\u2026two days after Valerie disappeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a promissory note. But it didn\u2019t say Valerie owed me. It said I owed Andrew $45,000.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read my name once. Then again. Madison James Sullivan. My signature below it, crooked, imitated, as if someone had traced my life with malicious intent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt like my veil was squeezing my head. \u201cWhat is this?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Andrew snatched the paper from me. \u201cA forgery. Can\u2019t you see? This woman came to trash our wedding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Valerie didn\u2019t move. \u201cI didn\u2019t forge that signature.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mom crossed herself. My dad was no longer practicing how to give me away. Now he was standing in front of me just like when I was a little girl and a dog barked at me in the street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAndrew,\u201d my dad said, \u201cgive me that paper.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not going to allow this circus.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I held out my hand. \u201cGive it to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Andrew looked at me. For two seconds, I saw a stranger. Not the man who brought flowers to the clinic. Not the one who proposed with a string quartet in Central Park. Not the one who cried when we picked out our wedding rings in the Diamond District.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I saw a cornered man. \u201cMadison, please,\u201d he whispered. \u201cNot here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It scared me. But not the fear of losing him anymore. The fear of having been sleeping next to someone I didn\u2019t know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Valerie took the USB drive out of the envelope and held it up. \u201cEverything is right here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Andrew moved toward her. Daniel, my younger brother, stepped in the middle. He wasn\u2019t very tall, but that day he stood like a brick wall. \u201cDon\u2019t even think about it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The guests had formed a circle. Aunts, cousins, friends from the clinic, neighbors from Brooklyn, everyone with their phones in hand or their mouths hanging open. The live band went completely silent. Even the saxophone looked embarrassed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mom picked my bouquet up off the floor. The gardenias were crushed. \u201cSweetie,\u201d she said softly, \u201copen it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We walked into the hall. Not as a bride. As the accused and the judge at the same time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The coordinator asked if I wanted to go to the bridal suite. I told her no. If Andrew had planned something with an audience, he was going to go down with an audience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They plugged the USB into the screen where, minutes earlier, they were going to project photos of us as kids. A folder popped up. \u201cFor Madison.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There were videos, audio files, bank statements, and text messages. The first was an audio file. Andrew\u2019s voice filled the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cValerie, if you don\u2019t get the money today, I\u2019m sending the photos. And tell Madison whatever you want. That your mom is dying, that you\u2019re getting evicted, I don\u2019t care. She trusts you. Use her.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I felt like my body no longer belonged to me. Valerie closed her eyes. Andrew yelled: \u201cThat\u2019s edited!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But no one looked at him with any trust. The second audio was worse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen you disappear. I\u2019ll handle Madison. It\u2019s going to look like she asked me for the money to give to you. Her signature is enough. I already know how to copy it.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I brought my hand to my chest. My dad muttered a curse word. My mom, who always said you never yell or ugly-cry at a wedding, blurted out: \u201cSon of a\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She didn\u2019t finish because Valerie played another file. A video.<\/p>\n\n\n\n It showed Andrew in a coffee shop on the Upper West Side, sitting across from Valerie. The date was stamped in the corner. Three days before she asked me for the money. He slid some papers toward her. She was crying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then a photo appeared on the screen. Valerie with bruises on her arm. The hall filled with murmurs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew shook his head. \u201cShe and I had a thing before, yes. But this is made up. Madison, I swear to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBefore?\u201d I asked. My voice came out weird. Bloodless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie looked at me. \u201cI met him before you met him. I didn\u2019t know it was your Andrew when you started talking to me about him. When I saw him with you, I wanted to walk away, but he threatened me.\u201d \u201cWith what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie swallowed hard. \u201cWith photos. With debts. With telling you that I had stolen everything from you. And then I actually did it. But not because I wanted to. Because I was scared.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at her. There was my best friend. The little girl I used to eat soft pretzels with outside of elementary school. The one who had sleepovers at my house and called my mom \u2018Mom\u2019. The one who disappeared with my life savings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I wanted to hate her cleanly. I couldn\u2019t. Because in her eyes there was guilt, but also ancient terror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me?\u201d I asked. She cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBecause when I wanted to come back, he was already with you. And then I saw that you loved him. I thought that if I spoke up, you wouldn\u2019t believe me. Then I felt ashamed. Then scared. And then it became too late.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew let out a fake laugh. \u201cHow convenient. Three years living like a queen and now you come here playing the martyr.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie turned to him. \u201cThat car isn\u2019t mine.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The doors to the hall opened. Two men and a woman in suits walked in. Behind them came an older gentleman I recognized immediately, even though I had never seen him in person: Mr. Ernest Vance, the owner of the dental clinic where I worked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThat car is mine,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd Valerie came with me because today an investigation is closing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew turned truly pale. Not like before. This time even his pride drained away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Vance walked slowly toward me. He was a serious man, the kind who smelled of expensive cologne and black coffee. \u201cMadison, I am so sorry to do this on this day. But if we hadn\u2019t come, you were going to marry the man who used your signature to try and embezzle money from the clinic.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n People started talking all at once. Not me. I had no voice left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The woman in the suit introduced herself as an attorney. She asked for permission to continue. My dad said yes before I could, his eyes glued to Andrew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThree years ago,\u201d she explained, \u201cMr. Andrew Sullivan worked as an external IT vendor for the clinic. He used fake documents and copied signatures to justify irregular transactions. One of those documents bore your name, Madison. The wire transfer you made to Valerie served as a smokescreen to cover an initial shortfall.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMy money?\u201d I whispered. Valerie replied: \u201cIt went into an account that Andrew controlled.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The entire hall crashed down on me. The three-tier cake was still intact in the back, with fresh flowers and the little bride and groom cake toppers. The tables had gold candles. The box for cash gifts sat there empty. In a corner, the wedding rings shined in a little velvet box. All of it disgusted me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou proposed to me with my own stolen money,\u201d I told him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew clenched his jaw. \u201cI love you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That sentence was worse than a slap. \u201cDon\u2019t say that.\u201d \u201cMadison, I made mistakes, but what we have is real.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie let out a broken laugh. \u201cYou told me that too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mom turned to her. \u201cYou aren\u2019t innocent either.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie lowered her head. \u201cNo. I\u2019m not.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That surprised me more than her tears. She didn\u2019t defend herself. She didn\u2019t sugarcoat it. She just stood there, in front of everyone, taking the hit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFor three years I worked to pay back what I could,\u201d she said. \u201cI didn\u2019t disappear because I got rich. I hid because he had me trapped. Then I found help. Mr. Vance believed me when I brought him the first audio recordings. That car brought me here because today we were going to hand everything over to Madison before she signed the marriage license.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The attorney opened another folder. \u201cThere is also a certified check for $45,000, plus a proposal for additional restitution. It doesn\u2019t erase what happened, but Valerie insisted on bringing it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She handed me another envelope. This one did feel like money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mom started crying. \u201cSweetie, let\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew looked at the envelope and his face changed. He was no longer a wounded groom. He was a calculating man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMadison, be careful. If you accept that, you are accepting that she robbed you. I can sue you for defamation if you keep up this show.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My dad stepped forward. I had never seen my dad with that look on his face. He, who sold auto parts in Queens and always said that problems should be talked out over coffee, looked ready to break a table that day. \u201cYou do not threaten my daughter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew smiled. \u201cSir, with all due respect, you don\u2019t understand the law.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The attorney raised her hand. \u201cI do.\u201d And the woman in the suit pulled out a copy of a criminal complaint.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew took a half step back. \u201cThis is a wedding,\u201d he said, looking around. \u201cAre you really going to turn it into a courtroom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at him, still wearing my dress. The dress I paid for by baking carrot cakes at dawn, selling homemade desserts, saving tips from patients who told me \u201ckeep the change, miss.\u201d That dress wasn\u2019t a wedding gown anymore. It was armor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou turned my life into a case file,\u201d I told him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew stepped closer to me. He lowered his voice. \u201cThink about what you\u2019re doing. There are people recording out there. You\u2019re not going to find another man who will put up with you after this embarrassment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Right then, I understood. Not because he confessed. But because I recognized it. That sentence was the exact same cage that many women in my family had inherited: endure it, stay quiet, don\u2019t make a scene, better to be married than singled out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took off the ring. It was hard because my fingers were trembling. I placed it in his palm. \u201cI\u2019d rather be singled out for canceling a wedding than for marrying a thief.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The silence was broken by a sob. Not mine. His mother\u2019s. Mrs. Alice, who until then had been sitting like a statue, stood up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAndrew, tell me it isn\u2019t true.\u201d He didn\u2019t look at her. \u201cMom, stay out of this.\u201d \u201cTell me you didn\u2019t forge this girl\u2019s signature.\u201d \u201cI said stay out of it!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The answer was confession enough. Mrs. Alice brought her hands to her mouth. The live band, not knowing what to do with the musical dignity of a tragedy, started packing up their instruments. One of the violinists muttered, \u201cLord help us all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n And then Valerie did something I didn\u2019t expect. She got on her knees. In front of me. In the middle of the hall. In her black dress, her red heels, and all the shame in the world on her shoulders.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMadison, I\u2019m not here for you to forgive me today. I don\u2019t deserve it. I robbed you, even if I was forced to. I left you alone to carry a humiliation that was mine. I let people call you a fool. I let you sell your little car. I let you move back in with your parents. If you want to hate me for the rest of your life, that\u2019s fine. But I couldn\u2019t let you marry him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked down at her. I wanted to remember a reason to hug her. I only found wounds. \u201cGet up,\u201d I told her. She obeyed. \u201cI don\u2019t forgive you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie closed her eyes. \u201cI know.\u201d \u201cBut thank you for getting here before I signed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She opened her eyes. That was the only wedding gift I accepted that day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The police arrived fifteen minutes later. I don\u2019t know who called. Maybe the attorney. Maybe Mr. Vance. Maybe an aunt who always claimed she minded her own business but had 911 on speed dial faster than her prayer group.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew tried to sneak out through the kitchen. They stopped him right by the dessert table. A tray of macarons crashed to the floor. My cousin muttered: \u201cWe didn\u2019t even get to taste them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I almost laughed. Almost.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As they took him away, Andrew was still screaming my name. \u201cMadison! You\u2019re going to regret this! Nobody is going to love you like I do!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mom stood in front of me. \u201cI sure hope so,\u201d she said. \u201cI hope nobody ever loves you like that again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The guests started leaving slowly, clutching their wedding favors with funeral faces. Some aunts hugged me a little too hard. Others didn\u2019t know what to say. A neighbor pressed a fifty-dollar bill into my hand. \u201cFor the cab, honey.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That gesture broke me more than anything. Because it was so typical of our people: not knowing how to fix the disaster, but giving you money for the cab, for some food, so you don\u2019t leave empty-handed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My dad asked them not to throw away the food. \u201cIt\u2019s already paid for,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd nobody here is going to starve because of that bastard.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n So we ate. Not like a wedding. Like the wake of a lie. There was roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans, salad, and cake. The band, out of shame or compassion, played a soft ballad at a low volume and then left without charging for the full hour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took off my veil. I sat at a table with my mom on one side and Valerie on the other, though I didn\u2019t speak to her. Outside, the Brooklyn night was still alive: cars rushing down Flatbush Avenue, hot dog vendors, dogs barking, people walking out of the subway station as if nothing had happened. The city doesn\u2019t stop when a life shatters. It just leaves a little spot on the sidewalk for you to sit and cry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t cry there. I cried when I got home. I locked myself in my room, still in my dress, and collapsed on the floor. My mom sat outside the door. She didn\u2019t knock. She just said: \u201cI\u2019m right here.\u201d That was enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The next day I woke up with dried makeup, without a husband, and with $45,000 recovered inside a folder. Also with a strange sense of shame. Not for canceling. But for having come so close to not doing it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The following days were full of red tape. The District Attorney\u2019s office. Statements. Copies. Signatures. Burnt coffee in styrofoam cups. Hallways where every woman seemed to be carrying a similar story with a different name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Vance\u2019s attorney accompanied us. My dad did too. Valerie went every time she was called in. She didn\u2019t hide anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n We discovered that Andrew had used two other women for similar schemes. A former coworker. A distant cousin. All with copied signatures, fake stories, and debts popping up like mushrooms after the rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Being late is what saved me. Or rather, Valerie getting there on time. That made me angry. Because I wanted to hate her without any gray areas. But the truth rarely arrives clean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A month later, Valerie asked me to meet her at a coffee shop in Brooklyn, near a median with trees and old brownstones, the kind that still have original tile in the entryway. It was the same area where I lived when I lent her the money. The same place where I believed friendship was a tab you never had to collect on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I arrived late on purpose. She was already there. No sunglasses. No heels. No three-hundred-thousand-dollar car. With a simple folder and two black coffees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI didn\u2019t know if you were going to come,\u201d she said. \u201cNeither did I.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She pushed the folder toward me. \u201cHere are the receipts for what I paid. You already cashed the check, but this is missing. It\u2019s interest. A bank didn\u2019t calculate it. I calculated it thinking about what you lost.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I opened the folder. There were scheduled deposits. A letter. And a copy of the deed to a small commercial space in her name, put up as collateral.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhere did you get this?\u201d \u201cI worked. I did well later on. Not in clean stuff at first, I admit. Later on, yes. I sold insurance, real estate, whatever I could. I wanted to pay you back sooner, but Andrew kept finding me. When Mr. Vance helped me, I was finally able to move.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at her. \u201cYou left me alone for three years.\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d \u201cEveryone made fun of me.\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d \u201cI would have helped you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie started to cry. \u201cThat was what scared me the most.\u201d I didn\u2019t understand. \u201cKnowing that you would<\/em> have helped me,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd that I still betrayed you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stared at the coffee. It smelled like brown sugar and cinnamon. Like old mornings. Like things that don\u2019t come back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI can\u2019t be your friend right now,\u201d I told her. She nodded. \u201cI know.\u201d \u201cMaybe never.\u201d \u201cI know that too.\u201d \u201cBut I am going to accept your payment.\u201d \u201cYou should.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at her for the first time without total rage. \u201cAnd you\u2019re going to testify until the very end.\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d \u201cEven if Andrew drags you down with him.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ve already been dragged down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That sentence hung between us. I didn\u2019t hug her. But I didn\u2019t leave immediately, either. It was the closest thing to a truce.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A year passed. Andrew faced trial. It wasn\u2019t fast. Nothing is when you want justice. There were canceled hearings, injunctions, expensive lawyers, settlement attempts, messages from his mother begging for mercy. I learned not to answer when guilt came disguised as compassion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie testified. Mr. Vance did too. Me too. When it was my turn to speak, I didn\u2019t cry. I stated my name, my job, the amount, the date, the lie, the forged signature, and the wedding dress that never made it to the altar. I said it all with a clear voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Andrew didn\u2019t look at me. Good. I no longer needed him to see me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n With the recovered money, I opened a tiny bakery in Brooklyn. I painted it a soft yellow, with display cases full of cinnamon rolls, cheesecakes, lemon pies, layer cakes, and fruit tarts just like the ones I sold to save up for the wedding. I named it \u201cMadi\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mom cried when she saw the sign. \u201cI thought you didn\u2019t want that nickname.\u201d \u201cI reclaimed it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n On opening day, my dad arrived with flowers. Mr. Vance sent an espresso machine. My aunts showed up hungry and full of unsolicited advice. The cousin who gave me fifty bucks for the cab taped the first dollar bill to the wall, \u201cso you\u2019ll never be lacking.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie arrived at the very end. She stayed outside. She didn\u2019t dare come in. I saw her through the glass. I took a deep breath. I walked out with a small pastry box. \u201cCarrot cake,\u201d I told her. \u201cIt was your favorite.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She took the box carefully, as if it could break. \u201cThank you.\u201d \u201cIt doesn\u2019t mean everything is okay now.\u201d \u201cI know.\u201d \u201cBut it means I don\u2019t want to carry hatred around every single day.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie cried. This time, it didn\u2019t bother me. Some wounds never turn back into friendship. But they can stop bleeding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Two years after that wedding that never was, I put on another dress. Not white. Blue. Not to get married. To go to a final hearing where Andrew accepted a plea deal on some of the charges and was ordered to pay restitution to several victims. It wasn\u2019t the perfect justice you see in the movies. There was no applause. He didn\u2019t collapse begging for forgiveness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But he walked out in handcuffs. And I just walked out. That was enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On my way out, I walked through Prospect Park. There were kids running around, couples eating fries, older men walking their dogs. I bought a hot pretzel from a cart and sat on a bench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Valerie arrived a few minutes later. I had asked her to meet me. She was surprised. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d I handed her a napkin because she was crying. \u201cSomething closed today,\u201d I said. She nodded. \u201cFor me too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at her. \u201cI don\u2019t know if we can ever be friends again.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not going to ask you to be.\u201d \u201cBut I do want to tell you something.\u201d Valerie waited. \u201cThank you for coming to my wedding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her face crumbled. \u201cI\u2019m so sorry for everything that happened before.\u201d \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t say \u201cI forgive you.\u201d Not yet. Maybe someday. Maybe not. But that afternoon we shared a pretzel in silence, like two survivors sitting in a massive city that doesn\u2019t know how to sit still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sometimes people think the happy ending is walking into the reception hall, dancing the waltz, and tossing the bouquet. Mine was different. It was not getting married. It was seeing my dad put the wedding rings away to sell them later. It was my mom ironing my bakery apron as if it were an evening gown. It was getting my money, my name, and my signature back. It was rolling up a metal storefront gate every morning and smelling fresh-baked bread in a neighborhood where I once lost everything. It was learning that not everyone who comes back deserves to be let in, but sometimes they bring the key to let you out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The wedding dress is still put away. I didn\u2019t sell it. I don\u2019t look at it with sadness, either. I kept it in a box at the top of my closet, next to the ivory envelope, the old photo, and the copy of my forged signature. Not to torture myself. To remember.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The day Valerie stepped out of a three-hundred-thousand-dollar car, I thought she was there to humiliate me. But she was there to break the cage. She arrived late. She arrived in the worst way. She arrived carrying guilt. But she arrived before the \u201cI do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n And thanks to that, when years later someone asked me why my bakery was called Madi\u2019s, I smiled from behind the counter, with flour on my hands and my head held high. \u201cBecause there was a time when that name hurt me,\u201d I\u2019d say. \u201cAnd now it puts food on my table.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u2026two days after Valerie disappeared. It was a promissory note. But it didn\u2019t say Valerie owed me. It said I owed Andrew $45,000. I read my name… <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3491","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3491","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3491"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3491\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3494,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3491\/revisions\/3494"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3491"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3491"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3491"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}