\u201cLuis, if you ever read this, forgive me for not telling you that Raymond didn\u2019t take you in out of pity, but because you are his son too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read that first line inside the car, my hands shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Outside, Mr. Raymond was sitting on the small bench of the chapel, weeping with his old baseball cap clutched in his hands. The Savannah humidity made his shirt stick to his body. Trucks, vendors, and people carrying grocery bags passed by, and nobody knew that the most dignified man I knew had just asked for help and received a stab in the back from me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019m not going to give you a single cent.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I hated myself for saying it. But I didn\u2019t move.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Because if I went down at that moment, if I ran toward him and shouted \u201cDad\u201d in front of the chapel, it would only break him more. He didn\u2019t need me to beg for his forgiveness with expensive tears. He needed me, for once, to do what he had always done for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n To resolve without humiliating.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I kept reading. The letter was from my mother. It was written in that slanted handwriting I remembered from the notes she used to leave in my lunchbox.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cRaymond was your father before you were even born. He loved me when I didn\u2019t know how to let myself be loved. Your grandfather told me that with him, you would only know hunger. I was afraid, Luis. I was wrong. I let another man give you his last name, but not his heart. When I fell ill, I asked Raymond to take care of you. He didn\u2019t hesitate. He never hesitated.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My vision blurred. My biological father hadn\u2019t disappeared. He wasn\u2019t a faceless ghost. He was the man who used to tie my shoelaces. The one who made me soup when I had a fever. The one who sold his blood plasma and said, \u201cIt\u2019s nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It was Mr. Raymond. My dad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I closed my eyes and saw him years ago, standing outside the university campus, wearing his best-ironed shirt, looking at the main library as if its grand murals were a gateway to heaven. When I graduated, he didn\u2019t applaud at first. He just stood there with his hands clasped, stiff, serious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then he hugged me so hard my ribs ached. \u201cNow,\u201d he told me. \u201cNow, son, nobody is ever going to step on you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n And I hadn\u2019t known that the first one to step on him would be me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I tucked the letter away and got out of the car. Mr. Raymond wiped his face quickly when he saw me, as if crying were a lack of manners. \u201cSon, don\u2019t worry,\u201d he said before I could speak. \u201cI\u2019ve thought it through. I\u2019m going to see if the doctor can give me more time. Maybe it\u2019s not that urgent after all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I stood right in front of him. \u201cStand up, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He smiled sadly. \u201cDon\u2019t call me that right now. You\u2019re going to make me cry again.\u201d \u201cStand up, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n This time, he heard something different. His eyes widened slightly. \u201cDid you read the letter?\u201d I nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The chapel smelled of wax, wilted flowers, and salt from the nearby coast. In the distance, you could hear a food truck, an old motorcycle, life moving on as if my entire origin hadn\u2019t just been handed back to me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond looked down. \u201cYour mom didn\u2019t want to confuse you.\u201d \u201cThe lie confused me more.\u201d \u201cShe was afraid.\u201d \u201cAnd you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He went silent. Then he said: \u201cI was hungry for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That phrase shattered me. I sat next to him on the bench, just like when I was a kid, waiting for him outside the market while he finished unloading crates. \u201cDid you know I was yours?\u201d \u201cFrom the moment I saw you.\u201d \u201cWhy did you never tell me?\u201d \u201cBecause your mom asked one thing of me before she passed: \u2018Raymond, watch over him, but don\u2019t charge him for the truth.\u2019 I didn\u2019t want you to think you owed me affection because of blood. I wanted you to love me just because.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I covered my face. \u201cI already loved you.\u201d \u201cI know.\u201d \u201cBut I could have loved you with your proper name.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond shrugged his shoulders. \u201cSometimes life gives us what is right, just late.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I pulled out the envelope. He looked at it with fear. \u201cWhat is that?\u201d \u201cWhat I came to give you without giving you cash.\u201d \u201cLuis\u2026\u201d \u201cYou asked me for twenty thousand dollars. I told you I wasn\u2019t going to give you a single cent.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He swallowed hard. \u201cDon\u2019t go on.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not going to give you a single cent because the surgery is already paid for.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He sat completely still. \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s been paid for three months now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looked at me as if he didn\u2019t understand the language. \u201cWhat do you mean, paid for?\u201d \u201cMrs. Charlotte called me from back home. She told me you were doing badly and didn\u2019t want to tell me. I traveled down to Savannah without telling you. I spoke with the doctor. I paid for the tests, the surgery, the hospital stay, the recovery, and the medications.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond opened his mouth. Nothing came out. \u201cI also bought a house.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He shook his head before even listening. \u201cNo.\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d \u201cNo, son. Not that.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s under your name.\u201d \u201cLuis, no.\u201d \u201cRaymond Reynolds,\u201d I said, using his full name. \u201cFor once in your life, let someone take care of you without apologizing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n His chin trembled. \u201cI am not a burden.\u201d \u201cI was one. And you never let me go.\u201d \u201cYou were a child.\u201d \u201cYou are my father.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The word came out clean. No longer out of habit. As a truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond doubled over and began to weep without hiding it. I wrapped my arms around him. I felt his bones, his thin back, his worn shirt. He had carried so much weight for so long that now he felt completely weightless. \u201cForgive me,\u201d he whispered. \u201cForgive me for not telling you.\u201d \u201cNot right now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He pulled back, startled. \u201cNo?\u201d \u201cFirst, you get the surgery. Then, you learn how to rest. Then, you tell me everything. After that, we\u2019ll see if I forgive you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He laughed through his tears. \u201cYou turned out bossy.\u201d \u201cTakes after my dad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I got him into the car. We drove down toward the coast. The sky was gray and bright, the way the ocean looks when it threatens rain without making up its mind. We passed streets smelling of fried seafood, coffee, and fresh pastries. Mr. Raymond looked out the window in silence, the envelope on his lap and his cap clutched against his chest. \u201cDoes your wife know?\u201d he asked. \u201cAbout the house, yes. About the letter, no.\u201d \u201cAnd what did she say when you denied me the money?\u201d \u201cShe asked how I could do that to you.\u201d \u201cShe\u2019s right.\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d \u201cThen she\u2019s a good woman.\u201d \u201cShe\u2019s right about that too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We arrived at a small house with a white facade and a blue door. It wasn\u2019t a mansion. It was something better: a home where a man could grow old without being afraid of the roof falling in on him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At the entrance, there was a simple plaque. Raymond Reynolds.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond touched it with the tips of his fingers. \u201cThat\u2019s me.\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d \u201cOn a door.\u201d \u201cYour door.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We went inside. The house smelled of fresh paint and the ocean breeze. There was a clean kitchen, a stocked refrigerator, a dry bathroom, a firm bed, a rocking chair by the window, and a yard with a small lemon tree.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond walked slowly, as if he were afraid of tracking dirt onto the floor. \u201cI can\u2019t accept this.\u201d \u201cYou already did.\u201d \u201cI didn\u2019t sign anything.\u201d \u201cYou signed when you sold your blood for me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looked at me with pain. \u201cDon\u2019t use that against me.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not using it against you. I\u2019m using it against my own pride.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n In the bedroom, there was a framed photograph. My graduation. Me in a cap and gown. Him in a borrowed shirt, standing in front of the university quad, his eyes red from holding back tears. The campus gleamed behind us, immense, built of stone, books, historic buildings, and dreams that had cost blood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond picked up the frame. \u201cI thought you lost this photo.\u201d \u201cNever.\u201d \u201cThat day I spent my breakfast money getting your shoes shined.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat on the edge of the bed. \u201cWhy did you never tell me those things?\u201d \u201cBecause if you recount everything you sacrificed, it feels like you\u2019re collecting a debt.\u201d \u201cMaybe you should have collected a little bit from me.\u201d \u201cNo. You needed to study free, not indebted by love.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That sentence pierced right through me. Because I had lived indebted anyway. Only without knowing the real name of the debt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The surgery was three days later. At the hospital, Mr. Raymond tried to negotiate with the nurse. \u201cWhat if you just give me some medicine instead?\u201d The nurse, a local woman with the personality of a coastal storm, adjusted his hospital gown. \u201cMr. Raymond, you are going in whether you like it or not.\u201d \u201cBut look, I don\u2019t want to be a bother.\u201d \u201cThe only one who bothers is the one who dies out of stubbornness.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n My wife laughed. Mr. Raymond looked at her with respect. \u201cYou chose well, son.\u201d \u201cShe\u2019s still mad at me.\u201d \u201cWith good reason.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Before entering the operating room, he took my hand. \u201cIf I don\u2019t make it out\u2026\u201d \u201cYou are going to make it out.\u201d \u201cLet me speak.\u201d I clenched my jaw. \u201cIf I don\u2019t make it out, don\u2019t carry any guilt. I\u2019ve already lived long enough to see you turn into a man.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I leaned down toward him. \u201cNo. You lived to see me turn into a son. And you still need to see me turn into a good son.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He smiled weakly. \u201cYou already were one. You were just acting expensive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The operation lasted for hours. I walked the corridors until my legs ached. My wife brought me coffee. I didn\u2019t drink it; the cup went cold in my hands. I thought about the tiny rented room near the river. About the clean uniform. About the nights when the winter winds howled, and Mr. Raymond would put cardboard over the window cracks to keep the cold out. About the times he would tell me: \u201cYou go to sleep. I\u2019ll finish up.\u201d And he wouldn\u2019t sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When the doctor finally walked out, I stood up instantly. \u201cIt went well,\u201d he said. \u201cNow comes the recovery.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat right down on the floor. I didn\u2019t care about my suit. I didn\u2019t care about the people around us. My father was still alive. That was all the luxury in the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond woke up the next day. The very first thing he asked was: \u201cHow much do I owe?\u201d My wife started to cry. I took his hand. \u201cNothing. But there is interest.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He looked frightened. \u201cWhat interest?\u201d \u201cThree months in your new house. A nurse. Proper meals. Walks when the doctor clears it. And every single story you stole from me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He closed his eyes. \u201cThat last one is going to hurt.\u201d \u201cI know.\u201d \u201cYou too.\u201d \u201cMe too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The recovery was slow. Mr. Raymond fought with the cane, with the pills, with the nurse, with the reclining chair, and with the whole idea of someone bringing him food. \u201cI can heat up my own soup.\u201d \u201cYou can. But not today.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not invalid.\u201d \u201cI didn\u2019t say that.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re treating me like an old man.\u201d \u201cYou are seventy-two.\u201d \u201cBut not that<\/em> kind of seventy-two.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The backyard became our place. In the afternoons, when the heat died down, we would sit next to the lemon tree. You could hear cars, seagulls, some distant music, the echo of the ocean behind the houses. Sometimes a street vendor would pass by and Mr. Raymond wanted to buy something from them \u201cjust to help out.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re in recovery,\u201d I would tell him. \u201cGenerosity doesn\u2019t require medical clearance.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He told me about my mom. Not as the sad saint I kept in my memories, but as a woman. He told me that she loved to dance even if she couldn\u2019t keep the rhythm properly, that she loved warm pastries, and that she got furious if anyone called her \u201cpoor thing.\u201d He told me that she once stood him up because he showed up late with his hands covered in grease from fixing a bike. \u201cAnd what did you do?\u201d \u201cI washed up better.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He also told me about the man who gave me my last name. He didn\u2019t insult him. That surprised me. \u201cDidn\u2019t you hate him?\u201d Mr. Raymond looked at the lemon tree. \u201cYes. But hatred takes up too much time. And I had to walk you to school.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That man was larger than any high-rise in Manhattan. More dignified than all of my bosses. Wealthier than my salary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A month after the surgery, I took him down to the boardwalk. He walked slowly, with his cane and his new cap. He stopped in front of the water and breathed in as if the air were giving something back to him. \u201cI thought I was going to die in that rented room,\u201d he said. \u201cNo.\u201d \u201cI thought I was going to be fixing bikes until my legs gave out.\u201d \u201cNo.\u201d \u201cI thought you were never going to know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked at him. \u201cThat part almost happened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He lowered his head. \u201cForgive me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t answer right away. The waves crashed against the stone retaining wall below. Some kids ran past carrying ice creams. Someone was strumming a guitar in the distance, or maybe my memory just wanted to add music. \u201cI forgive you,\u201d I said finally. \u201cBut not because it was right. I forgive you because I don\u2019t want to waste any more years punishing the one who stayed the most.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond wiped his eyes with his sleeve. \u201cYour mom deserves forgiveness too.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m still learning.\u201d \u201cShe did wrong out of fear.\u201d \u201cI know.\u201d \u201cAnd I did wrong out of love.\u201d \u201cThat too.\u201d \u201cLove makes mistakes too, son.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I looked out at the ocean. \u201cBut it stays.\u201d He nodded. \u201cThat, it does.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then came the paperwork. I wanted to legally recognize him as my father. Mr. Raymond refused at first. \u201cWhat for, at this point?\u201d \u201cSo the paperwork stops lying.\u201d \u201cPapers don\u2019t hug you.\u201d \u201cBut they hurt when they erase you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n It wasn\u2019t easy. There were lawyers, old certificates, witnesses, my mom\u2019s letter, and more runarounds than patience usually allows. Even the truth requires certified copies, official seals, and waiting in lines under old ceiling fans.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But one day we walked out of the government records office with an updated certificate. Luis Reynolds.<\/strong> Son of Raymond Reynolds.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond read the document outside, standing under the sun. Then he sat right down on the curb. \u201cAre you okay?\u201d I asked. \u201cYes. I\u2019m just waiting for my heart to understand.\u201d His hands were shaking. \u201cI actually show up now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sat down next to him. \u201cYou always showed up.\u201d \u201cNot like this.\u201d I didn\u2019t argue. He was right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The following month I took him to my corporate office in Manhattan. We went up to the thirty-fourth floor. Mr. Raymond walked in wearing a crisp linen shirt, new shoes, and the quiet gravity of an important guest. My colleagues greeted him. He looked at the massive windows, the screens, the boardrooms, the city laid out below like an expensive model. \u201cThis is where you work?\u201d \u201cYes.\u201d \u201cLooks like a hospital for rich people.\u201d I laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n In our team meeting, my director asked me to introduce him. I stood up. \u201cThis is Raymond Reynolds. My father. If I am standing here today, it is because this man sold his own blood plasma so I could study.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The room fell entirely silent. Mr. Raymond looked at me, embarrassed. \u201cYou didn\u2019t have to say that.\u201d \u201cYes, I did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n One of my colleagues started to applaud. Then another. Mr. Raymond took off his cap by pure reflex and smiled like a scolded kid.<\/p>\n\n\n\n That day we ate at an expensive restaurant. He didn\u2019t care for it. \u201cVery nice, but the portions look tragic.\u201d \u201cWhat do you want to eat?\u201d \u201cA real drip coffee and some local pastries.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n That\u2019s how we ended up back near the coast two days later, sitting at a classic diner table, him tapping his spoon against his coffee mug to signal the waitress for a hot refill. \u201cNow this is living,\u201d he said. He was right.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He lived for four more years. Four years in a white house with a blue door. Four years of lemons growing in the yard. Four years of phone calls where he asked me if I had eaten yet, even though I was making ten thousand dollars a month and could buy everything except that exact worry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My wife adored him. He called her \u201cthe boss\u201d because he said only a woman with real character could straighten out a son like me. At Christmas, he would fill the coastal house with exaggerated, bright lights and sit in the rocking chair to watch them as if they were fireworks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sometimes he got tired. Sometimes his body reminded him that time doesn\u2019t entirely forgive. But he wasn\u2019t alone anymore. He wasn\u2019t in a damp room near the river. He wasn\u2019t hiding the pain so I wouldn\u2019t worry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n During his last year, he asked me to take him back to the university campus. \u201cI want to say goodbye to the place that made it all worthwhile,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I took him. We walked slowly through the quad. He stopped in front of the grand library, looking at the stone architecture just like the first time. There were students with backpacks, vendors, couples sitting under the trees\u2014young life moving all around his old body. \u201cThis was where I knew my blood hadn\u2019t gone to waste,\u201d he murmured. \u201cDon\u2019t say that.\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d \u201cAs if only your blood mattered. Your time mattered too. Your hunger. Your love.\u201d He looked at me. \u201cYou can\u2019t measure those things.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s why they weigh more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n We took another photo. Him with his cane. Me with new gray hairs. The exact same place. A different life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He passed away in his home, on a mild, quiet morning, with the window open and the sound of the ocean coming in softly. I was right by his side. My wife was too. On the nightstand sat his old cap, my graduation photo, the updated birth certificate, and an empty coffee mug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He opened his eyes. \u201cLuis.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m right here, Dad.\u201d He smiled just a little. \u201cYou didn\u2019t give me a single cent.\u201d I wept and laughed at the exact same time. \u201cNot a single one.\u201d \u201cGood boy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He went peacefully. Like someone who finally rests without owing a thing to anyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I buried him near my mother. Not because their story was perfect, but because they deserved to be close after so many silences. On the headstone, I had them engrave: \u201cRaymond Reynolds. Father by blood, by choice, and by sacrifice.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n Today I\u2019m still working in tech. Sometimes I make more, sometimes less. It doesn\u2019t matter as much anymore. Every month, I set aside a portion of my salary for students from the coast who can\u2019t afford courses, transit, registration fees, or textbooks. I didn\u2019t put my name on it. I put his.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Raymond Reynolds Scholarship.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n The first rule is simple: no young person should ever have to watch their father sell blood just to be able to study.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Sometimes I go back to the house. The lemon tree gives plenty of shade now. The rocking chair still sits by the window. In the kitchen, I keep the heavy mug where he used to drink his coffee and tap his spoon against the glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I sit there with my mother\u2019s letter. I don\u2019t read it with rage anymore. I read it the way you read human things: twisted, cowardly, loving, incomplete.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Mr. Raymond came to ask me for twenty thousand dollars and I told him I wouldn\u2019t give him a single cent. If someone only hears that phrase, they might call me ungrateful. Cruel. A monster. And maybe for a few minutes I was, because I watched his eyes dim and I didn\u2019t stop him at the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But I followed him. I found him weeping outside a quiet chapel. And that day I understood that some debts aren\u2019t paid by putting money into a trembling hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n They are paid by arriving early. By signing the papers without bragging. By caring for someone without humilliating them. By giving them a home, a last name, your time, and the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n My father sold his blood for me. I could never give it back to him. But I could do something better: ensure his last years weren\u2019t spent fixing old bikes just to survive, but watching the ocean from his very own window.<\/p>\n\n\n\n With his name on the door. With his son sitting right beside him. And with the absolute certainty, finally, that he was never a substitute. He was never a favor. He was never a stepfather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He was my father. From day one. Even if the paperwork took an entire lifetime to catch up to him.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" \u201cLuis, if you ever read this, forgive me for not telling you that Raymond didn\u2019t take you in out of pity, but because you are his son… <\/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-4203","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4203","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=4203"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4203\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4206,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4203\/revisions\/4206"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4203"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4203"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4203"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}