When my affair was exposed in 2011, my husband, Michael, never raised his voice.<\/p>\n
He didn’t throw a glass against the wall. He didn’t call me names, threaten to leave, or demand that I pack my belongings.<\/p>\n
He simply stopped touching me.<\/p>\n
At first, I thought it was temporary. I assumed he needed time to process what I had done. I expected anger to come eventually, followed by arguments, tears, and perhaps a long conversation about whether our marriage could survive.<\/p>\n
Instead, Michael became quiet.<\/p>\n
He continued making coffee every morning. He paid the mortgage, took out the trash, and asked whether I needed anything from the grocery store. He remembered my birthday and brought home flowers on our anniversary.<\/p>\n
But he never kissed me again.<\/p>\n
Not on the lips. Not on the forehead. Not even a brief touch of his hand against mine.<\/p>\n
We remained married, but our marriage became something neither of us knew how to describe.<\/p>\n
For nearly two decades, we shared a home, meals, bills, and a calendar filled with ordinary obligations. We attended family gatherings together and smiled for photographs. To our neighbors, we were a stable couple who had grown comfortable with age.<\/p>\n
Behind closed doors, we lived like strangers.<\/p>\n
I told myself I deserved it.<\/p>\n
After all, I had betrayed him.<\/p>\n
My name is Susan. I was thirty-eight when I began an affair with a man from my office. His name was David, and for a few months, I convinced myself that what we were doing had nothing to do with the life I had built with Michael.<\/p>\n
Michael worked long hours as an accountant. Our children were already grown, and our conversations had become predictable. I mistook the quiet routine of a long marriage for the absence of love.<\/p>\n
David made me feel interesting again.<\/p>\n
He noticed when I changed my hair. He remembered little things I said. He sent messages during the day that made me smile at my desk.<\/p>\n
I knew it was wrong.<\/p>\n
I knew Michael trusted me.<\/p>\n
But I kept telling myself I would end it before anyone got hurt.<\/p>\n
That was the lie I used to keep going.<\/p>\n
The truth came out in November 2011.<\/p>\n
Michael found a message on my phone. I had left it on the kitchen counter while I went upstairs to change. When I returned, he was sitting at the table, holding the phone in both hands.<\/p>\n
He looked up when I entered.<\/p>\n
“Who is David?”<\/p>\n
I felt the blood drain from my face.<\/p>\n
I could have lied. I could have claimed it was a misunderstanding. But the expression on Michael’s face made me realize that he already knew.<\/p>\n
So I told him the truth.<\/p>\n
I expected him to shout.<\/p>\n
Instead, he placed the phone on the table.<\/p>\n
“How long?”<\/p>\n
I answered.<\/p>\n
He closed his eyes.<\/p>\n
Then he asked one more question.<\/p>\n
“Did you ever think about what this would do to me?”<\/p>\n
I began crying.<\/p>\n
“I didn’t mean for it to happen.”<\/p>\n
He looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.<\/p>\n
“That isn’t what I asked.”<\/p>\n
I had no answer.<\/p>\n
He stood, rinsed his coffee cup, and went upstairs.<\/p>\n
That night, he slept in the guest room.<\/p>\n
The following morning, he made breakfast as usual.<\/p>\n
I thought we would eventually talk.<\/p>\n
We never really did.<\/p>\n
Over the next few months, Michael moved his clothes into the guest room permanently. He stopped sitting beside me on the couch. He no longer reached for my hand when we crossed a busy street.<\/p>\n
When I tried to hug him, he stepped away.<\/p>\n
“Please don’t,” he said.<\/p>\n
Those two words hurt more than any insult could have.<\/p>\n
I ended the affair immediately. I changed jobs, deleted David’s number, and answered every question Michael asked.<\/p>\n
But he rarely asked anything.<\/p>\n
He simply carried on.<\/p>\n
When our daughter, Rachel, visited, he helped prepare dinner. When our son, Daniel, called, Michael asked about his work and listened patiently to every detail.<\/p>\n
At Christmas, he bought me a gift.<\/p>\n
It was a silver necklace I had admired in a shop window.<\/p>\n
I stared at the box.<\/p>\n
“You didn’t have to do this.”<\/p>\n
“I know.”<\/p>\n
“Michael, can we please talk about us?”<\/p>\n
He put the wrapping paper aside.<\/p>\n
“What is there to talk about, Susan?”<\/p>\n
“I love you.”<\/p>\n
He looked at me for a long moment.<\/p>\n
“I believe you wish you hadn’t done what you did.”<\/p>\n
Then he stood and carried his plate to the sink.<\/p>\n
I sat at the table, feeling as though I had been dismissed from my own life.<\/p>\n
Years passed.<\/p>\n
Our children married. We became grandparents. Michael retired first, then I followed a few years later.<\/p>\n
We moved into a smaller house and sold the home where we had raised our children. We shared the proceeds, divided our belongings, and chose furniture together.<\/p>\n
We were efficient.<\/p>\n
We were polite.<\/p>\n
We were lonely.<\/p>\n
I sometimes wondered why Michael had never divorced me. He could have started over. He could have found someone who had never betrayed him.<\/p>\n
When I asked him once, he answered without looking up from his newspaper.<\/p>\n
“Because I didn’t want to.”<\/p>\n
“That can’t be the whole reason.”<\/p>\n
“It is the reason I’m giving you.”<\/p>\n
I learned not to ask again.<\/p>\n
By the time I retired, I had stopped hoping that our marriage would return to what it had been.<\/p>\n
I accepted that Michael would never touch me again.<\/p>\n
I told myself that growing old beside him was better than growing old without him.<\/p>\n
Then, in the spring of 2029, I went for a routine medical examination.<\/p>\n
I was fifty-six years old and generally healthy, though I had begun experiencing occasional discomfort in my lower abdomen. My doctor, Dr. Patel, ordered an ultrasound to investigate.<\/p>\n
I wasn’t worried.<\/p>\n
I expected to hear that I had a minor cyst or some age-related change.<\/p>\n
The examination took about twenty minutes.<\/p>\n
The technician was friendly and made small talk while moving the probe across my abdomen. When she finished, she told me the doctor would review the images.<\/p>\n
I returned to the consultation room and waited.<\/p>\n
Dr. Patel entered with a tablet in her hand.<\/p>\n
She looked at the images.<\/p>\n
Then she looked at me.<\/p>\n
Her expression changed.<\/p>\n
“How are you feeling today, Susan?”<\/p>\n
“Fine. A little nervous now, though. Is something wrong?”<\/p>\n
She didn’t answer immediately.<\/p>\n
Instead, she enlarged one of the images.<\/p>\n
“Have you ever had abdominal surgery?”<\/p>\n
“No.”<\/p>\n
“Any procedure involving your reproductive organs?”<\/p>\n
“No. I’ve never had surgery at all.”<\/p>\n
She studied the screen again.<\/p>\n
“Are you absolutely certain?”<\/p>\n
I felt my stomach tighten.<\/p>\n
“Yes. I’ve never had any.”<\/p>\n
Dr. Patel turned the screen toward me.<\/p>\n
“I need you to look at this.”<\/p>\n
I stared at the gray shapes.<\/p>\n
I couldn’t make sense of them.<\/p>\n
“What am I looking at?”<\/p>\n
“There are findings here that suggest you may have had a significant prior procedure. I can’t determine the full history from this image alone, but there is a distinct area of scarring and an anatomical change that needs further investigation.”<\/p>\n
I looked at her.<\/p>\n
“That’s impossible.”<\/p>\n
She softened her voice.<\/p>\n
“Sometimes patients don’t know the details of procedures performed during an emergency, or records may be incomplete. But before I draw any conclusions, I need to ask you something.”<\/p>\n
“What?”<\/p>\n
She hesitated.<\/p>\n
“Do you remember being hospitalized in 2011?”<\/p>\n
The room seemed to grow smaller.<\/p>\n
“Why 2011?”<\/p>\n
“There’s an appearance here that could be consistent with an old surgical intervention. The pattern suggests it may have occurred around that period, although imaging cannot establish an exact date.”<\/p>\n
My mouth went dry.<\/p>\n
“I wasn’t hospitalized in 2011.”<\/p>\n
Dr. Patel set the tablet down.<\/p>\n
“Then you need to speak with your husband.”<\/p>\n
I stared at her.<\/p>\n
“Michael?”<\/p>\n
She nodded.<\/p>\n
“Ask him what happened to you in 2011.”<\/p>\n
I left the clinic with a referral for further imaging and a head full of questions.<\/p>\n
During the drive home, I kept thinking about the year my affair had been exposed.<\/p>\n
November 2011.<\/p>\n
The year Michael stopped touching me.<\/p>\n
The year he moved into the guest room.<\/p>\n
The year our marriage changed forever.<\/p>\n
But I had never been hospitalized. I had never undergone surgery. I had no memory of being unconscious or recovering from a procedure.<\/p>\n
When I arrived home, Michael was in the garden, trimming the hedges.<\/p>\n
He looked up.<\/p>\n
“How did the appointment go?”<\/p>\n
I stood beside the patio door.<\/p>\n
“Michael, we need to talk.”<\/p>\n
He put down the shears.<\/p>\n
Something in my voice must have warned him.<\/p>\n
He wiped his hands on a towel and followed me inside.<\/p>\n
I placed the ultrasound report on the kitchen table.<\/p>\n
“Do you know what this is?”<\/p>\n
He looked at the papers.<\/p>\n
For a moment, his face remained blank.<\/p>\n
Then his shoulders dropped.<\/p>\n
“Where did you get that?”<\/p>\n
“From my doctor. She says the images suggest I had a significant procedure years ago.”<\/p>\n
He didn’t speak.<\/p>\n
“Michael, I have never had surgery. But she thinks something happened around 2011.”<\/p>\n
He pulled out a chair and sat down.<\/p>\n
I watched him.<\/p>\n
“She told me to ask you.”<\/p>\n
He rubbed his forehead.<\/p>\n
Then he said something I had never expected to hear.<\/p>\n
“You weren’t supposed to find out this way.”<\/p>\n
My hands began to shake.<\/p>\n
“Find out what?”<\/p>\n
Michael looked toward the window.<\/p>\n
For the first time in eighteen years, I saw fear in his eyes.<\/p>\n
Not anger.<\/p>\n
Not indifference.<\/p>\n
Fear.<\/p>\n
“I need to tell you what happened the night you came home from work in November 2011,” he said.<\/p>\n
I could barely breathe.<\/p>\n
“I came home from work like I always did.”<\/p>\n
“No,” he said quietly. “You came home, and you collapsed in the kitchen.”<\/p>\n
I stared at him.<\/p>\n
“What?”<\/p>\n
“You were sick. You were bleeding, and you couldn’t stand. I called an ambulance.”<\/p>\n
I gripped the edge of the table.<\/p>\n
“I don’t remember that.”<\/p>\n
“You were in and out of consciousness. The paramedics took you to the hospital.”<\/p>\n
I shook my head.<\/p>\n
“Why don’t I remember?”<\/p>\n
“The doctors said you were in shock. They had to treat you immediately.”<\/p>\n
“Treat me for what?”<\/p>\n
Michael’s eyes filled with tears.<\/p>\n
“An ectopic pregnancy.”<\/p>\n
The words meant nothing for a moment.<\/p>\n
Then I understood.<\/p>\n
An ectopic pregnancy occurs when a fertilized egg implants outside the uterus, most commonly in a fallopian tube. It cannot develop normally, and if it ruptures, it can cause life-threatening internal bleeding.<\/p>\n
I looked at Michael.<\/p>\n
“I was pregnant?”<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
I covered my mouth.<\/p>\n
“But I never\u2014”<\/p>\n
I stopped.<\/p>\n
I had been having an affair.<\/p>\n
The dates came back to me in a rush.<\/p>\n
David and I had been together for months.<\/p>\n
I had been careless. I had convinced myself that because I was approaching forty, pregnancy was unlikely.<\/p>\n
But I had never imagined this.<\/p>\n
“What happened to the baby?” I whispered.<\/p>\n
Michael closed his eyes.<\/p>\n
“There was no way to save it.”<\/p>\n
I sat down.<\/p>\n
For eighteen years, I had believed the worst thing that happened in 2011 was that Michael discovered my affair.<\/p>\n
Now I was learning that my body had been fighting for its life while I remembered almost nothing.<\/p>\n
“Why didn’t you tell me?”<\/p>\n
“I did.”<\/p>\n
“No, you didn’t.”<\/p>\n
“I tried. You were in the hospital for several days. When you woke up properly, you were confused. The doctors explained what had happened. You were devastated.”<\/p>\n
I shook my head.<\/p>\n
“I would remember that.”<\/p>\n
“You were given medication. You were exhausted. And afterward, you didn’t want to talk about it.”<\/p>\n
He paused.<\/p>\n
“Then, when we got home, you asked me not to mention the pregnancy again.”<\/p>\n
I tried to summon the memory.<\/p>\n
Nothing came.<\/p>\n
“Why would I say that?”<\/p>\n
“Because you were ashamed. You were frightened. You said you couldn’t bear to think about what had happened.”<\/p>\n
I pressed my palms against my eyes.<\/p>\n
“I don’t remember any of it.”<\/p>\n
Michael leaned forward.<\/p>\n
“The doctors told us you might have gaps in your memory from the shock and medication. I thought the memories might return.”<\/p>\n
I stared at him.<\/p>\n
“Did I have surgery?”<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
“They had to remove the damaged fallopian tube. There was too much internal bleeding.”<\/p>\n
The room went silent.<\/p>\n
I looked down at my hands.<\/p>\n
I had spent eighteen years believing that Michael’s refusal to touch me was punishment for my affair.<\/p>\n
But there had been another night, another hospital, another version of our lives that I had somehow lost.<\/p>\n
“Why didn’t you tell me again?” I asked.<\/p>\n
Michael looked at me with an expression that seemed older than either of us.<\/p>\n
“Because I was angry.”<\/p>\n
I swallowed.<\/p>\n
“At me?”<\/p>\n
“Yes.”<\/p>\n
He didn’t soften the answer.<\/p>\n
“I was angry that you had betrayed me. I was angry that you had put our marriage at risk. And when I learned you were pregnant, I didn’t know whether the child was mine.”<\/p>\n
I felt the blood drain from my face.<\/p>\n
“Did you ask the doctors?”<\/p>\n
“They explained that the pregnancy was too early and too complicated for us to establish anything then. The priority was keeping you alive.”<\/p>\n
I looked away.<\/p>\n
Michael continued.<\/p>\n
“I sat in that hospital for three nights, Susan. I signed the forms. I spoke to the surgeon. I called our children and told them you were seriously ill. I watched you lying there, and I thought I might lose you.”<\/p>\n
His voice broke.<\/p>\n
“And I hated that I still loved you.”<\/p>\n
I began to cry.<\/p>\n
“I didn’t know.”<\/p>\n
“I know.”<\/p>\n
“Michael, I swear I didn’t know.”<\/p>\n
He looked at me.<\/p>\n
“About the pregnancy?”<\/p>\n
“About any of it.”<\/p>\n
He nodded slowly.<\/p>\n
“I believe you.”<\/p>\n
I wiped my face.<\/p>\n
“Then why did you never tell me?”<\/p>\n
He stood and walked to the kitchen window.<\/p>\n
“Because when you came home, I couldn’t look at you without remembering everything. The affair. The hospital. The possibility that the child wasn’t mine. The fear that you might die before I could decide what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.”<\/p>\n
He turned toward me.<\/p>\n
“I didn’t know how to forgive you. But I couldn’t abandon you while you were recovering.”<\/p>\n
“So you stayed.”<\/p>\n
“Yes.”<\/p>\n
“And stopped touching me.”<\/p>\n
He lowered his eyes.<\/p>\n
“I couldn’t bear to.”<\/p>\n
The words were quiet.<\/p>\n
They hurt more than I expected.<\/p>\n
I had thought his silence was a deliberate sentence imposed on me for the rest of my life.<\/p>\n
Instead, it had begun in a hospital corridor, beside a bed where the woman he loved had nearly died.<\/p>\n
But that did not explain why he had kept the surgery from me for so long.<\/p>\n
“Michael, I understand that you were angry. I understand that you were hurt. But I was your wife. I deserved to know what happened to my own body.”<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
“You’re right.”<\/p>\n
“Did you keep my medical records?”<\/p>\n
“I kept the discharge papers and the surgeon’s report. They’re in the filing cabinet.”<\/p>\n
“Why?”<\/p>\n
“Because I was afraid you would need them one day.”<\/p>\n
I stared at him.<\/p>\n
“You could have given them to me.”<\/p>\n
“I should have.”<\/p>\n
For the first time, he looked genuinely ashamed.<\/p>\n
“I told myself I was protecting you. I thought if you didn’t remember the details, you wouldn’t have to relive them. But the truth is, I was also protecting myself. I didn’t want to talk about that night.”<\/p>\n
I sat quietly.<\/p>\n
His explanation did not erase the years of loneliness. It did not make it acceptable that he had allowed me to believe I was being punished for eighteen years without telling me why.<\/p>\n
But it gave me something I had not had before.<\/p>\n
The truth.<\/p>\n
That evening, Michael brought the folder from the filing cabinet.<\/p>\n
The papers were yellowed, carefully arranged, and held together with a rubber band.<\/p>\n
There were ambulance notes, hospital records, surgical reports, and discharge instructions.<\/p>\n
I read them slowly.<\/p>\n
The documents confirmed that I had been admitted with a ruptured ectopic pregnancy and severe internal bleeding. Emergency surgery had been performed to remove the affected fallopian tube and control the bleeding.<\/p>\n
The operation had saved my life.<\/p>\n
There was no suggestion of wrongdoing or a hidden procedure beyond the emergency treatment described in the records.<\/p>\n
But one detail caught my attention.<\/p>\n
The discharge notes said I had been advised to attend follow-up appointments to discuss recovery, fertility, and emotional support.<\/p>\n
I had not remembered those appointments.<\/p>\n
Michael said he had driven me to the first one, but I had refused to return.<\/p>\n
I didn’t know whether the memory loss had been caused by the medical crisis, medication, or the passage of time. Dr. Patel would need to review the records and investigate further.<\/p>\n
I called her the next morning.<\/p>\n
She arranged a follow-up appointment and asked me to bring every document I had.<\/p>\n
She explained that an ultrasound could suggest previous surgery, but it could not precisely date an operation or establish why it had been performed. The hospital records would be essential to understanding my medical history.<\/p>\n
She also recommended that I speak with a counselor. Learning about a traumatic event that I could not remember, she said, could be deeply unsettling.<\/p>\n
I agreed.<\/p>\n
For the first time in years, I was taking care of myself without pretending I was fine.<\/p>\n
Over the next several weeks, I attended my appointments. My doctor reviewed the old records, arranged additional testing, and explained what the findings meant for my current health.<\/p>\n
There was no immediate danger.<\/p>\n
I was relieved.<\/p>\n
But the medical questions were only part of what I needed to face.<\/p>\n
One evening, I found Michael sitting in the living room with two cups of tea.<\/p>\n
He had placed mine on the table beside me.<\/p>\n
I sat down.<\/p>\n
“Can I ask you something?”<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
“Did you ever consider leaving me?”<\/p>\n
“Every day for a while.”<\/p>\n
The honesty startled me.<\/p>\n
“Why didn’t you?”<\/p>\n
He stared into his tea.<\/p>\n
“Because I couldn’t imagine walking away while you were recovering. And because I still loved you, even though I didn’t know what to do with that love.”<\/p>\n
“Then why didn’t we try to repair our marriage?”<\/p>\n
He looked at me.<\/p>\n
“I didn’t know how. And I didn’t want to pretend everything was forgiven when it wasn’t.”<\/p>\n
“So you chose silence.”<\/p>\n
“Yes.”<\/p>\n
“For eighteen years.”<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
“I thought I could live with it.”<\/p>\n
“Could you?”<\/p>\n
He looked down.<\/p>\n
“No.”<\/p>\n
The admission settled between us.<\/p>\n
I had spent nearly two decades believing I was the only person suffering in our marriage.<\/p>\n
I had been wrong.<\/p>\n
Michael had been hurt by my betrayal, frightened by the possibility of losing me, and unable to reconcile the woman he loved with the choices I had made.<\/p>\n
But he had also made a choice of his own.<\/p>\n
He had stayed without rebuilding anything.<\/p>\n
He had allowed resentment to become the structure of our lives.<\/p>\n
And I had allowed guilt to convince me that I had no right to ask for more.<\/p>\n
Neither of us had known how to begin again.<\/p>\n
“I can’t give you back those years,” Michael said.<\/p>\n
“No.”<\/p>\n
“I can’t change what I did.”<\/p>\n
“Neither can I.”<\/p>\n
He reached for his cup.<\/p>\n
“I don’t expect you to forgive me because you understand why I acted the way I did.”<\/p>\n
I looked at him.<\/p>\n
“That’s the first thing you’ve said in years that makes me feel like we’re actually talking.”<\/p>\n
A small, sad smile crossed his face.<\/p>\n
“I suppose we are.”<\/p>\n
We began seeing a marriage counselor.<\/p>\n
The first few sessions were painful. We spoke about the affair, the hospital, the pregnancy, and the years of silence that followed.<\/p>\n
Michael admitted that he had used distance to protect himself from being hurt again. I admitted that I had treated my guilt as a reason to stop asking for affection, honesty, or partnership.<\/p>\n
The counselor helped us understand that remorse and punishment were not the same as healing.<\/p>\n
We could not undo the affair.<\/p>\n
We could not bring back the pregnancy or erase the medical trauma.<\/p>\n
And we could not pretend that eighteen years of emotional distance had left us unchanged.<\/p>\n
But we could decide what to do with the time we had left.<\/p>\n
Some days, we made progress.<\/p>\n
Other days, we argued about things that had happened years earlier.<\/p>\n
We learned to stop when the conversations became cruel. We learned to ask questions without demanding immediate answers.<\/p>\n
One afternoon, Michael reached across the table and took my hand.<\/p>\n
It was the first time he had voluntarily touched me in eighteen years.<\/p>\n
I looked at our hands.<\/p>\n
He didn’t say anything.<\/p>\n
Neither did I.<\/p>\n
I simply let him hold it.<\/p>\n
That small gesture did not repair our marriage.<\/p>\n
It did not mean I had forgotten the affair, or that he had suddenly forgiven me.<\/p>\n
It meant we were willing to see whether something remained beneath the years of silence.<\/p>\n
Months later, I asked him whether he regretted staying.<\/p>\n
He thought about it for a long time.<\/p>\n
“No,” he finally said. “But I regret the way I stayed.”<\/p>\n
I understood.<\/p>\n
So did I.<\/p>\n
I regretted the affair. I regretted the pain I had caused him and the choices that had brought us to that hospital room.<\/p>\n
But I also regretted the years I spent believing that because I had done something wrong, I no longer deserved honesty or tenderness.<\/p>\n
I had confused accountability with lifelong punishment.<\/p>\n
Michael had confused staying with healing.<\/p>\n
We were both learning, much later than we should have, that love could not survive on duty alone.<\/p>\n
Today, we are still married.<\/p>\n
We are not the couple we were before 2011. We never will be.<\/p>\n
Some wounds change the shape of a life, even after they stop bleeding.<\/p>\n
But we no longer live like strangers.<\/p>\n
We eat breakfast together. We walk in the evenings. Sometimes Michael reaches for my hand without thinking about it.<\/p>\n
And when we talk about the past, we no longer treat silence as proof that everything is settled.<\/p>\n
My doctor once asked whether I was absolutely certain I had never had surgery.<\/p>\n
I remember how frightened I felt when she turned the screen toward me.<\/p>\n
For a few minutes, I thought I was about to discover something terrible my husband had done to me.<\/p>\n
What I discovered was more complicated.<\/p>\n
I learned that I had nearly died without fully remembering it. I learned that my husband had carried the memory of that night alone. And I learned that his silence, though born partly from pain, had also caused a different kind of harm.<\/p>\n
The truth did not make either of us innocent.<\/p>\n
It simply made it possible to stop living inside a story that was incomplete.<\/p>\n
And perhaps that is what forgiveness really begins with\u2014not forgetting what happened, not pretending the damage never existed, but finally having the courage to tell the whole truth.<\/p>\n
Even when it takes eighteen years to do so.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
When my affair was exposed in 2011, my husband, Michael, never raised his voice. He didn’t throw a glass against the wall. He didn’t call me names, threaten to leave, … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[10],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-104508","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-relaxing-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/104508","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=104508"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/104508\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":104509,"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/104508\/revisions\/104509"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=104508"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=104508"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/relaxingstory.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=104508"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}