\u201cMom, the lady isn\u2019t her mom.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I felt the playground tilt sideways. The woman in the dark glasses gripped Sophie\u2019s arm tighter. The little girl let out another whimper, and this time, several mothers heard it. One dropped her cup of lemonade. Another pulled her own child back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDon\u2019t get involved, ma\u2019am,\u201d the woman said, looking at me as if I were nothing more than a gnat. \u201cI\u2019m her aunt.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThen let her go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThe child is under my care.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWell, you\u2019re hurting her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Miller tried to step between us. \u201cMs. Rose, please, there are children here\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rose. Finally, a name.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman smiled, but it was no longer stiff\u2014it was a threat. \u201cExactly, teacher. There are children. It wouldn\u2019t be wise to cause a scene.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie looked toward the school gate, then at the backpack, then at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy mom didn\u2019t leave,\u201d she repeated, her lips barely moving. \u201cShe\u2019s at the house.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The teacher turned ashen. \u201cSophie\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rose covered the girl\u2019s mouth with her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was the moment I stopped caring about shame, manners, or school protocols. I grabbed Sophie by the other wrist\u2014carefully\u2014and told Camie:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGo to the principal\u2019s office. Now. Tell them to call 911.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rose lunged for my daughter. \u201cDon\u2019t you dare!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But Camie took off like she had wings on her sneakers. She zigzagged across the playground, dodged the raffle booths and the refreshment stands, knocked over a stack of soda bottles, and bolted into the main office before anyone could stop her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rose dug her nails into my skin. \u201cYou have no idea who you\u2019re messing with.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m messing with a little girl who smells like a cry for help,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t know where those words came from. Maybe from the fear. Maybe from the guilt. Maybe from Sophie\u2019s face\u2014she still wasn\u2019t crying loudly, as if she\u2019d already learned that making noise only made things worse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The principal came running out with her phone in her hand. Camie was behind her, panting, her hair bow coming undone. \u201cMom, they called! And the teacher also called the local police station.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rose let go of Sophie so hard the girl stumbled. \u201cYou\u2019re all going to regret this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She tried to walk away, but two dads stepped in front of the gate. They weren\u2019t superheroes\u2014you could see the fear in their eyes\u2014but they didn\u2019t budge. Sometimes courage doesn\u2019t look like courage; sometimes it looks like a dad in a local sports jersey blocking a furious woman while his hands shake inside his pockets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The principal asked Rose to wait in the office. \u201cNot a chance,\u201d Rose spat back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, Sophie spoke up. \u201cShe has my backpack.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We all turned. Rose wasn\u2019t holding it anymore, but her eyes flicked toward the lemonade stand. There, next to an ice bucket, was Sophie\u2019s old, tattered backpack. Camie ran over before anyone could stop her and hugged it to her chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rose transformed. \u201cGive it to me!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stepped in front of my daughter. \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s mine!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo. It belongs to Sophie.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The principal ordered Ms. Miller to take the rest of the children back to the classrooms. Some moms complained; others obeyed. The carnival dissolved in seconds: the smell of street corn, the stews the grandmothers were selling, the raffle, the music\u2014it all became background noise. Everything fell away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie opened the backpack. There were no toys inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was a change of clothes, an old ID card for a woman named Marisol Hernandez, a powered-off cell phone, a half-empty blister pack of antibiotics, and a napkin with an address written on it:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGray building. Rooftop unit. Don\u2019t let Rose throw away the key.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie started to tremble so violently that I pulled her into a hug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rose reached into her pocket. I saw her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe has the key!\u201d I shouted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A dad grabbed her wrist before she could pull it out. She fought, she insulted us, she screamed that she was going to sue us for kidnapping, that the girl was a liar, that her mother was a \u201cdrug addict who had abandoned her.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie shook her head. \u201cMy mom wasn\u2019t a drug addict. She did cleaning work. She fell because Rose pushed her. Then she got a fever. Then she started to smell bad.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The schoolyard went deathly cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Miller covered her mouth. \u201cHow long, Sophie?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The little girl stared at her worn-out shoes. \u201cSince before Monday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The guilt hit me with such force I almost buckled. Since Monday. Five days in a classroom, in a school, surrounded by adults, carrying a backpack that was a silent plea for help. And all we had seen was a \u201cdirty\u201d little girl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The patrol car arrived first. Then the Child Protective Unit. Then an ambulance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The police didn\u2019t fully understand until the principal handed over the bag with the stained blouse, the ID, the napkin, and the phone. A young officer with her hair in a tight bun crouched in front of Sophie. \u201cSweetheart, I need to know if your mom is alive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie squeezed my hand. \u201cI don\u2019t know. Yesterday, she didn\u2019t answer when I left her some water.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Rose screamed: \u201cThat woman left! The girl is making this up to get attention!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie turned toward her with a fury I had never seen in her before. \u201cShe\u2019s not making it up! I heard her crying in the school bathroom! She was scared to go back because Rose told her if she talked, her mom would run out of air!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nobody doubted it anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They loaded us into two vehicles. Sophie went with the officer and a social worker. Camie clung to me and refused to let go of the backpack. Ms. Miller sat in the back of the patrol car, weeping silently, repeating, \u201cI sent notices. I thought it was neglect. I didn\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t know either. But that didn\u2019t save anyone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The address was in a working-class neighborhood in an older building\u2014one of those places with narrow stairs, laundry hanging between windows, and neighbors who knew everything but had learned to look the other way. We passed through busy streets, past taco stands that were just lighting up, through a crowded subway station, through streets where the city seemed just as noisy and indifferent as ever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie didn\u2019t speak. She only repeated: \u201cThe room upstairs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When we arrived, Rose was already in another patrol car, cuffed. She was yelling that this was an abuse of power. That she was just taking care of the girl because her sister had left. That no one had the right to meddle in other people\u2019s families.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A neighbor appeared at the door. \u201cFinally?\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The officer looked at her. \u201cYou knew?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman looked down. \u201cWe heard thuds. Then we didn\u2019t. The girl would go up with glasses of water. Rose said her sister was crazy, told us not to open the door.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The officer clenched her jaw. \u201cLet\u2019s go.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We went up. The smell started on the third floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn\u2019t just \u201cdirty.\u201d Camie was right. It was like rotting meat, like a dead refrigerator, like something alive fighting against infection. I covered my mouth. Sophie tried to run toward the door, but the social worker held her back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t go in, sweetie. Adults go first.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The key was in Rose\u2019s pocket. The door to the rooftop unit opened with a high-pitched screech. Inside, there was very little light, a bucket, a mattress, and a woman on the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marisol. Sophie\u2019s mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was alive. I don\u2019t know how, but she was alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The paramedics rushed in. One called for an IV. Another told everyone to clear the room. The woman had a high fever, a leg bandaged with filthy rags, and a wound that needed no words to explain the odor. Marisol barely opened her eyes when she heard Sophie\u2019s voice from the hallway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMy girl\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie broke away from the social worker, but they stopped her with tenderness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom is alive,\u201d I said, kneeling in front of her. \u201cShe\u2019s alive.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then, Sophie cried. She cried as if she finally had permission. Camie hugged her. My daughter, the girl I had almost scolded for being \u201crude,\u201d held Sophie while we adults ran late behind the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They found more things in the room: Marisol\u2019s pay stubs, a notebook with phone numbers, Sophie\u2019s documents, an assistance card that Rose had been using, and messages where she told someone that \u201cthe sister wouldn\u2019t give us any more trouble\u201d and that the girl \u201cwas useful for collecting checks as long as she didn\u2019t talk.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The officer didn\u2019t say much. She didn\u2019t have to. Rose stopped yelling when she saw them carrying Marisol out on a stretcher.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI didn\u2019t lock her in,\u201d she muttered. \u201cShe fell on her own.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie lifted her face. \u201cYou told her if she went to the doctor, you\u2019d take me away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The sentence was small. But it shut Rose up for good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marisol was rushed to the General Hospital. We ended up at the Justice Center for Women because Sophie needed protection, an accompanied statement, and a medical exam. I learned then that those centers exist to help women, girls, and boys who are victims of domestic violence, staffed by psychologists, lawyers, and social workers who don\u2019t look at you like a problem, but like someone who arrived broken.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They gave Sophie clean clothes. She wouldn\u2019t bathe until Camie promised to wait for her outside with the backpack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I called my husband. I only said:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCome here. Camie saved a little girl.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He didn\u2019t ask if I was overreacting. He showed up with a bag of pastries and two sweaters because, in our family, no one knows how to face a tragedy without bringing food or warmth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night, Sophie slept in a shelter room, with Camie sitting in a chair next to her until they asked her to get some rest. My daughter didn\u2019t want to leave.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat if Rose comes back?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The psychologist told her, \u201cThere are guards here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie replied, \u201cThere were adults at school, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one knew how to answer that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I did. I knelt in front of her and took her hands.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re right. We adults failed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie looked at me with puffy eyes. \u201cI told you she smelled funny.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAnd you scolded me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t want to make excuses. I didn\u2019t want to say, \u201cI didn\u2019t know,\u201d even though it was true. Sometimes, apologizing with \u201cbuts\u201d is just another way of not listening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cForgive me, honey. I should have asked you first.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie took a moment. \u201cSophie said nobody believed her because adults are always in a rush.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It stung. Because it was the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Over the following days, Marisol fought for her life. She had a severe infection, dehydration, old injuries, and a fear that woke up with every sound. The doctors said she arrived just in time\u2014but barely. That word, barely, followed me like a shadow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie stayed under temporary protection. Rose faced charges for domestic violence, failure to render aid, kidnapping, and whatever else the DA determined. They also investigated a man who had helped her move money from Marisol\u2019s cards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The school had to answer for it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The principal called a meeting. It wasn\u2019t like a normal school meeting, with coffee, cookies, and complaints about homework. This time, there were representatives from Social Services, a psychologist, and two ladies from the school board crying with shame. They talked about red flags: lingering smells, stained clothes, fear of leaving with certain adults, constant hunger, recurring injuries, behavioral changes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I listened, and I watched Sophie standing by the raffle booth, clutching her backpack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One mom whispered, \u201cBut you can\u2019t get involved in everything.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stood up. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t everything. It was a little girl with a bag of stained clothes asking for help.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The woman looked down. I didn\u2019t say it to humiliate her. I said it because I, too, had wanted to hide behind the phrase, \u201cIt\u2019s not my business.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie went back to school a week later. Sophie didn\u2019t. My daughter sat alone at recess, next to the tree where they used to share potato chips. When the other kids started asking if Sophie \u201cstank because she was poor,\u201d Camie stood up on a bench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSophie smelled like that because her mom was sick and no one helped her,\u201d she said. \u201cIf you call her stinky again, I\u2019m telling your moms and the principal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They called me because of that. I went. The principal told me Camie shouldn\u2019t \u201cexpose herself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at my daughter, her hands folded, her mouth set in a hard line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019d rather teach her to speak up well than to be quiet nicely.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They didn\u2019t call me in again for that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marisol didn\u2019t fully wake up until ten days later. The first thing she asked for was to see Sophie. They brought her in with a psychologist, a social worker, and a doctor. I was in the hall with Camie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We heard the girl\u2019s scream: \u201cMom!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
After that, we didn\u2019t hear anything else, because even the hallways know how to respect certain hugs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marisol asked to see me the next day. I walked into the room feeling ashamed, as if I, too, had been late to her confinement. She was still a young woman, but the illness had stolen years from her. Her face was gaunt, her hands were veiny, and she had the eyes of someone who had returned from a place without windows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThank you for believing your daughter,\u201d she told me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I broke. \u201cI almost didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marisol nodded. \u201cBut almost isn\u2019t never.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t know what to answer. She looked at Camie, who was by the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou saved my Sophie.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My daughter shrank back. \u201cI just said she smelled funny.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marisol smiled through tears. \u201cSometimes God gives children a real nose because adults have our conscience plugged up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie walked over and handed her the old backpack. Sophie had asked us to keep it for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHere it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marisol hugged it like it was a treasure. \u201cThat backpack was her courage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Months passed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Marisol left the hospital with a cane and a pile of medical appointments. Sophie didn\u2019t go back to live with her immediately; first, there were check-ins, support systems, therapy, and a distant aunt in the suburbs who turned out to be safe family. Camie and Sophie kept seeing each other on Saturdays at the park, where we\u2019d buy street corn and they\u2019d play nearby without wandering too far.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie kept hugging backpacks.
Camie kept observing a little too much for her age.
I kept learning not to confuse bad manners with an alarm.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One evening, as we walked home, we passed a wall with a flyer stuck to it:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIf you see child abuse, report it. Don\u2019t be indifferent.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie read it out loud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom, does indifference have a smell, too?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The question left me speechless. I thought about the schoolyard, the moms turning their faces away, the teacher talking about \u201cprocedures,\u201d and me squeezing my daughter\u2019s hand to make her apologize.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I finally said. \u201cIt smells like when something is rotting and everyone pretends it isn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie nodded, serious. \u201cThen we have to say it, even if it\u2019s embarrassing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I squeezed her hand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEven if it\u2019s embarrassing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The day Sophie went back to class, the school held a small carnival. No big speeches. No turning it into a sad fairy tale. There was lemonade, Jell-O, snacks, and a drawing table. Sophie arrived in a clean uniform, wearing new shoes donated by a mom who had never spoken to her before, her hair braided by Marisol.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When she walked in, some kids stared. Camie walked up to her. She didn\u2019t hug her right away. She asked first:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cCan I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then they hugged.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I watched them from the door, and I felt something in my chest\u2014shattered since that Friday\u2014find a different way to heal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Ms. Miller approached me. \u201cLaura, I\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I didn\u2019t let her finish quickly. Not out of cruelty, but because there were apologies that needed to be spoken in full.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI should have acted sooner,\u201d she finally said. \u201cI saw signs. I thought that if I followed the protocol quietly, it would be enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I looked at Sophie, who was starting to smile while Camie showed her a raffle ticket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSilence is also a decision, teacher.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She nodded. \u201cWe\u2019ve changed several things already.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI hope it\u2019s not just out of guilt.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo. It\u2019s for them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That, I believed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the end of the carnival, Sophie won a teddy bear. She offered it to Camie. \u201cFor the backpack thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Camie shook her head. \u201cYou keep it. But if you ever smell anything funny, you tell me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sophie let out a laugh. Small. Rusty. But a laugh.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They both ran toward the marble game.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I kept watching my daughter\u2014that girl who embarrassed me in public and taught me courage in private. I thought about all the adults who tell children to be quiet so we aren\u2019t inconvenienced, to be polite before they are honest, not to point out what smells bad even if the stench is coming from a life rotting behind a closed door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night, as I tucked Camie in, she hugged me tight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAre you going to believe me now when I say something weird?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stroked her hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNow, I\u2019m going to ask questions first.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEven if there are other moms watching?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cEven if there are other moms watching.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I turned off the light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The noise of the city drifted in through the window: a tamale vendor, a barking dog, a car passing over wet pavement. The city remained huge, noisy, distracted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But in my house, something had shifted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I would no longer teach my daughter to swallow the warning signs out of shame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because that afternoon, I understood that the truth, when it comes out of a child\u2019s mouth, sometimes arrives clumsy, uncomfortable, and poorly phrased.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sometimes it arrives saying:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMom, my friend smells funny.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And if a mother truly listens, she might discover it wasn\u2019t cruelty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was a door knocking from the inside.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u201cMom, the lady isn\u2019t her mom.\u201d I felt the playground tilt sideways. The woman in the dark glasses gripped Sophie\u2019s arm tighter. The little girl let out… <\/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-346","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/346","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=346"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/346\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":349,"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/346\/revisions\/349"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=346"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=346"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ustinh.top\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=346"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}