My mother\u2019s sentence was not a plea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was an ancient order. The same one that had bent my spine since I was a child. Don\u2019t ask. Don\u2019t look. Don\u2019t embarrass. Don\u2019t exist too much.<\/em> But that night, with agents surrounding the table, with Clara trembling among the white flowers of her engagement dinner, with my father\u2014or the man I had called by that name\u2014shrunken like a cornered animal, I finally understood that my obedience had been the lock on all their secrets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I opened the second page. My hands didn\u2019t tremble. That was what frightened my mother the most. I read slowly. My full name. My date of birth. The hospital. My mother\u2019s signature. And an empty space where the father\u2019s name should have been. Below it, a marginal note I had never seen: \u201cMinor registered under reservation of paternal filiation due to a ministerial investigation related to file T-19\/92.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked up. \u201cWhat is T-19\/92?\u201d My mother clutched her chest. \u201cIn\u00e9s, please.\u201d \u201cWhat is it?\u201d My father closed his eyes. Mr. D\u00e1vila remained motionless. I looked at him. \u201cYou know.\u201d The judge seemed to age in an instant. \u201cThat file\u2026 disappeared many years ago.\u201d \u201cWhat was it about?\u201d No one answered. The FBI agent, a woman with her hair pulled back and a steady gaze, approached the table. \u201cCounselor Salazar, we need to secure the device and transport the involved parties.\u201d \u201cOne moment,\u201d I said, not taking my eyes off my mother. \u201cShe is going to answer.\u201d The agent hesitated, but didn\u2019t interrupt me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother straightened up. Her tears dried instantly. And that was when I saw her. Not the fragile woman who cried when my father screamed. Not the mother who pretended not to notice my forgotten birthdays. I saw someone else. Someone who had hidden behind her own silence for thirty-four years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cT-19\/92 was an investigation into a group of businessmen and officials,\u201d she said at last. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t called Trevia<\/em> back then. It had another name.\u201d \u201cWho was investigating?\u201d My mother pressed her lips together. \u201cYour biological father.\u201d Clara let out a sob. I didn\u2019t. Not because it didn\u2019t hurt, but because the blow was so deep it found no way out. \u201cWhat was his name?\u201d My mother looked down. \u201cTom\u00e1s Arriaga.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The name meant nothing to me. And yet, it shattered something I didn\u2019t know existed. \u201cIs he alive?\u201d My mother didn\u2019t answer. My father\u2014Javier Salazar, the man who had taught me to feel ashamed for breathing\u2014laughed bitterly. \u201cOf course he isn\u2019t alive. If he were alive, your mother wouldn\u2019t have been able to live so peacefully.\u201d She looked at him with hatred. Not fear. Hatred. \u201cShut up, Javier.\u201d It was the first time I had heard her speak to him like that. The entire restaurant seemed to lean toward her. \u201cTom\u00e1s was an auditor,\u201d she said. \u201cIntelligent. Stubborn. He believed the law existed to protect people. Just like you.\u201d The phrase grazed me like a dirty caress. \u201cDon\u2019t compare me to a man you likely had killed.\u201d Her face cracked. \u201cI loved him.\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t use that word,\u201d I said, my voice low but audible to everyone. \u201cDon\u2019t use it while you\u2019re standing at the table where you used your daughters as signatures.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Clara covered her mouth. My mother looked at her. For a second, I thought she would hug her. But she only said, \u201cI did what was necessary.\u201d In that moment, I understood that Clara hadn\u2019t been her favorite daughter, either. She was simply her most expensive investment. I had been the shield. Clara, the trophy case. My father, the facade. And my mother, the hand moving everything from the shadows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. D\u00e1vila spoke in a hoarse voice. \u201cFile T-19\/92 was closed for lack of evidence after Arriaga\u2019s death. It was reported as a robbery.\u201d My mother looked at him. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t reported. You<\/em> reported it.\u201d The judge didn\u2019t answer. Jason turned to his father. \u201cYou, too?\u201d \u201cI was young,\u201d Mr. D\u00e1vila murmured. \u201cA law clerk. I signed what they put in front of me. I understood later.\u201d \u201cLater, it benefited you,\u201d I said. He lowered his head. \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The FBI agent gave the order. The men in suits were handcuffed first. Then my father. As the cuffs were placed on him, Javier didn\u2019t look at me. He looked at Clara. \u201cHoney, I did it for you.\u201d Clara stepped back as if he smelled of smoke. \u201cDon\u2019t you ever say any of this was for me.\u201d My father collapsed more from those words than from the handcuffs. Throughout my life, I had waited for him to break at the thought of losing me. How naive. He could only grieve for what he considered his own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When the agents approached my mother, she extended her hands with a terrifying calm. \u201cYou won\u2019t find anything to convict me.\u201d The agent secured her wrists. \u201cThat will be for a judge to decide.\u201d My mother looked at me. \u201cYou won\u2019t be able to touch the case. You\u2019re recused.\u201d \u201cI know.\u201d \u201cThen you aren\u2019t as powerful as you thought.\u201d I walked up to her. For the first time, I didn\u2019t look up at my mother. We were two women of the same height, but from irreconcilable worlds. \u201cI never wanted to be powerful, Mom. I wanted to be loved.\u201d Her eyes glistened. There.<\/em> That hurt her. Not because she loved me, but because she knew she had lost the only lie I had still wanted to believe. \u201cIn\u00e9s\u2026\u201d \u201cNo.\u201d I stepped back. \u201cThat name no longer belongs in your mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They took her out of the restaurant in the rain. Clara tried to follow, but Jason stopped her. \u201cDon\u2019t go.\u201d She looked at him, destroyed. \u201cI didn\u2019t know.\u201d \u201cNeither did I.\u201d \u201cJason, I didn\u2019t know.\u201d \u201cI believe you,\u201d he said. \u201cBut it doesn\u2019t change who you are when you think no one important is watching.\u201d Clara took that like a slap. She didn\u2019t scream. She didn\u2019t defend herself. She just sat in the chair where minutes before she had flaunted her ring, staring at her hand as if the diamond were a tombstone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Manuel approached me with my graduation robe folded. The black fabric was damp from the rain. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Counsel. I thought I should bring it. I don\u2019t know why.\u201d I took it in my hands. It felt heavier than ever. \u201cThank you.\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s something else,\u201d he said in a low voice. \u201cWhen we backed up the files, an encrypted folder appeared. It was named \u2018Yaretzi.\u2019\u201d I felt my middle name open like a wound. \u201cCould you open it?\u201d \u201cNo. But it came with a note.\u201d He handed me a sheet of paper inside an evidence bag. The handwriting was my mother\u2019s. I recognized it instantly by the way she tilted her \u2018I\u2019. \u201cIf the girl asks, tell her her father didn\u2019t want to stay.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I closed my eyes. My whole life summarized in an instruction. The girl.<\/em> Not her daughter. Not In\u00e9s. The girl.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t sleep that night. I gave my statement until dawn. I handed over the flash drive. I formally recused myself from any matter related to Trevia<\/em>, my family, the D\u00e1vilas, and any branch that could contaminate my work. I signed documents with the same hand I had used to read my incomplete birth certificate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When I left the DA\u2019s office, the sky over the city was gray and clean, as if it, too, had been weeping. Clara was on the sidewalk. No coat. Smudged makeup. She looked fifteen\u2014the age she was when I worked graveyard shifts at a stationery store to pay for a modeling course Mom called an \u201cinvestment.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I thought about walking past. I couldn\u2019t. \u201cYou\u2019re going to get sick.\u201d She let out a broken laugh. \u201cDo you care?\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d It was the most honest thing I could have said to her. Clara hugged herself. \u201cI was horrible to you.\u201d I didn\u2019t answer. Because forgiveness isn\u2019t a door that opens out of courtesy. \u201cI thought you were\u2026 I don\u2019t know. That you were less. Because they taught me to see you that way. And because it was convenient for me.\u201d She looked at me. \u201cThat\u2019s the worst part, isn\u2019t it? That I did<\/em> know. Not about Trevia<\/em>. Not about the signatures. But I knew you were being left alone. And I liked that the house revolved around me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her tears fell without elegance. Without a spectacle. For the first time, Clara was crying without looking for an audience. \u201cWhen you said, \u2018Which daughter, Dad?\u2019, I felt the floor fall out from under me. Because I understood that my whole crown was made of your bones.\u201d It hurt to hear her. It hurt more that I hated her less in that moment. \u201cI don\u2019t know what to do with what you\u2019re telling me.\u201d \u201cYou don\u2019t have to do anything,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI just wanted to say it before I\u2019m called to testify. Before a lawyer teaches me how to sound innocent.\u201d The wind swirled around us. \u201cTell the truth, Clara.\u201d \u201cWhat if it destroys me?\u201d I looked at her. \u201cThe lie destroyed me for thirty-four years. The truth hurts less when it stops hiding.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Clara nodded. Then she took off her ring and left it on a wet bench. \u201cThe wedding is off.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t be. I wasn\u2019t in love with Jason. I was in love with what his last name could do for me.\u201d She wiped her face. \u201cIt\u2019s so ugly, seeing myself clearly.\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cBut it\u2019s the only decent start.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t hug her. She didn\u2019t ask for one, either. We each walked down a different street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the following weeks, the city was filled with headlines. I won\u2019t say it was easy. People believe justice arrives like a storm and cleanses everything. It doesn\u2019t. Justice arrives like dust. It gets into everything\u2014into drawers, into last names, into family photos, into calls no one answers, into Sundays where you discover you have no home to return to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother was indicted. So was my father. Mr. D\u00e1vila took a leave of absence and turned himself in to testify; his career ended before a court even said so. Jason quit his job and handed over emails that helped open further investigations. He never looked for Clara again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Clara testified. Not perfectly. Not heroically. But she testified. She admitted she signed documents without reading them because she trusted my father and because she had been promised that the company was \u201cfor her future.\u201d She wept when they asked her if she knew that someone else\u2019s signature had been used before hers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mine.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I wasn\u2019t at the hearing. I couldn\u2019t be. But Manuel told me that when it was mentioned, Clara just stared at her hands, as if she finally understood that blood, too, can be forged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The \u201cYaretzi\u201d folder took three months to open. Not by the DA, but by a young forensic expert with giant glasses who asked me to sit down before showing me the contents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There were videos. Scanned letters. Bank statements. And a recording. A man\u2019s voice played from an old computer. \u201cIf my daughter ever hears this, I want her to know I didn\u2019t leave.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I covered my mouth. There was no photo. Just the voice\u2014deep, tired, alive in a dead file. \u201cShe is named In\u00e9s Yaretzi because her mother insisted on In\u00e9s and I on Yaretzi. She said it was too Indigenous, too strong. I laughed. That\u2019s exactly why I liked it.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I cried. Not like I had cried as a child, in silence so no one would scold me. I cried with noise. With rage. With thirty-four years of hunger. \u201cI am leaving copies of everything with a trusted person. If something happens to me, don\u2019t look for a robbery. Look for those who are using shell companies to divert contracts. Look for Elena Rivas.\u201d<\/em> My mother. Her maiden name. The voice breathed with difficulty. \u201cElena is scared, but she isn\u2019t innocent. She wants to save herself by handing me over. She told me that if I reported her, I would never see my daughter. I don\u2019t know if I can protect you, Yaretzi. Forgive me for not being more powerful. But I promise you something: the truth knows how to wait.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n The recording ended. I stared at the dark screen. The truth knows how to wait.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n My biological father hadn\u2019t abandoned me. He had been erased. My mother hadn\u2019t hidden me out of shame; she hid me because I was the living proof of a man she had betrayed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That day, I went to the vital records office. I requested the correction of my birth certificate. It wasn\u2019t quick. Nothing important ever is. There were forms, official letters, comparisons, and genetic tests with remains exhumed from a grave that didn\u2019t even have his full name. Tom\u00e1s Arriaga had been buried as a robbery victim. No family. No justice. No daughter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I was the first person to bring him flowers knowing who he was. I knelt before the temporary headstone and placed my hand on the dirt. \u201cHi,\u201d I said, feeling ridiculous and devastated. \u201cI\u2019m Yaretzi.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The wind moved the purple flowers. There was no music. No miracle. Just a small peace. Sometimes, that is all one can reach.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A year later, the Trevia<\/em> case was no longer a family dinner. It was a network. There were businessmen, officials, front men, notaries, offshore accounts, and the dead who suddenly had names again. I didn\u2019t lead the case. I didn\u2019t need to. I learned that doing justice doesn\u2019t always mean holding the gavel. Sometimes it means stepping aside so that no one can taint the verdict.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My mother wanted to see me before her most important hearing. I agreed. Not for her. For me. I found her in a cold room, dressed in beige, no jewelry, no gardenia perfume. She looked older. So did I. \u201cThank you for coming,\u201d she said. I didn\u2019t answer. \u201cThey told me you corrected your certificate.\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d Her eyes grew moist. \u201cThen you aren\u2019t a Salazar anymore.\u201d \u201cLegally, I still use the name for my professional record. But my certificate finally tells the truth.\u201d \u201cArriaga.\u201d I nodded. My mother smiled with a sadness that almost looked human. \u201cHe would have loved you.\u201d Something inside me rose in fury. \u201cDon\u2019t give me crumbs of a love you stole from me.\u201d She looked down. \u201cI was young.\u201d \u201cNo.\u201d I leaned toward her. \u201cYou were ambitious.\u201d Her fingers tightened on the table. \u201cDo you think it\u2019s easy to be born a woman with nothing? Do you think the world opens doors for you just for being a good person? Tom\u00e1s wanted to report them. He wanted to sink them all. He didn\u2019t understand that people like us don\u2019t survive by being righteous.\u201d \u201cHe died being righteous.\u201d \u201cAnd I lived.\u201d \u201cNo, Mom. You just endured.\u201d Her face tightened. \u201cHow easy it is to judge me from your robe.\u201d \u201cI didn\u2019t bring my robe.\u201d I stared at her. \u201cI came as your daughter. The one you used. The one you left crying outside of closed doors. The one who heard a thousand times that she had to understand because Clara was delicate, because Dad was tired, because you were sick, because there was no money, because it wasn\u2019t the right time. I came to tell you that it\u2019s over. I am no longer going to understand you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n For the first time, Elena Rivas had no response. \u201cDo you hate me?\u201d she asked. I thought about my childhood. My broken shoes. Clara blowing out candles on cakes I helped pay for. Javier calling me useless. My mother saying, \u201cDon\u2019t start.\u201d Tom\u00e1s\u2019s voice crossing three decades to tell me he didn\u2019t leave. \u201cNo,\u201d I said at last. \u201cTo still hate you would be to stay with you. And I have already left.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood up. She hit the glass. \u201cIn\u00e9s!\u201d I stopped. \u201cYaretzi,\u201d I corrected her. I didn\u2019t look back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The sentencing came months later. My mother received enough years to grow old in prison. Javier accepted a plea deal and provided names. No one called him brave. Not even Clara.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Clara lost almost everything. The condo that had been bought for her. The friends who only existed when there were expensive dinners. The clean name. She got a job at a foundation that helped victims of asset fraud. At first, I thought it was theater. Maybe it was. But theater repeated with discipline sometimes looks like a decision.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One afternoon, she showed up at my office. She didn\u2019t come past the door. Her hair was pulled back, no makeup, a folder pressed against her chest. \u201cI\u2019m not here to ask for anything,\u201d she said. \u201cThen come in.\u201d She sat down across from me. \u201cThey offered me an interview. To tell my side. The lawyer says it would help my image.\u201d \u201cAnd what do you want?\u201d Clara looked out the window. \u201cFor the first time, I don\u2019t want to improve my image. I want to stop causing damage.\u201d She left the folder on my desk. \u201cThese are documents I found in Mom\u2019s box. There are letters. Some are yours. She never gave them to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I couldn\u2019t touch them at first. Clara stood up. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to forgive me. I don\u2019t think I could forgive myself, either. But I\u2019m going to spend the rest of my life trying not to be like them.\u201d At the door, she stopped. \u201cAnd, In\u00e9s\u2026 Yaretzi\u2026 when we were kids, do you remember how I was afraid to sleep with the lights off?\u201d I nodded. \u201cYou would sit on the floor by my bed until I fell asleep.\u201d I remembered. Of course I remembered. \u201cI used to say it was because you were weird,\u201d she whispered. \u201cBut it was because you were good. Sorry it took me so long to know the difference.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She left. I opened the folder when night fell. There were college acceptance letters. Invitations. Photos. A card made with crayon, likely from when I was seven, where I had drawn four people holding hands: Dad, Mom, Clara, and me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But my mother had also saved a sheet of paper folded in four. It was a letter from Tom\u00e1s. \u201cYaretzi:<\/em> I don\u2019t know if you\u2019ll like books or the rain. I don\u2019t know if you\u2019ll have my nose or your mother\u2019s eyes. I don\u2019t know if I\u2019ll be able to teach you to ride a bike, but I want you to know something: no person is born to earn a place at the table. The place is yours before you even arrive.<\/em> If one day someone makes you feel like you\u2019re too much, don\u2019t believe them. Sometimes small people need to shrink others to fit into their own lies.<\/em> Live big, daughter. Even if it bothers them.<\/em> Dad.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I pressed the letter to my chest. And for the first time, the word \u201cDad\u201d didn\u2019t make me feel ashamed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Years later, I bought a small house with jacarandas in the front. It wasn\u2019t huge. It didn\u2019t have marble. It didn\u2019t have a dining room to impress anyone. But the first time I set the table, I put out four chairs. One for me. One for the friends who became family. One for whoever showed up hungry. And one left empty. Not because of absence, but because of memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n On the wall of my office, I hung my graduation robe. Next to it, I framed Tom\u00e1s\u2019s letter. Not the diplomas. Not the appointments. Not the notes where they called me \u201cimpeccable.\u201d The letter. Because no verdict ever gave me as much as those lines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One May morning, I received an envelope from the penitentiary. It was from my mother. I didn\u2019t open it immediately. I made coffee. I watered the plants. I let the sun come through the window. Then I broke the seal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n There was only one page. \u201cYaretzi:<\/em> I don\u2019t know how to ask for forgiveness. I think I never learned because asking for forgiveness forces you to accept that you could have chosen differently.<\/em> I could have.<\/em> That is the only honest thing I can tell you.<\/em> Your mother.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I read the letter twice. I waited to feel fury. It didn\u2019t come. I waited to feel tenderness. That didn\u2019t come, either. I only felt distance. A clean distance. I folded the page, put it in a box, and went out to the garden. The jacarandas were dropping purple flowers on the ground. Three-petaled. Beautiful. As if life knew how to make carpets even after the fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That afternoon, Clara came to see me. She brought sweet bread and a plant. We were still learning how to talk to each other. Sometimes as sisters. Sometimes as two survivors of the same haunted house. \u201cCan I come in?\u201d she asked. I opened the door. \u201cYes.\u201d She looked at the simply set table. \u201cI always wanted a house like this.\u201d \u201cWithout the screaming?\u201d She smiled sadly. \u201cWithout the theater.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We ate in silence for a while. Then she said: \u201cI went to see Javier today.\u201d I didn\u2019t ask, \u201cDad?\u201d She didn\u2019t call him that, either. \u201cHe\u2019s sick,\u201d she continued. \u201cHe asked for you.\u201d I felt the old pull in my chest. The girl I was still wanted to run when someone said her father was calling. The woman I am stayed seated. \u201cWhat did he want?\u201d \u201cTo say he\u2019s sorry.\u201d I looked at my cup. \u201cHe isn\u2019t sorry. He\u2019s dying and he\u2019s afraid.\u201d Clara nodded. \u201cThat\u2019s what I thought.\u201d The wind moved the branches outside. \u201cAre you going to go?\u201d she asked. I took my time answering. Not because I was wavering, but because I wanted to listen to my inner voice. \u201cNo.\u201d Clara didn\u2019t insist. \u201cI don\u2019t know if I\u2019ll go back, either.\u201d \u201cDo what gives you peace. Not what gives you guilt.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked at me with a small smile. \u201cYou look like him.\u201d \u201cLike whom?\u201d She pointed to the framed letter. \u201cLike Tom\u00e1s. In the eyes.\u201d I remained silent. After so many years of looking like no one, that phrase finally gave me a place in the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That night, when Clara left, I sat in the empty chair. The one of memory. I didn\u2019t cry. I had already cried enough. I thought about the dinner where everything started. The suspended glass. The insult. Mr. D\u00e1vila saying, \u201cYour Honor.\u201d My mother asking me not to read. My father running away. Clara raising her hand. Manuel entering with my robe as if it were a flag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For a long time, I believed my story was that of a daughter who finally proved her worth. I was wrong. I had nothing to prove. My worth had been there before the positions, before the robe, before the applause of others, before a stranger gave me the respect my family denied me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The true victory wasn\u2019t watching them fall. It was no longer needing them to see me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I turned off the dining room light. Before going upstairs to sleep, I ran my hand over the back of the empty chair. \u201cGoodnight, Dad,\u201d I whispered. And for the first time, the house didn\u2019t answer with silence. It answered with peace.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My mother\u2019s sentence was not a plea. It was an ancient order. The same one that had bent my spine since I was a child. Don\u2019t ask. Don\u2019t… <\/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-3594","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3594","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=3594"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3594\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3597,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3594\/revisions\/3597"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3594"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3594"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3594"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}