I recognized the house immediately.<\/p>\n
Hassan’s.<\/p>\n
My stomach turned.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
The officer looked back at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI won’t go inside.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don’t have to.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen why did you bring me here?\u201d<\/p>\n
He studied me for a moment.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause you asked how we knew you were coming.\u201d<\/p>\n
He pointed toward the house.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe answer is inside.\u201d<\/p>\n
The front door opened.<\/p>\n
An elderly woman stepped outside.<\/p>\n
She was tiny, wrapped in a gray shawl, her white hair uncovered.<\/p>\n
For several seconds, I didn’t recognize her.<\/p>\n
Then she said my childhood nickname.<\/p>\n
\u201cMira.\u201d<\/p>\n
Only one person alive still called me that.<\/p>\n
My sister.<\/p>\n
\u201cLeila?\u201d<\/p>\n
She started crying.<\/p>\n
So did I.<\/p>\n
I climbed out of the police car.<\/p>\n
We embraced in the street like two women trying to recover forty missing years in thirty seconds.<\/p>\n
Leila had been fourteen when I left.<\/p>\n
Now she was fifty-four.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou sent the police?\u201d<\/p>\n
She pulled away.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen who did?\u201d<\/p>\n
Her expression changed.<\/p>\n
\u201cCome inside.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked toward the officers.<\/p>\n
One of them said:<\/p>\n
\u201cWe’ll stay.\u201d<\/p>\n
That didn’t reassure me.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
Leila squeezed my hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause Hassan is still alive.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt nineteen again.<\/p>\n
Not sixty.<\/p>\n
Not a widow.<\/p>\n
Not a mother who had worked emergency-room night shifts and held strangers’ hands while they died.<\/p>\n
Nineteen.<\/p>\n
Terrified of a thirty-six-year-old man my father had decided would make a respectable husband.<\/p>\n
\u201cHassan is eighty-three,\u201d Leila said. \u201cHe’s ill.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don’t care.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou shouldn’t.\u201d<\/p>\n
That surprised me.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen why am I here?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause this isn’t Hassan’s house anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n
She opened the door.<\/p>\n
The courtyard looked smaller than I remembered.<\/p>\n
The blue tiles were cracked.<\/p>\n
The lemon tree had grown enormous.<\/p>\n
Inside, the furniture was covered in sheets.<\/p>\n
Leila led me to a back room.<\/p>\n
On the table sat an old green metal box.<\/p>\n
I knew it.<\/p>\n
It had belonged to our mother.<\/p>\n
She kept passports, birth certificates, jewelry, and money inside it.<\/p>\n
Beside the box was a sealed envelope.<\/p>\n
My name was written across the front.<\/p>\n
SAMIRA<\/strong><\/p>\n My mother’s handwriting.<\/p>\n I touched it.<\/p>\n My knees weakened.<\/p>\n \u201cWhen did she write this?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOver many years.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOpen the box.\u201d<\/p>\n Inside were letters.<\/p>\n Dozens.<\/p>\n Some addressed to me.<\/p>\n Some to my father.<\/p>\n Some to Hassan.<\/p>\n There were also receipts.<\/p>\n Bank documents.<\/p>\n Copies of identification papers.<\/p>\n And a faded envelope containing $240 in old American currency.<\/p>\n I stared at it.<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n Leila nodded.<\/p>\n \u201cMom kept the same amount.\u201d<\/p>\n I touched the money.<\/p>\n Forty years earlier, my mother had sewn $240 into the lining of my coat.<\/p>\n Apparently, she’d kept another $240 for herself.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRead her letter.\u201d<\/p>\n My hands shook as I opened it.<\/p>\n The first line nearly destroyed me.<\/p>\n My Samira, if you are reading this in Morocco, then I was wrong about one thing: you were able to come home.<\/strong><\/p>\n I covered my mouth.<\/p>\n Leila sat beside me.<\/p>\n I continued.<\/p>\n Mom wrote that she’d spent the rest of her life carrying two opposite emotions.<\/p>\n Relief that I’d escaped.<\/p>\n And guilt that she’d sent her nineteen-year-old daughter alone across an ocean.<\/p>\n She had expected to follow me.<\/p>\n That was the first secret.<\/p>\n The ticket hadn’t been the entire plan.<\/p>\n Mom intended to leave my father after I was safely in America.<\/p>\n She’d hidden money.<\/p>\n Gathered documents.<\/p>\n Arranged to take Leila with her.<\/p>\n But three days after I escaped, everything changed.<\/p>\n Hassan came to our house.<\/p>\n Furious.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat did he do?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n Leila looked down.<\/p>\n \u201cHe accused Dad of humiliating him.\u201d<\/p>\n My father had accepted money from Hassan before the wedding.<\/p>\n Not exactly a purchase price for me, as my frightened mind immediately imagined.<\/p>\n The documents were more complicated.<\/p>\n There had been business arrangements.<\/p>\n Loans.<\/p>\n Wedding expenses.<\/p>\n Property discussions.<\/p>\n But money had changed hands, and Hassan wanted it returned.<\/p>\n My father didn’t have it.<\/p>\n He’d already used much of it to cover debts.<\/p>\n When I disappeared, Hassan threatened legal action and public scandal.<\/p>\n Then he learned something else.<\/p>\n \u201cMom helped you escape,\u201d Leila said.<\/p>\n I stared at her.<\/p>\n \u201cHe knew?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEventually.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDad told him.\u201d<\/p>\n I had spent forty years remembering my father as the man who refused to save me.<\/p>\n I’d never imagined he had actively betrayed the person who did.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat happened to Mom?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHassan threatened her.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWith what?\u201d<\/p>\n Leila shook her head.<\/p>\n \u201cNot the way you’re thinking. He didn’t drag her away. He didn’t imprison her.\u201d<\/p>\n Instead, he used the leverage available to a wealthy, influential man against a family already drowning financially.<\/p>\n There were disputes over debts.<\/p>\n Property.<\/p>\n My father’s business.<\/p>\n Accusations about money.<\/p>\n Threats to involve authorities.<\/p>\n Some were legitimate claims.<\/p>\n Others, according to Mom’s letters, were intimidation.<\/p>\n I forced myself not to turn documents I barely understood into legal conclusions.<\/p>\n Forty-year-old family records weren’t enough for that.<\/p>\n But one thing was clear.<\/p>\n My mother had been frightened enough to abandon her own plan to leave.<\/p>\n \u201cThen why did she tell me never to come back?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause for years she thought Hassan would punish you if you did.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFor forty years?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n That answer stopped me.<\/p>\n Leila opened another folder.<\/p>\n \u201cThat’s what you need to understand.\u201d<\/p>\n The danger didn’t last forty years.<\/p>\n The silence did.<\/p>\n By the 1990s, Hassan had remarried.<\/p>\n He had children.<\/p>\n His businesses expanded.<\/p>\n Whatever obsession he’d once had with my escape apparently faded.<\/p>\n My mother knew that.<\/p>\n But by then, another problem had replaced it.<\/p>\n Shame.<\/p>\n She’d spent years telling herself she’d send for me when things became safe.<\/p>\n Then five years had passed.<\/p>\n Then ten.<\/p>\n I had married Peter.<\/p>\n Had my first daughter.<\/p>\n Built a career.<\/p>\n Whenever I called home, Mom heard happiness in my voice.<\/p>\n \u201cShe thought returning would drag you back into something you’d escaped,\u201d Leila said.<\/p>\n \u201cShe could have told me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe could have let me decide.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n I looked at my sister.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy didn’t you?\u201d<\/p>\n Her face crumpled.<\/p>\n \u201cBecause I was fourteen when you left, Samira.\u201d<\/p>\n I immediately regretted the question.<\/p>\n Leila had grown up inside the consequences of my escape.<\/p>\n Dad became harsher.<\/p>\n Mom became quieter.<\/p>\n For years, my name could barely be spoken in the house without an argument.<\/p>\n When Leila eventually married, Mom made her promise never to let anyone choose her husband for her.<\/p>\n That was one thing my disappearance changed.<\/p>\n \u201cMy husband was my choice,\u201d Leila said.<\/p>\n \u201cWas he good to you?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFor twenty-six years.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWas?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe died four years ago.\u201d<\/p>\n I reached across the table.<\/p>\n Forty years.<\/p>\n We had missed almost everything.<\/p>\n Then I remembered the police.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy were they waiting for me?\u201d<\/p>\n Leila took a breath.<\/p>\n \u201cBecause Mom’s box wasn’t here when she died.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhere was it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWith Hassan.\u201d<\/p>\n I stood.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSit down.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSamira, please.\u201d<\/p>\n I remained standing.<\/p>\n \u201cHow did he get my mother’s box?\u201d<\/p>\n That was when an officer entered the room.<\/p>\n Not abruptly.<\/p>\n He knocked first.<\/p>\n \u201cMay I?\u201d<\/p>\n I nodded.<\/p>\n He introduced himself as Inspector Amine El Mansouri.<\/p>\n He explained that he wasn’t there to arrest me.<\/p>\n There was no forty-year-old warrant waiting for the runaway bride.<\/p>\n No crime attached to my name simply because I’d refused a marriage.<\/p>\n The police presence had to do with a much more recent dispute.<\/p>\n After my mother died, Leila discovered that several documents and personal items were missing from her home.<\/p>\n Among them was the green box.<\/p>\n She believed an extended family member had removed it while relatives were gathering after the funeral.<\/p>\n That person later admitted giving it to Hassan’s family.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause of papers inside concerning property,\u201d the inspector said.<\/p>\n My mother owned part of this house.<\/p>\n That was the next revelation.<\/p>\n Not because she’d secretly married Hassan.<\/p>\n Not because I had been exchanged for property.<\/p>\n Years after I fled, the financial disputes between the families had been settled partly through a transfer of an interest in the property to my mother.<\/p>\n The arrangement was documented, though its exact current legal effect required review.<\/p>\n After Mom died, questions arose over her estate.<\/p>\n Leila had notified the appropriate authorities and hired a lawyer.<\/p>\n During that process, the green box disappeared.<\/p>\n When Hassan’s adult son learned how it had reached their family, he contacted an attorney and arranged for it to be returned.<\/p>\n The police became involved because there was an active complaint regarding the missing documents.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd you knew I was arriving?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYour sister informed her lawyer,\u201d the inspector said. \u201cHer lawyer informed us because your name appears in several documents and you were expected to identify personal items.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo the police cars weren’t for me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n I almost laughed.<\/p>\n Forty years of fear had turned three parked police vehicles into an entire imaginary prosecution.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere is Hassan?\u201d<\/p>\n The inspector and Leila exchanged a glance.<\/p>\n \u201cIn a hospital,\u201d Leila said.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy did you tell me he’s still alive like it mattered?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBecause he asked to see you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou don’t have to.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI told him that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n Leila nodded.<\/p>\n \u201cThen you won’t.\u201d<\/p>\n That should have ended it.<\/p>\n For three days, it did.<\/p>\n I stayed with Leila.<\/p>\n We walked through Casablanca.<\/p>\n We visited our parents’ graves.<\/p>\n I stood over my mother’s grave for almost an hour without speaking.<\/p>\n Finally, I said:<\/p>\n \u201cYou should have trusted me enough to tell me when it became safe.\u201d<\/p>\n The wind moved through the cemetery.<\/p>\n There was no answer.<\/p>\n Death doesn’t resolve arguments.<\/p>\n It only makes them one-sided.<\/p>\n \u201cI love you,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n Then:<\/p>\n \u201cAnd I’m angry with you.\u201d<\/p>\n For the first time, I understood that both could be true.<\/p>\n On the fourth day, I asked Leila:<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does Hassan want?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don’t know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, you do.\u201d<\/p>\n She hesitated.<\/p>\n \u201cHe says he wants to apologize.\u201d<\/p>\n I laughed.<\/p>\n \u201cForty years late.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoes he think that makes a difference?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don’t know.\u201d<\/p>\n I looked toward the window.<\/p>\n \u201cIs he dying?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n That shouldn’t have mattered.<\/p>\n It did.<\/p>\n Not because dying made him deserving of forgiveness.<\/p>\n Because I realized I didn’t want to return to Chicago wondering what the man I’d feared for forty years would have said.<\/p>\n So I agreed.<\/p>\n On my terms.<\/p>\n Hospital.<\/p>\n Daytime.<\/p>\n Leila present.<\/p>\n No private meeting.<\/p>\n I could leave whenever I wanted.<\/p>\n Hassan looked impossibly small.<\/p>\n That was the first thing I noticed.<\/p>\n The man in my memory was enormous.<\/p>\n Not physically.<\/p>\n In power.<\/p>\n At nineteen, his money, age, confidence, and my father’s approval had made him feel like an institution.<\/p>\n At eighty-three, he was an old man beneath a hospital blanket.<\/p>\n He looked at me.<\/p>\n \u201cSamira.\u201d<\/p>\n I didn’t sit.<\/p>\n \u201cYou wanted to see me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo speak.\u201d<\/p>\n He closed his eyes briefly.<\/p>\n \u201cI was cruel.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat’s a small word.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI begged you to tell my father you didn’t want a wife who didn’t want you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI remember.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou told me I’d learn obedience.\u201d<\/p>\n He looked ashamed.<\/p>\n \u201cI remember that too.\u201d<\/p>\n He didn’t tell me he’d secretly loved me.<\/p>\n Thank God.<\/p>\n He didn’t claim cultural misunderstanding.<\/p>\n He didn’t blame my father.<\/p>\n He said something much simpler.<\/p>\n \u201cI believed wanting something and having the power to obtain it meant I was entitled to it.\u201d<\/p>\n I said nothing.<\/p>\n \u201cYour escape humiliated me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood.\u201d<\/p>\n He nodded.<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n That surprised me.<\/p>\n \u201cI spent years thinking what your mother did was an insult to me. I understand now that she was protecting you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid you hurt her?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot physically.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat’s not what I asked.\u201d<\/p>\n He looked at me.<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n At least he didn’t hide behind definitions.<\/p>\n Hassan told me that years after I left, he’d met my mother again during negotiations over the old financial dispute.<\/p>\n She’d said something to him he never forgot.<\/p>\n You weren’t angry because Samira didn’t love you. You were angry because she proved she could say no.<\/strong><\/p>\n I recognized my mother immediately in that sentence.<\/p>\n \u201cWhy keep her box?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI didn’t take it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy nephew brought it to my son. When I saw the letters, I read one.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou had no right.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhich one?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe one where she wrote about the airport.\u201d<\/p>\n My throat tightened.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat did it say?\u201d<\/p>\n He looked toward the window.<\/p>\n \u201cThat she sat awake until sunrise waiting for news that your plane had landed safely.\u201d<\/p>\n I looked away.<\/p>\n Hassan didn’t ask forgiveness.<\/p>\n That helped.<\/p>\n He didn’t ask me to tell him everything was fine.<\/p>\n It wasn’t.<\/p>\n Before I left, he said:<\/p>\n \u201cI was not the man you feared for forty years.\u201d<\/p>\n I turned back.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI mean I became other things. A husband. A father. A grandfather. Sometimes better. Sometimes not. But in your life, I remained thirty-six forever.\u201d<\/p>\n I stared at him.<\/p>\n He was right.<\/p>\n And then I said:<\/p>\n \u201cYou remained thirty-six because that’s the last version of you I was given.\u201d<\/p>\n He nodded.<\/p>\n \u201cThat is also true.\u201d<\/p>\n I left.<\/p>\n Hassan died two months later.<\/p>\n I did not attend his funeral.<\/p>\n The property issue took almost a year to resolve.<\/p>\n There was no secret palace waiting for me.<\/p>\n No miraculous fortune.<\/p>\n Lawyers reviewed old transfers, inheritance documents, registrations, taxes, and decades of changes.<\/p>\n Eventually, Leila and I received what our mother’s estate legally entitled us to.<\/p>\n We sold our interest rather than continue fighting over a house filled with history neither of us wanted to live inside.<\/p>\n I used part of my share to create a small nursing scholarship in my mother’s name.<\/p>\n Not because she was perfect.<\/p>\n Because she wasn’t.<\/p>\n She was a frightened woman who made one astonishingly brave decision at four in the morning.<\/p>\n That decision gave me forty years she never got to see.<\/p>\n Before returning to Chicago, I visited our old family home.<\/p>\n Another family lived there now.<\/p>\n I didn’t go inside.<\/p>\n I stood across the street and remembered a nineteen-year-old girl slipping through the darkness with one suitcase.<\/p>\n My mother had walked me halfway to the taxi.<\/p>\n At the corner, she’d stopped.<\/p>\n I remembered asking:<\/p>\n \u201cWhat about you?\u201d<\/p>\n And she’d answered:<\/p>\n \u201cDon’t worry about me.\u201d<\/p>\n For forty years, I’d obeyed that instruction too.<\/p>\n I had built such a complete wall between my American life and Morocco that eventually I stopped asking what it had cost the woman who opened the door for me.<\/p>\n Leila drove me to the airport.<\/p>\n This time there were no police cars waiting.<\/p>\n At security, she hugged me.<\/p>\n \u201cDon’t wait another forty years.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don’t have another forty.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThen definitely don’t wait.\u201d<\/p>\n I laughed.<\/p>\n Six months later, she visited Chicago.<\/p>\n My daughters met the aunt they’d known mostly through birthday cards and occasional video calls.<\/p>\n My grandchildren made her pronounce their names properly.<\/p>\n She complained about Chicago wind.<\/p>\n I told her Casablanca traffic was worse.<\/p>\n We argued like sisters who had lost four decades and were determined to waste no more time being polite.<\/p>\n I’m sixty-one now.<\/p>\n For years, when people asked why I’d never gone back to Morocco, I said:<\/p>\n \u201cMy mother told me not to.\u201d<\/p>\n It was easier than saying I was still afraid.<\/p>\n Afraid of Hassan.<\/p>\n Afraid of my father’s memory.<\/p>\n Afraid of discovering my mother regretted helping me.<\/p>\n Afraid that returning would somehow turn me back into the nineteen-year-old girl whose future other people had already negotiated.<\/p>\n None of that happened.<\/p>\n I returned as myself.<\/p>\n A nurse.<\/p>\n A widow.<\/p>\n A mother.<\/p>\n A grandmother.<\/p>\n A woman who had spent forty years making her own decisions.<\/p>\n I still have the original airline ticket.<\/p>\n My mother had kept the receipt in the green box.<\/p>\n Beside it was a note she’d written the morning after I escaped.<\/p>\n Only three lines:<\/p>\n Samira is gone.<\/strong><\/p>\n She is safe.<\/strong><\/p>\n For the first time, her life belongs to her.<\/strong><\/p>\n That’s what I wish I could tell the nineteen-year-old version of myself.<\/p>\n She thought she was running away with one suitcase and $240.<\/p>\n She wasn’t.<\/p>\n She was carrying something much more valuable out of that house.<\/p>\n The right to decide what happened next.<\/p>\n And forty years later, when three police cars waited outside the airport and every old fear came rushing back, I finally understood something my mother had tried to give me before dawn in 1986:<\/p>\n Leaving saved me once.<\/p>\n But coming back proved that the life I’d built was finally strong enough that I no longer had to keep running<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I recognized the house immediately. Hassan’s. My stomach turned. \u201cNo.\u201d The officer looked back at me. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d \u201cI won’t go inside.\u201d \u201cYou don’t have to.\u201d \u201cThen why did you bring me here?\u201d He studied me for a moment. \u201cBecause you asked how we knew you were coming.\u201d He pointed toward the house. \u201cThe […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5187,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-9258","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-interesting"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9258","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=9258"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9258\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9259,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9258\/revisions\/9259"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/5187"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=9258"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=9258"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tappyli.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=9258"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n