caught.<\/p>\n \u201cHe came to the hospital?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe tried.\u201d<\/p>\n Aunt Evelyn explained that Richard’s parents had forbidden him from seeing Margaret.<\/p>\n But he found out where she had gone.<\/p>\n He showed up anyway.<\/p>\n He wanted to see his daughter.<\/p>\n My grandmother refused.<\/p>\n She told him Margaret had lost the baby.<\/p>\n \u201cShe lied?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause your grandfather believed he was protecting the family.\u201d<\/p>\n I almost laughed.<\/p>\n Protecting the family.<\/p>\n That phrase had apparently destroyed generations of lives.<\/p>\n \u201cSo where did Frank come from?\u201d<\/p>\n Aunt Evelyn hesitated.<\/p>\n \u201cYour mother met him shortly afterward.\u201d<\/p>\n Frank was twenty-two.<\/p>\n Kind.<\/p>\n Stable.<\/p>\n Already working.<\/p>\n He knew Margaret had been pregnant.<\/p>\n But he was told the child had died.<\/p>\n He married her two years later.<\/p>\n And he raised me.<\/p>\n I sat there, stunned.<\/p>\n \u201cBut did Frank know?\u201d<\/p>\n My aunt didn’t answer immediately.<\/p>\n Then she said,<\/p>\n \u201cI think he eventually suspected.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid Mom tell him?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don’t know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid Richard ever know I was alive?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n I gripped the edge of the table.<\/p>\n \u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe found out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhen?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYears later.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow many years?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAbout twenty.\u201d<\/p>\n I felt dizzy.<\/p>\n Twenty years.<\/p>\n Richard had spent twenty years believing his daughter was dead.<\/p>\n And I had spent twenty years believing my father was Frank.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat happened when he found out?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe came to Ohio.\u201d<\/p>\n I could barely breathe.<\/p>\n \u201cDid he see me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause your mother asked him not to.\u201d<\/p>\n I didn’t understand.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy would she do that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause by then you were grown. Married. You had a life. She was afraid telling you would destroy everything.\u201d<\/p>\n I stood up.<\/p>\n Then sat down again.<\/p>\n \u201cDid he agree?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe didn’t have much choice.\u201d<\/p>\n My aunt’s voice cracked.<\/p>\n \u201cYour mother told him that if he loved you, he’d leave you alone.\u201d<\/p>\n I covered my mouth.<\/p>\n \u201cThat was cruel.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid he?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n I stared at the DNA profile again.<\/p>\n Richard Harlan.<\/p>\n Born 1952.<\/p>\n My biological father.<\/p>\n A man who had spent seventy years carrying a secret that wasn’t his fault.<\/p>\n And I had never even known he existed.<\/p>\n My aunt gave me one more piece of information.<\/p>\n \u201cHe sent your mother letters.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow many?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDozens.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhere are they?\u201d<\/p>\n She hesitated.<\/p>\n \u201cI don’t know.\u201d<\/p>\n That night, I couldn’t sleep.<\/p>\n I kept thinking about my father.<\/p>\n Frank.<\/p>\n The man who wasn’t my biological father but had been my father in every way that mattered.<\/p>\n Then I thought about Richard.<\/p>\n The man whose DNA had somehow found its way across decades of lies and silence.<\/p>\n The next morning, I messaged him through the DNA website.<\/p>\n I wrote only:<\/p>\n Hello. I believe we may have a family connection. My name is Margaret’s daughter.<\/strong><\/p>\n I almost deleted it.<\/p>\n Then I pressed send.<\/p>\n He responded four hours later.<\/p>\n What is your mother’s full name?<\/strong><\/p>\n I gave it to him.<\/p>\n Three minutes later, another message appeared.<\/p>\n Margaret Bennett?<\/strong><\/p>\n Then:<\/p>\n Oh my God.<\/strong><\/p>\n Then:<\/p>\n Are you alive?<\/strong><\/p>\n I cried when I read that.<\/p>\n Not because I was sad.<\/p>\n Because I suddenly understood how much grief could fit inside three words.<\/p>\n Are you alive?<\/p>\n I answered:<\/p>\n Yes. I’m 71.<\/strong><\/p>\n He didn’t respond for almost an hour.<\/p>\n Then:<\/p>\n I have waited 54 years to know the answer to that question.<\/strong><\/p>\n We talked for six hours that night.<\/p>\n He told me everything he remembered.<\/p>\n The dance.<\/p>\n The pregnancy.<\/p>\n The hospital.<\/p>\n The day he was told his daughter had died.<\/p>\n He showed me photographs.<\/p>\n One was of him at seventeen.<\/p>\n Another was of his family standing beside a car in Indiana.<\/p>\n And then he sent me something that made my heart stop.<\/p>\n A photograph of a tiny baby bracelet.<\/p>\n Written across it were three words:<\/p>\n Baby Girl Bennett.<\/strong><\/p>\n My name.<\/p>\n He had kept it for seventy-one years.<\/p>\n We eventually arranged a meeting.<\/p>\n I flew to Indiana with my son.<\/p>\n I was terrified.<\/p>\n What if it felt wrong?<\/p>\n What if I expected too much?<\/p>\n What if he expected a daughter who had somehow been frozen at seventeen?<\/p>\n Instead, when I walked into the restaurant, I saw an elderly man standing near the window.<\/p>\n He was thinner than I’d imagined.<\/p>\n His hair was white.<\/p>\n His shoulders were bent.<\/p>\n But his eyebrows were unmistakable.<\/p>\n My father’s eyebrows.<\/p>\n He saw me.<\/p>\n His face crumpled.<\/p>\n He didn’t say hello.<\/p>\n He simply whispered,<\/p>\n \u201cYou’re real.\u201d<\/p>\n I nodded.<\/p>\n \u201cSo are you.\u201d<\/p>\n He laughed through tears.<\/p>\n Then he asked the question I think he’d been carrying for more than half a century.<\/p>\n \u201cCan I hug you?\u201d<\/p>\n I walked into his arms.<\/p>\n He held me carefully.<\/p>\n Like I might disappear.<\/p>\n We stayed that way for a long time.<\/p>\n Eventually, we sat down.<\/p>\n He told me he’d spent decades wondering what kind of woman I’d become.<\/p>\n \u201cI imagined you a thousand times,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cWere you disappointed?\u201d<\/p>\n He looked offended.<\/p>\n \u201cDisappointed?\u201d<\/p>\n He shook his head.<\/p>\n \u201cI was afraid I’d never get the chance to find out.\u201d<\/p>\n We talked about everything.<\/p>\n His life.<\/p>\n Mine.<\/p>\n My son.<\/p>\n His children.<\/p>\n His grandchildren.<\/p>\n The careers we’d had.<\/p>\n The people we’d loved.<\/p>\n The things we had missed.<\/p>\n Then I asked the hardest question.<\/p>\n \u201cAre you angry at my mother?\u201d<\/p>\n He looked down.<\/p>\n \u201cFor a long time.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd now?\u201d<\/p>\n He thought about it.<\/p>\n \u201cNow I’m mostly sad.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause she was seventeen.\u201d<\/p>\n He looked out the window.<\/p>\n \u201cPeople forget how young seventeen really is.\u201d<\/p>\n That sentence stayed with me.<\/p>\n My mother had made a terrible decision.<\/p>\n But she had made it while still practically a child, surrounded by adults who were terrified of shame.<\/p>\n That didn’t erase what she had done.<\/p>\n But it helped me understand it.<\/p>\n Before we left, Richard gave me a small box.<\/p>\n Inside was a photograph of my mother as a teenager.<\/p>\n She was laughing.<\/p>\n I’d never seen that photograph before.<\/p>\n On the back, Richard had written:<\/p>\n The girl I loved before the world got complicated.<\/strong><\/p>\n I cried all the way back to the hotel.<\/p>\n My son drove.<\/p>\n Neither of us spoke for almost an hour.<\/p>\n Finally he said,<\/p>\n \u201cMom?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoes this change who Grandpa was?\u201d<\/p>\n I looked out the window.<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n And I meant it.<\/p>\n Frank was still my father.<\/p>\n DNA could explain where my eyes came from.<\/p>\n It could explain my widow’s peak.<\/p>\n It could explain why a stranger’s face looked familiar.<\/p>\n But it couldn’t explain the man who stayed up all night when I was sick.<\/p>\n The man who taught me to drive.<\/p>\n The man who paid for my first apartment.<\/p>\n The man who called every Sunday.<\/p>\n The man who cried when I graduated.<\/p>\n The man who held my son.<\/p>\n Frank had chosen me every day of his life.<\/p>\n Richard had lost me before he ever had the chance to know me.<\/p>\n Both truths could exist at once.<\/p>\n Months later, I found the courage to go through my mother’s old belongings.<\/p>\n In the back of an old cedar chest, beneath Christmas decorations and photographs, I found an envelope.<\/p>\n My name was written on it.<\/p>\n Inside was a letter.<\/p>\n It had never been mailed.<\/p>\n My mother wrote:<\/p>\n My darling girl,<\/em><\/p>\n There are things about your beginning that I was never brave enough to tell you.<\/em><\/p>\n I have spent my whole life believing silence could protect you.<\/em><\/p>\n I don’t know if it did.<\/em><\/p>\n I want you to know that your father loved you.<\/em><\/p>\n And the man whose blood you carry loved you too.<\/em><\/p>\n I was too afraid to let you know that both could be true.<\/em><\/p>\n If you ever discover the truth, I hope you will forgive me for confusing protection with honesty.<\/em><\/p>\n At the bottom she had written:<\/p>\n You were never unwanted.<\/em><\/p>\n You were never a mistake.<\/em><\/p>\n You were the best thing that ever happened to me.<\/em><\/p>\n I read the letter three times.<\/p>\n Then I placed it beside Frank’s wedding photograph.<\/p>\n For the first time, the pieces of my life didn’t feel like they were fighting each other.<\/p>\n They were simply different pieces.<\/p>\n A mother who made a terrible choice.<\/p>\n A biological father who lost a daughter before he knew her.<\/p>\n And a father who raised a child who wasn’t biologically his and loved her completely.<\/p>\n I stayed in touch with Richard.<\/p>\n We didn’t pretend seventy-one years could be recovered in a few months.<\/p>\n We couldn’t manufacture a lifetime of memories.<\/p>\n But we built something new.<\/p>\n He became the man I called on birthdays.<\/p>\n I became the daughter he had finally gotten to meet.<\/p>\n And every year on Mother’s Day, my son jokes about the $89 DNA kit.<\/p>\n \u201cI still can’t believe I spent eighty-nine dollars and accidentally found Grandpa.\u201d<\/p>\n I always smile.<\/p>\n Then I look at the old photograph of Richard at seventeen.<\/p>\n And the photograph of Frank holding me as a baby.<\/p>\n Two men.<\/p>\n Two kinds of fatherhood.<\/p>\n One life.<\/p>\n And one truth I never expected to learn at seventy-one:<\/p>\n Sometimes DNA can tell you where you came from.<\/p>\n But it cannot tell you who loved you.<\/p>\n It cannot tell you who stayed.<\/p>\n It cannot tell you who chose you.<\/p>\n And it certainly cannot tell you what makes a family.<\/p>\n Because blood may connect people.<\/p>\n But love is what turns that connection into family.<\/p>\n And after seventy-one years, I finally understood something my mother had been trying to say in that old letter:<\/p>\n I was never the secret.<\/strong><\/p>\n The secret was the fear surrounding my birth.<\/strong><\/p>\n And once the truth finally came out, it didn’t destroy my family.<\/p>\n It simply gave every missing piece a name.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My son gave me the DNA kit on Mother\u2019s Day. It came wrapped in bright green paper with a ridiculous bow on top. \u201cHappy Mother\u2019s Day, Mom,\u201d he said, grinning. … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":89704,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-89703","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-best-best-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/89703","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=89703"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/89703\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":89705,"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/89703\/revisions\/89705"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/89704"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=89703"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=89703"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/discoverstory9.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=89703"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}