The blade trembled between my fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not because it weighed me down, but because suddenly I had eighteen years of nights without a hug, eighteen years of birthdays with dry cake, eighteen years of sitting in front of Javier as if we were watching over someone no one dared to name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not my signature,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My voice came out so low that I didn\u2019t even recognize it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier continued standing, with his hands resting on the doctor\u2019s desk. His knuckles were white. The doctor, uncomfortable but firm, pointed to another line of the file.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHere it says that eighteen years ago Mr. Javier had a reactive HIV test. It was a screening test. Confirmation was then requested.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt that the clinic was getting smaller.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHIV?\u201d I asked, and my throat closed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier turned his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t want to see me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The doctor continued:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014The subsequent confirmation was negative. There is no record of antiretroviral treatment, there is no viral load, there is no active diagnosis. Mr. Javier\u2019s current studies are also negative.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at my husband.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Negative.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That word, so clean, so simple, came late as old trains arrive: with smoke, with noise, dragging the dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2026 You thought you were sick? I asked him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier closed his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t think, Elena. They told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The doctor took a deep breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The problem is that the confirmatory result is delivered weeks later. Here is a receiving signature. Yours, Mrs. Navarro. And a note requesting \u201cnot to discuss the result with the spouse due to family conflict.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI never signed that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The doctor nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s why I\u2019m telling you this. The NOM of the clinical record requires confidentiality, integration and proper management of the file. A fake signature on a medical document is not a minor detail. It is a serious irregularity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier sat down as if his legs had been cut off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t cry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He had cried out of guilt for eighteen years. But that was not fault. It was something else. It was anger mixed with a sadness so old that it smelled musty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy didn\u2019t you tell me?\u201d I asked him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier let out a broken laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause that night I found your messages. Because the next day I went to get tests like an idiot scared to death. Because when they called me and told me \u201creactive,\u201d I thought that life was charging me something that I hadn\u2019t even done.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJavier\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd because I hated you, yes. But not so much that you take risks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put my hand to my mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He finally looked at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His eyes were full of water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI couldn\u2019t touch you, Elena. I didn\u2019t know if I could infect you. I didn\u2019t know if you already knew. I didn\u2019t know if it came from you, from him, from a transfusion when I had surgery on my leg in the workshop, from God knows where. And then\u2026 then I couldn\u2019t speak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The doctor looked down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Outside, in Colonia Del Valle, traffic roared over F\u00e9lix Cuevas, near that area where Mexico City seems to always live in a hurry, between hospitals, tamale stalls and people crossing as if they didn\u2019t have a soul on them. The 20 de Noviembre National Medical Center is there, in F\u00e9lix Cuevas, near the Metro line 12, and I thought it was cruel that a place full of doors could hold so many secrets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We left without saying goodbye well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the elevator, Javier and I look at our reflections in the metal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked older.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So do I.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When they reached the street, a lady was selling guava atole in Styrofoam glasses. The sweet smell hit me and, without warning, I began to cry. I didn\u2019t cry pretty. I cried with a crooked face, with shame, with snot, as women cry when they discover that a whole life could have been different.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier didn\u2019t hug me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But he raised his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He left it suspended for a second.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he put it on my shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a minimal weight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A feather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
An earthquake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWho signed?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He did not answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJavier, look at me. Who was able to sign?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His hand withdrew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy mother accompanied me to that clinic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The name fell between the two of them like a stone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Amalia.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother-in-law.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Dead six years ago, but still sitting in the living room of our house like a portrait that judges.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Amalia never forgave me for being born poor in Analco. He never liked me working. She never liked that Javier consulted me on things. When he found out about my infidelity, he didn\u2019t scream. He just looked at me with an icy calm and said:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWomen like you don\u2019t destroy a house all at once. They are rotting it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I thought that phrase had been his only punishment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDid she know about the result?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier wiped his face with his sleeve.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI was destroyed. I went with her because I didn\u2019t have anyone else. He took me, waited for me, talked to the receptionist. Then he told me that I had to accept God\u2019s will. That it was best never to touch you again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd the negative result?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI never saw him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We did not return to Puebla that afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We returned to our house in silence, but it was no longer the silence it had been before. That old silence was a wall. This was an excavation. Every minute he opened a bone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As I entered, I saw Javier\u2019s blue cup next to the sink.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For years I hated her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It seemed to me the symbol of his loveless permanence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night I washed it with my hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He stood in the kitchen doorway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t have to,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The hot water burned my fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut for eighteen years I did things out of guilt. Today I want to do something of my own volition.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier lowered his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We slept in separate rooms one more night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not because we wanted to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because approaching after so much abandonment was scary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next morning we drove to Puebla. Javier didn\u2019t want Uber or bus. He took out the old car, checked the oil and put a rosary in the rearview mirror. On the Mexico-Puebla highway, Popocatepetl appeared among clouds, huge and still like a sleeping animal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was walking with my hands on my knees.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was driving slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the height of San Mart\u00edn Texmelucan, he said:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI punished you too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I answered. You thought you were protecting me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAt first. Not anymore. Then I was afraid to know the truth. I was afraid that if we talked, I would have to forgive you or leave. And I chose to do nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at the dry fields by the side of the road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI chose to betray you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His sincerity hurt, but it didn\u2019t cut short.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He just opened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want this to erase what I did,\u201d I said. I don\u2019t want to play the victim.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier pressed the steering wheel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re not innocent, Elena.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I swallowed hard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut you weren\u2019t the monster my mother needed you to be, either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We arrived in Puebla at noon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The city was full of sunshine, that Puebla sun that bounces off the colonial facades and makes the Talavera shine as if each tile kept a piece of sky. We passed through the Center, through streets where it still smelled of sweet bread, mole and hot oil. I saw the Z\u00f3calo, the Cathedral, the doorways with families eating ice cream, and I felt an absurd pang: life had continued to be beautiful while we lived buried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Amalia\u2019s house was near 14 Oriente, not far from those places where workshops, old neighborhoods and cemita stalls are mixed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier had inherited the house, but we almost never went.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Entering was like opening a closed mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everything smelled of camphor and wood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the living room there was the same plaster Christ, the same glass case with glasses that no one used, the same photo of a young Amalia, with pursed lips and eyes of sentence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHis papers are in the back room,\u201d Javier said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We go through boxes for hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Electricity bills.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
IMSS booklets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stamps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Letters from dead aunts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A recipe for chiles en nogada written in round letters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the evening, I found a black missal inside a grocery bag at the Parian. Between its pages there was a yellow envelope, hard for years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It had no name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just one word written in blue ink:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cJavier\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If you say it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t open it right away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His fingers were shaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOpen it,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside was a copy of a result.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Confirmatory HIV: non-reactive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Date: eighteen years ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And a letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier read aloud, but on the third line he broke. So I took the paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The lyrics were Amalia\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSon: if you ever find this, forgive me. I did what a mother had to do. Elena stained you. If you tell her you\u2019re healthy, you\u2019ll go back to her bed and she\u2019ll humiliate you again. A woman who betrays once always betrays. I signed for her because she had already signed her sin. I didn\u2019t kill you, I saved you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I couldn\u2019t continue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The entire room seemed to tilt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier put his hands to his face and let out a sound that he had never heard before. It wasn\u2019t crying. It was something older. As if a child inside him had waited eighteen years to ask for help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I approached.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This time I didn\u2019t wait for permission.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hugged him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At first his body stiffened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he folded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier cried against my shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He cried for his mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the years when he bathed before dawn so as not to cross my skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For the nights when I heard his cough across the hall and didn\u2019t dare knock on the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For each anniversary with flowers bought out of habit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For each family photo where the children smiled between two broken adults.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cForgive me,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t carry everything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI left you alone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI let you go first.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We stayed like this for a long time, sitting on the dusty floor, among boxes and ghosts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Outside a bell began to ring.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Puebla has that: even if one is dying inside, there is always a church reminding the world that the time changes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night we did not return to Mexico City.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We walked to the Center without talking much. Yellow lights fell on the sidewalks. On Calle de los Dulces, the windows showed sweet potatoes, Santa Clara pancakes and colorful drunks as if childhood could be bought by a quarter of a kilo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier bought me a pineapple sweet potato.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He hadn\u2019t given it to me since In\u00e9s was a baby.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou liked them,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2014I still like them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We ate sitting on a bench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
People passed by with bags, children, balloons, in a hurry. An organ grinder played out of tune near the doorways. I thought Mexico is made of those things: private tragedies walking past corn vendors, family secrets passing in front of gilded churches, broken hearts that still stop for a freshly soaked bread.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next day we went to Santo Domingo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier was not devout, but he said he needed to get in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Chapel of the Rosary shone as if someone had decided to cover a wound with gold. It is one of the most recognized baroque jewels of Puebla, inside the temple of Santo Domingo, and when I saw it I understood why so many people keep silent there without anyone asking them to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier sat in the last pew.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I knelt beside him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know how to pray like I used to,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen don\u2019t pray. Speak.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked straight ahead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI lost half my life for obeying fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I took his hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His skin was warm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was not an accidental touch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was not courtesy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a decision.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier looked at our hands together as if he didn\u2019t know what to do so closely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cElena,\u201d he said, \u201cI can\u2019t be forty-five again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNeither do I.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI can\u2019t give you the years I took from you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t take them away from me again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His eyes filled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know if I know how to be a husband yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t know if I know how to be a wife without apologizing for breathing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He squeezed my hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe learn.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That afternoon we drove to Cholula.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We slowly climb up to the Sanctuary of the Virgen de los Remedios, built on the Tlachihualt\u00e9petl, the great pyramid that looks like a hill because Mexico also knows how to hide the enormous beneath the everyday. From above, Puebla stretched out like a map of roofs, volcanoes, and bells.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The wind moved my gray hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier stared at the horizon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy mother saved me from a lie by inventing a worse one,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYour mother was afraid of losing you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd he lost me anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes the truth doesn\u2019t need an echo.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He took Amalia\u2019s letter from his pocket. I thought I was going to keep it again, but it broke it in four places. Then in eight. Then in pieces so small that the wind carried them away unceremoniously.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot to hate her any less,\u201d he said. To obey her never again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When we went down, we bought caf\u00e9 de olla and some chalupas at a stall near the portal. Javier stained his shirt with red sauce. I laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a small laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Clumsy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Almost guilty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at me in surprise, as if he didn\u2019t remember that sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou haven\u2019t laughed with me for a long time,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou haven\u2019t given me a reason for a long time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He smiled barely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And that smile, so tired, seemed more intimate than any kiss.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We returned home two days later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was no miracle of a soap opera.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We didn\u2019t go into the bedroom tearing off our clothes or promise to forget. Real life doesn\u2019t work like that. Real life asks you to clean drawers, call your children, change sheets, throw away expired medicines and learn to say \u201cit hurt\u201d without using it as a weapon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We tell In\u00e9s and Daniel a part.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not all of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Children do not need to inherit all the debris from their parents.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
In\u00e9s cried on the phone from Guadalajara. Daniel was silent for a long time from Quer\u00e9taro and then said:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI always thought you didn\u2019t love each other. But I never understood why they didn\u2019t leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier answered:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause we were cowards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I added:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd because we loved them too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night Javier stood in front of my bedroom door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was wearing his old pajamas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The one with stripes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan I come in?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My heart pounded like that morning at the clinic.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He entered slowly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t lie down right away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked at the bed, the pillows, the lamp, my robe hanging behind the door. All of this had been there for years, waiting without knowing it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want you to think I\u2019m here to collect anything,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI don\u2019t owe you my body, Javier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd you don\u2019t owe me desire.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know that too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then he sat down on the shore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat next to him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our shoulders touched.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nothing more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And yet, I felt that the world contained the air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan I hug you?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This time it was me who closed my eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eighteen years earlier, I had destroyed something by wanting to feel desired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night I didn\u2019t want desire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wanted truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He wanted the weight of arms that would not punish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He wanted to know if two old, hurting, and guilty people could still find a decent form of cuteness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier hugged me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At first carefully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then with desperation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I rested my face on his chest and listened to his heart. It was not the heart of a saint. It was not the heart of a judge. It was the heart of a man who had also lived in prison.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We cry without making a sound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
How our marriage broke up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But this time, silence was not a condemnation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was rest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next morning I made coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Javier came into the kitchen and, for the first time in eighteen years, kissed my forehead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was not a kiss from a novel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He did not fix the past.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He did not erase Marcos, or Amalia, or the cold bed, or the lost years.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But it left me without blood for another reason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because I understood that sometimes forgiveness doesn\u2019t come like a fire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes it comes as a trembling hand on the shoulder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like a fake signature discovered too late.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Like an old man crossing the kitchen to say:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood morning, Elena.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I, with the hot cup in my hands, answered:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood morning, Javier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This time it didn\u2019t sound dry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It sounded alive.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
The blade trembled between my fingers. Not because it weighed me down, but because suddenly I had eighteen years of nights without a hug, eighteen years of… <\/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-4562","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4562","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=4562"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4562\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4565,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4562\/revisions\/4565"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4562"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4562"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/myanh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4562"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}