{"id":2613,"date":"2026-09-29T00:29:43","date_gmt":"2026-09-29T00:29:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/?p=2613"},"modified":"2026-09-29T00:29:43","modified_gmt":"2026-09-29T00:29:43","slug":"part-2-youre-no-longer-family-so-i-texted-copy-and-walked-away","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/?p=2613","title":{"rendered":"PART 2- \u201c\u2018You\u2019re No Longer Family\u2019\u2014So I Texted \u2018Copy\u2019 and Walked Away\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"
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<\/div>\n<\/header>\n
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I thought of my grandmother again, the woman who had slipped me crumpled bills for ice cream when I was little and whispered,\u00a0You\u2019re going to be the one who gets out of this mess, you know that?<\/em>\u00a0If she were somehow watching, I knew exactly what she\u2019d say.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n

\u201cI have to,\u201d I said. \u201cNot for them. For me. Because I wouldn\u2019t be able to live with myself if I didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

He searched my face, then nodded. \u201cOkay,\u201d he said quietly. \u201cText me when you get there. I\u2019ll pack you a bag.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
<\/div>\n
\n

The hospital was bright and cold and smelled faintly of antiseptic and tired coffee. I followed the signs to the emergency department, my shoes squeaking on polished tile. At the front desk, I said, \u201cI\u2019m here about my father and my sister. They were in an accident.\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman there nodded, typing quickly. \u201cYou\u2019re listed as the emergency contact,\u201d she said. \u201cWe\u2019ve been waiting for you. One moment.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

She picked up a phone and murmured into it. A few minutes later, a nurse in blue scrubs\u2014Karen\u2014appeared.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou must be their daughter and sister,\u201d she said, guiding me down the hall. \u201cThey\u2019re both stable, but your father\u2019s injuries are more extensive. He\u2019s in a trauma bay right now. Your sister is in observation.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

We passed rooms filled with machines, beeping monitors, pale patients. My heart hammered so hard I felt it in my throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd, ah,\u201d Karen added delicately, \u201cwe do need to discuss insurance and payment. It looks like there might be some\u2026 issues on that front.\u201d<\/p>\n

Of course there were.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy dad\u2019s insurance lapsed,\u201d I said automatically. Early on, I\u2019d been the one to help him sign up, to manage his renewals. Then he started \u201cforgetting\u201d to pay. Then he told me it was \u201ctoo expensive for the coverage.\u201d One day he just stopped mentioning it.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd my sister\u2019s?\u201d Karen asked.<\/p>\n

I almost snorted. \u201cIf she has a card, it\u2019s probably fake.\u201d<\/p>\n

Karen didn\u2019t react, but I saw the tiny flicker of understanding in her eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll need someone to sign off on procedures and agree to be responsible for the remaining balances,\u201d she said gently. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. I know that\u2019s a lot to ask right now.\u201d<\/p>\n

I thought of all the times they\u2019d told me I was no longer family. Of my father calling my job and trying to sabotage my career. Of my sister banging on my door and calling me a thief.<\/p>\n

Then I thought of my son drawing red X\u2019s over their stick\u2013figure heads.<\/p>\n

I reached for my wallet anyway.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll cover it,\u201d I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. \u201cPut everything under my name.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you sure?\u201d Karen asked quietly.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cJust\u2026 get them what they need.\u201d<\/p>\n

She nodded once, then handed me a clipboard. \u201cWe\u2019ll take good care of them.\u201d<\/p>\n

I signed where she pointed. My hand didn\u2019t shake until I got to the line that essentially said,\u00a0If they rack up a fortune in medical care, it\u2019s your responsibility now<\/em>.<\/p>\n

When it was done, she led me to my father\u2019s bay.<\/p>\n

He looked small. I had never seen my father look small.<\/p>\n

He lay on the bed in a hospital gown, pale against the white sheets, a nasal cannula in his nose. His chest rose and fell shallowly, monitors blinking green and yellow numbers above him. Bruises bloomed dark purple along his ribs, disappearing under the gown. He had always seemed larger than life to me\u2014loud, commanding, sharp\u2013edged. Now, he looked almost fragile.<\/p>\n

I stood at the foot of the bed and felt\u2026 nothing. No satisfaction, no triumph, no vindication. Just a tired sorrow that lodged somewhere deep.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey,\u201d I said softly, though I knew he couldn\u2019t hear me yet.<\/p>\n

I stayed there for a long time, watching the monitor numbers, listening to the steady beep of his heart. Eventually, a nurse shooed me away to a chair in the hall, saying he needed rest.<\/p>\n

My sister was in a room down the corridor. A bandage wrapped around her head, her wrist in a temporary splint. Her hair was greasy, mascara smeared under her eyes.<\/p>\n

She looked up when I walked in, eyes bloodshot. For a second, real fear flickered there. Then it hardened into something familiar when she fully registered that it was me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou took your time,\u201d she said hoarsely. \u201cI thought I was going to die.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not dying,\u201d I said. \u201cYou have a concussion and a broken wrist. You\u2019re lucky.\u201d<\/p>\n

She rolled her eyes, wincing at the movement. \u201cWhatever. Did you bring my charger?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

My brain stuttered. \u201cYour\u2026 what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy phone charger,\u201d she repeated, as if I were slow. \u201cThis place doesn\u2019t have any decent outlets and my battery is almost dead. I texted you before they took me in, but my phone died.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at her, then laughed once in disbelief. Not a single\u00a0thank you<\/em>\u00a0or\u00a0I\u2019m glad you\u2019re here<\/em>\u00a0or\u00a0I\u2019m sorry for anything.<\/em>\u00a0Just a complaint and a request.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t realize my first stop should be your apartment to grab your electronics,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

She frowned. \u201cWhy are you being like that? Aren\u2019t you supposed to be the \u2018good one\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n

The words hit a familiar bruise.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll bring you a bag tomorrow,\u201d I said eventually, ignoring the jab. \u201cClothes. Charger. Whatever.\u201d<\/p>\n

I did. Not because she deserved it, but because I couldn\u2019t stand the thought of her sitting in a thin hospital gown, cold and exposed, even if she had never extended the same kindness to me.<\/p>\n

I stayed at the hospital through the night. My husband came in the morning with clean clothes and coffee, our son holding his hand. We traded off\u2014he\u2019d sit with my dad while I took our son to the cafeteria for breakfast. My mother hovered in the halls, gray\u2013faced and silent.<\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t talk to me at first. She drifted from bed to bed, wringing her hands, talking to nurses, acting\u2014as always\u2014as if the storm had swept in from nowhere and she had nothing to do with it.<\/p>\n

On the third night, I was standing in front of the vending machines, staring at my reflection in the glass between rows of chips and candy bars, when I heard her step up behind me.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know how we ended up here,\u201d she said quietly.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t turn around. \u201cIn the hospital?\u201d I asked. \u201cThere was a car accident.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know that\u2019s not what I mean,\u201d she replied, her voice trembling just a little. \u201cI mean\u2026 this. You and your father. You and your sister. All this anger. All this distance.\u201d<\/p>\n

I crossed my arms over my chest. \u201cDid you listen to the voicemail he left me?\u201d I asked. \u201cThe one where he said I\u2019m not part of this family? Where he erased your grandson in fourteen seconds?\u201d<\/p>\n

She flinched. \u201cHe was angry.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s always angry,\u201d I said. \u201cAt me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know he\u2019s harder on you because he expects more from you,\u201d she said, as if quoting a script she\u2019d recited my entire life.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said softly. \u201cHe\u2019s harder on me because I\u2019m the easiest one to punish without consequences.\u201d<\/p>\n

Silence stretched between us. The vending machine hummed.<\/p>\n

\u201cI should have stopped him,\u201d she said eventually, her voice breaking. \u201cI should have told him he went too far. I should have defended you. I just\u2026 I didn\u2019t want to make things worse. I thought if I stayed neutral\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou weren\u2019t neutral,\u201d I said. \u201cYou were silent. That\u2019s not the same thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tears filled her eyes. \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she whispered. \u201cFor not protecting you. For not protecting him.\u201d She meant my son. She looked genuinely ashamed, and for a moment, I saw the woman she might have been if fear hadn\u2019t run her life.<\/p>\n

I wanted to be relieved. I wanted to feel some huge weight lift off my shoulders. Instead, I just felt tired.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you for saying that,\u201d I said eventually. It was the closest I could get to forgiveness.<\/p>\n

The next morning, my father finally woke up long enough to hold a conversation.<\/p>\n

He blinked, squinting against the light, and then his gaze landed on me. Surprise flashed across his face, followed by something softer.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou came,\u201d he rasped.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course I did,\u201d I said, even though the real answer in my head was\u00a0I almost didn\u2019t.<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, then said, \u201cI remember\u2026 the message. The argument. The accounts.\u201d Each word seemed to cost him.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d I said carefully.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was angry,\u201d he continued. \u201cAt life. At getting old. At needing help. It was easier to blame you. You always could take it.\u201d He swallowed. \u201cI was wrong.\u201d<\/p>\n

I waited for more, but that was it. No specifics. No,\u00a0I\u2019m sorry I called your job and tried to sabotage you.<\/em>\u00a0No,\u00a0I\u2019m sorry I told you your child was dead to me.<\/em>\u00a0Just an admission that he\u2019d been angry and I\u2019d been a convenient target.<\/p>\n

Still, it was more than I\u2019d ever gotten before.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

For a few days, I let myself believe things might change. That this accident had shaken them awake. That my father\u2019s near\u2013death experience and my mother\u2019s cracked apology were the start of something genuinely new.<\/p>\n

I coordinated their discharge plans, helped schedule follow\u2013up appointments. I called the billing departments, arguing down charges where I could. I spent hours on hold with insurance representatives and hospital administrators. I filled out forms naming myself as the primary contact, the payer, the person responsible. Every time I signed my name, the number attached to the total grew and grew.<\/p>\n

When the hospital stays turned into physical therapy appointments and medication refills, I kept showing up. Driving them to clinics. Picking up prescriptions. Bringing soup and comfortable clothes.<\/p>\n

I put my own life on hold to hold theirs together.<\/p>\n

My husband never complained, but I could see the strain on his face as he juggled school runs, work, and everything else at home. Our son started asking why I was gone so much, why Grandma and Grandpa needed me more than he did.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re sick,\u201d I\u2019d say. \u201cIt\u2019s temporary.\u201d<\/p>\n

I wanted to believe that.<\/p>\n

Weeks passed. My father\u2019s ribs healed slowly. My sister\u2019s wrist was set and wrapped in a customized brace. The bruises faded.<\/p>\n

And then, like a rubber band snapping back into its original shape, things shifted.<\/p>\n

My father started talking about cars. About how his beloved old sedan was totaled. About how he had his eye on a newer model. \u201cNothing fancy,\u201d he said one afternoon, scrolling through listings on his phone while I sorted his pill organizer. \u201cJust something to get me from A to B. But, you know, these things are expensive.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hummed noncommittally.<\/p>\n

He angled his phone toward me, showing me a photo of a shiny used car. \u201cWhat do you think? If I could get a little help with the down payment\u2026\u201d he trailed off meaningfully.<\/p>\n

I looked at the pill bottles in my hands, at the color\u2013coded labels and the tiny, careful doses. I thought of the credit card balances, the hospital bills already hitting my inbox.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think you should focus on healing before you worry about cars,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

He frowned, offended. \u201cI\u2019m not asking for the world, you know. After everything we\u2019ve been through, you\u2019d think family would pull together.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t reply.<\/p>\n

A day later, my phone buzzed with a text from my sister.<\/p>\n

So, my phone is basically dead. Screen\u2019s cracked, battery\u2019s trash. After all this trauma, I could really use an upgrade. Especially after everything you\u2019ve put us through. Would be nice if someone helped me out for once.<\/em><\/p>\n

I stared at the text for a solid ten minutes.<\/p>\n

After everything you\u2019ve put us through.<\/em><\/p>\n

I thought of the spreadsheet in my mind\u2014the one tallying each sacrifice. The emergency funds. The co\u2013signed loans. The hospital bills. The sleepless nights at their bedside.<\/p>\n

I showed the message to my husband.<\/p>\n

He read it quietly, then asked me one question.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt what point do you stop letting people take from you just because they share your last name?\u201d<\/p>\n

The words hit me harder than any of my father\u2019s accusations ever had. Because they were so simple. Because they were what I\u2019d been circling around for years without quite naming.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t reply to my sister. I didn\u2019t comment when she followed up two days later with another long message about her wrist pain, about how voice\u2013to\u2013text on a new phone would help with her \u201cmental health.\u201d I didn\u2019t answer when my father called to say that he was \u201clooking into used car options\u201d but that \u201cit\u2019s hard to move forward without a little help.\u201d<\/p>\n

They didn\u2019t mention the medical bills I\u2019d already paid. They didn\u2019t mention the nights I\u2019d slept in hospital chairs or the way I\u2019d cleaned vomit off my father\u2019s sheets when he reacted badly to a medication. They didn\u2019t mention my son asking why I missed his school assembly.<\/p>\n

They only mentioned what they wanted next.<\/p>\n

\n

One morning, after yet another curt voicemail from my father about a financing opportunity he was \u201cabout to miss,\u201d I sat down at my laptop and opened a blank document.<\/p>\n

I started listing every expense I\u2019d covered since the accident. Hospital charges. Imaging. ER copays. Medications. Equipment. Gas for all the trips back and forth. Groceries I\u2019d stocked in their fridge because they \u201cdidn\u2019t have time\u201d to shop while recovering.<\/p>\n

Then I added in some of the bigger things from before. The time I used my credit to refinance their house when they were on the verge of losing it. The months I\u2019d secretly covered my sister\u2019s rent so she wouldn\u2019t get evicted. The shared accounts. The credit cards.<\/p>\n

The numbers piled up into something obscene. When I finally totaled the column, my breath caught.<\/p>\n

Fourteen thousand eight hundred ninety\u2013two dollars and thirteen cents.<\/p>\n

Fourteen thousand dollars I\u2019d essentially handed them in the past few months alone. Not counting the years before. Not counting the emotional labor, the stress, the hours on the phone, the sleepless nights.<\/p>\n

Fourteen thousand dollars, and they still felt comfortable asking for a new phone and a car.<\/p>\n

I sat back and stared at the number until it blurred. Then I saved the document without naming it and closed my laptop.<\/p>\n

Later that day, I told my husband I was done.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot emotionally done,\u201d I said. \u201cLogistically. Geographically. Completely.\u201d<\/p>\n

He studied me. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI mean,\u201d I said slowly, \u201cthat if I stay here, they will keep coming. They will keep calling. They will keep asking. And I will keep saying yes until there\u2019s nothing left. I don\u2019t know how to half\u2013have them in my life. It\u2019s got to be everything or nothing. And I can\u2019t do everything anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n

He nodded once, like he\u2019d already had this conversation in his head. \u201cOkay,\u201d he said. \u201cThen let\u2019s leave.\u201d<\/p>\n

We started looking at listings that night. Not just different apartments in the same city, not just neighborhoods across town. We looked out of state.<\/p>\n

We settled on Oregon almost by accident\u2014my husband had a friend who lived near a small town there, and he\u2019d always talked about the trees, the way the air smelled like pine and rain, the slower pace. We found a rental listing with a small yard and a porch swing, good schools nearby, a community that sounded quiet and unremarkable in the best way.<\/p>\n

No history. No extended family.<\/p>\n

It felt like a dream someone else might be allowed to have.<\/p>\n

We didn\u2019t tell anyone. Not my parents, not my sister, not the aunt who still occasionally left guilt\u2013laden voicemails. We didn\u2019t mention it to neighbors or coworkers. We simply started preparing.<\/p>\n

I cleaned out closets, quietly donating bags of clothes and toys. We went through old paperwork, shredding anything that had our current address on it beyond what we legally needed. At night, after our son was asleep, we would sit on the couch and whisper logistics. Jobs. Schools. Moving trucks. Timing.<\/p>\n

A week before the move, my mother called.<\/p>\n

I almost didn\u2019t answer, but guilt\u2014or habit\u2014made me swipe.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wanted to talk about some numbers,\u201d she began, without greeting.<\/p>\n

For one ridiculous, hopeful second, I thought maybe she was calling to say they could pay back a little of what I\u2019d spent. That she\u2019d found a way to contribute. That she at least wanted to acknowledge the debt.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat kind of numbers?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour father\u2019s credit is in bad shape,\u201d she said. \u201cYou know how things have been. He was hoping you\u2019d be willing to co\u2013sign something small. Just a little loan. To help him get a car. Then he can start fresh and you won\u2019t have to drive him so much.\u201d<\/p>\n

The hope died quickly.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not co\u2013signing anything,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be like that,\u201d she replied, the edge creeping back into her voice. \u201cYou\u2019re already involved in so much. What\u2019s one more paper? One more signature? Family pulls together in hard times. You of all people should understand that.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked around our half\u2013packed living room, at the cardboard boxes stacked by the door, at the roll of tape and black marker on the coffee table. My son\u2019s drawings were already in a labeled box:\u00a0ART \/ IMPORTANT.<\/em><\/p>\n

I thought of the fourteen thousand dollars. Of the early\u2013morning drives to the hospital. Of my father telling me I wasn\u2019t family anymore. Of my mother standing by.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t argue.<\/p>\n

I simply said, \u201cNo,\u201d and hung up.<\/p>\n

\n

Two days later, the moving truck pulled up while it was still dark outside. We loaded our entire life\u2014boxes, furniture, bins of toys\u2014into its yawning metal belly. I carried the box with my son\u2019s drawings myself, setting it carefully between a box of dishes and a suitcase of clothes.<\/p>\n

Our son bounced around in his pajamas, excited and a little confused. \u201cIs this like a vacation?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cKind of,\u201d I said, buckling him into the back seat of the car. \u201cExcept at the end, we don\u2019t come back here. We go to our new house.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOur forever house?\u201d he asked, eyes wide.<\/p>\n

I glanced at my husband over the roof of the car. We shared a look.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah,\u201d I said. \u201cOur forever house.\u201d<\/p>\n

We didn\u2019t leave a note. There was no dramatic goodbye letter taped to my parents\u2019 door, no tearful confrontation, no last\u2013minute attempt to heal decades of damage. We simply left.<\/p>\n

As we crossed the state line, I turned my phone off.<\/p>\n

It stayed off for a long time.<\/p>\n

\n

The town in Oregon was smaller than I\u2019d expected. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. Not the eerie kind, but the kind that comes from distance\u2014between houses, between neighbors, between you and whatever chaos you left behind.<\/p>\n

Our new house had a yard with actual grass. A porch swing that creaked pleasantly when the wind picked up. A big, empty living room where our son immediately started running circles, his laughter echoing off bare walls.<\/p>\n

\u201cIs this ours?\u201d he asked, breathless.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s ours,\u201d my husband said, spinning him around. \u201cAll of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

We set up beds first. Then the kitchen. Then our son\u2019s room, making sure his favorite stuffed animals were arranged exactly right on his pillow. We ordered pizza and ate it on the floor, picnic\u2013style, surrounded by boxes.<\/p>\n

For the first time in months, I slept through the night without jolting awake, convinced I\u2019d missed a call about a medication or an appointment.<\/p>\n

Days turned into weeks. I started my job remotely at first, then transferred to a branch office in town. My husband found work with a contractor friend. Our son started at his new school, nervous on the first day but running toward the playground by the third.<\/p>\n

He stopped asking when we\u2019d see his grandparents.<\/p>\n

He stopped drawing red X\u2019s.<\/p>\n

The silence from my old life was\u2026 strange. Eerie at first, then peaceful. I knew it wouldn\u2019t last. Eventually, someone would realize my phone was going straight to voicemail. Someone would stop by our old apartment and find it empty. Someone would ask someone else if they\u2019d heard from me. The ripples would spread.<\/p>\n

Two months after the move, my husband walked in from the mailbox holding an envelope with no return address. The handwriting on the front made my stomach twist.<\/p>\n

My mother\u2019s.<\/p>\n

I sat at the kitchen table and slit it open with a butter knife. Five pages, front and back, written in looping script that grew shakier as it went.<\/p>\n

The tone shifted like weather.<\/p>\n

At first, she was concerned. Worried. How could I disappear like that? Was I okay? Did I understand how much they missed me, how much they missed their grandson?<\/p>\n

By the second page, the guilt crept in. How could I do this after everything they\u2019d been through? After the accident? After all the years they\u2019d \u201csacrificed\u201d for me? How could I be so cruel as to cut them off without explanation?<\/p>\n

By page three, the anger bled through. She listed every supposed favor she\u2019d done for me over the years. School clothes. Birthday parties. Sitting through my son\u2019s kindergarten recital. Driving me to college once. She ticked them off like items on an invoice, each one proof that I was indebted to her forever.<\/p>\n

At the end, she wrote,\u00a0No matter what\u2019s happened, family is all you have. You\u2019ll realize that one day.<\/em><\/p>\n

I folded the letter along its creases and slid it back into its envelope. I didn\u2019t tear it up. I didn\u2019t throw it out. I just put it in the same drawer as my son\u2019s drawing with the red X\u2019s and closed it.<\/p>\n

The next day, an email popped up in my work inbox from an unfamiliar address with a familiar name.<\/p>\n

My sister had found my professional contact.<\/p>\n

So you\u2019re just gone now?<\/em>\u00a0the email began.\u00a0You think you\u2019re better than us? You\u2019re disgusting. A coward. I hope your kid grows up and does this to you one day.<\/em><\/p>\n

Attached was a screenshot of her bank account. The balance hovered around seventeen dollars.<\/p>\n

She had learned nothing.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t reply. I flagged the email and blocked the address\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026\u2026<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Click Here to continuous Read\u200b\u200b\u200b\u200b Full Ending Story\ud83d\udc49PART 3- \u201c\u2018You\u2019re No Longer Family\u2019\u2014So I Texted \u2018Copy\u2019 and Walked Away\u201d (Ending)<\/a><\/h1>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I thought of my grandmother again, the woman who had slipped me crumpled bills for ice cream when I was little and whispered,\u00a0You\u2019re going to be the one who gets … <\/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-2613","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2613","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2613"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2613\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2616,"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2613\/revisions\/2616"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2613"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2613"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ecolotic.store\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2613"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}