{"id":6647,"date":"2026-05-07T01:03:13","date_gmt":"2026-05-07T01:03:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/?p=6647"},"modified":"2026-05-07T01:03:13","modified_gmt":"2026-05-07T01:03:13","slug":"he-dismissed-my-bleeding-as-a-heavy-period-he-didnt-know-id-already-dialed-911-from-the-nursery-floor","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/?p=6647","title":{"rendered":"\u00a0He dismissed my bleeding as a heavy period. He didn\u2019t know I\u2019d already dialed 911 from the nursery floor."},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\u201cSTOP BEING A DRAMA QUEEN, ELARA. IT\u2019S MY BIRTHDAY, AND I WON\u2019T LET YOUR \u2018HEAVY PERIOD\u2019 RUIN THE VIBE,<\/span><\/div>\n
\u201d Mark shouted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings of our sterile, ultra-modern suburban home in <\/span>Seattle<\/strong>. He didn\u2019t look at me. He was too busy inspecting his reflection in the hallway mirror, adjusting the collar of his designer cashmere sweater. I was kneeling on the thick, cream-colored rug of our newly decorated nursery, one hand gripping the slats of the mahogany crib to keep myself upright. The other hand was pressed desperately against my abdomen. It had been ten days since I gave birth to our son,\u00a0<\/span>Leo<\/strong>. The doctor had warned me about postpartum complications, but the agonizing, tearing sensation deep in my pelvis was entirely new. The bleeding hadn\u2019t stopped; it had accelerated into a terrifying, uncontainable flow.<\/span><\/div>\n<\/header>\n
\n
\n
I clutched the side of the crib harder, my knuckles turning bone-white, my face ashen and slick with a cold, clammy sweat. \u201cMark, please,\u201d I gasped, the room beginning to tilt violently on its axis. \u201cSomething is wrong. The bleeding\u2026 it isn\u2019t stopping. I feel dizzy. I can\u2019t stand up.\u201d<\/span><\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Mark finally paused, but he didn\u2019t walk toward me. He didn\u2019t drop the expensive leather weekend duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Instead, he pulled out his phone, annoyed, and checked his new four-hundred-dollar smartwatch.\u201cEvery woman bleeds, Elara,\u201d he sighed, rolling his eyes as if I were a toddler throwing a tantrum over a toy. \u201cMy mother had four kids and never complained once. You\u2019re just trying to guilt-trip me into staying home because you\u2019re jealous I\u2019m going to the\u00a0Cascades<\/strong> with the guys. Stop being a drama queen and take an aspirin. The nanny will be here on Monday.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI need a hospital,\u201d I wheezed, my vision blurring at the edges.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need a break,\u201d he snapped back. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, blew a kiss to his own reflection in the glass, and turned on his heel. \u201cDon\u2019t call me unless the house is actually on fire. I\u2019m turning my phone on Do Not Disturb.\u201d<\/p>\n

He walked out. The heavy mahogany front door slammed shut, vibrating through the floorboards. A few seconds later, the guttural roar of his sports car engine revved to life, tearing down the driveway and fading into a suffocating silence that felt terrifyingly like a death knell.<\/p>\n

I was completely alone.<\/p>\n

I tried to drag myself upward, reaching desperately for my phone sitting on the edge of the changing table, but my legs finally gave out. They turned to lead, buckling beneath me. As I hit the floor, the impact forced the remaining air from my lungs. A dark, terrifyingly warm pool began to spread rapidly beneath me, soaking into the pristine cream-colored rug.<\/p>\n

My eyelids felt impossibly heavy. The world was shrinking to the size of a pinhole. But just before the darkness swallowed me completely, the phone on the table above vibrated, dropping to the floor beside my face. The screen lit up with a notification, glowing bright against the dimming room.<\/p>\n

Mark Vance just added to his story: \u201cResort Bound!\u00a0\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

2. The Split Screen<\/h3>\n

Time lost its shape. I was trapped in a liminal space between the agonizing, pulsing pain in my pelvis and a creeping, numb coldness that started in my fingertips and toes, slowly marching toward my heart.<\/p>\n

Above me, in his bassinet, Leo began to cry. It was a hungry, frantic wail that usually would have had me on my feet in seconds. Now, it just echoed in my ears like a siren I couldn\u2019t reach. I tried to speak, to soothe him, to shout for a neighbor, but my throat was parched sand. My lips moved, but no sound came out. I lay there in a massive pool of my own blood, my vision tunneling, my heart rate fluttering erratically like a dying bird\u2019s wing trapped behind my ribs.<\/p>\n

While my life was physically draining out of me onto the nursery floor, sixty miles away, my husband was breathing in the crisp, pine-scented air of the mountains.<\/p>\n

Through the sickening haze of my fading consciousness, the phone next to my face chimed again. The screen automatically woke, playing the video Mark had just posted.<\/p>\n

He was standing on a sprawling cedar balcony overlooking a breathtaking, snow-capped valley. He was laughing, a crystal glass of eighteen-year-old scotch catching the afternoon sunlight in his hand. Two of his fraternity brothers were cheering in the background.<\/p>\n

\u201cShout out to all the guys out there who know what it\u2019s like to deal with a \u2018high-maintenance\u2019 wife,\u201d Mark chuckled into the camera, his teeth perfectly white, his eyes devoid of anything resembling a soul. \u201cSometimes you just gotta choose yourself, you know? Self-care, boys. Happy birthday to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

The video looped.\u00a0Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me.<\/em><\/p>\n

The juxtaposition was a physical blow, heavier than the hemorrhage. He was toasting to his freedom while the woman who had just torn her body apart to give him a child was bleeding to death in the house he paid for.<\/p>\n

My eyes rolled back. The cold reached my chest. Leo\u2019s cries had turned to weak, exhausted whimpers. I closed my eyes, resigning myself to the terrifying void of narcissistic negligence I had somehow mistaken for love.<\/p>\n

But then, a sharp, metallic sound pierced the encroaching silence.<\/p>\n

It was the sound of a spare key violently turning in the front lock. Heavy, frantic footsteps pounded against the hardwood of the hallway.<\/p>\n

\u201cElara?!\u201d a voice screamed.<\/p>\n

It was\u00a0Dr. Julianna Thorne<\/strong>. My best friend since college, an ER physician who possessed the kind of fierce, protective intuition that Mark severely lacked. She had known about my postpartum struggles, and when my daily morning text hadn\u2019t arrived, and her calls had gone straight to voicemail, she didn\u2019t wait. She drove.<\/p>\n

Julianna burst into the hallway, screaming my name again, her voice cracking with pure panic. She rounded the corner into the nursery, her medical bag swinging from her shoulder.<\/p>\n

But as she reached the threshold, she stopped dead. The medical bag slipped from her grasp, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Her scream died instantly in her throat, choked off by the sheer, ungodly sight of the carnage spread across the nursery floor.<\/p>\n

3. The Ghost<\/h3>\n

I don\u2019t remember the ambulance ride. I don\u2019t remember the emergency surgery, the frantic shouting of the surgical team, or the multiple blood transfusions required to replace the massive volume I had lost to a severe secondary postpartum hemorrhage.<\/p>\n

When I finally opened my eyes, the world was a blur of sterile white tiles and the rhythmic, synthetic beep of a heart monitor. I was in the Intensive Care Unit, IV tubes snaking out of the bruised crooks of my arms.<\/p>\n

Julianna was sitting in a plastic chair next to my bed, her scrubs wrinkled, dark circles bruised beneath her eyes. As she saw me stir, she let out a choked sob and gripped my hand.<\/p>\n

My throat was raw from the intubation tube they had just removed. \u201cIs\u2026 is Leo okay?\u201d was the first rasping sound I managed to make.<\/p>\n

Julianna nodded frantically, wiping tears from her face. \u201cHe\u2019s safe, Elara. He\u2019s perfect. He was dehydrated, but he\u2019s in the pediatric wing. The nurses are feeding him. He\u2019s safe.\u201d<\/p>\n

A profound, shattering relief washed over me. But as the relief settled, something else rushed in to take its place. It wasn\u2019t sadness. It wasn\u2019t the pathetic, weeping despair of a neglected wife. It was a cold, crystalline fury. It felt like liquid nitrogen flooding my veins, hardening my spine, and freezing the remnants of my love for Mark Vance into shattered glass.<\/p>\n

I looked at the bedside table. My phone was sitting there, plugged into a charger Julianna must have brought.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long?\u201d I croaked.<\/p>\n

\u201cTwo days,\u201d Julianna whispered, her voice tightening with anger. \u201cYou\u2019ve been unconscious for forty-eight hours. They had to rebuild your uterine wall, Elara. You were minutes away from coding when I found you.\u201d<\/p>\n

I reached for my phone. My thumb swiped across the screen.<\/p>\n

Sixteen missed calls from Julianna. Five from my mother.<\/p>\n

Zero from Mark.<\/p>\n

Instead, a fresh Instagram notification sat at the top of the screen.\u00a0Mark Vance added to his story.<\/em><\/p>\n

I tapped it. The video showed Mark lounging in a plush white robe at the resort\u2019s luxury spa, cucumber slices over his eyes, a mimosa resting on the table beside him. The caption read:\u00a0Detox mode activated.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

He hadn\u2019t checked on his bleeding wife. He hadn\u2019t checked on his newborn son. For two entire days, he simply did not care if we were alive or dead.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t cry. My face didn\u2019t soften; it hardened into a mask of absolute, terrifying resolve. I reached over to my left hand with trembling fingers. I twisted the two-carat diamond engagement ring and the platinum wedding band off my finger. The metal felt alien, disgusting.<\/p>\n

I held the rings out to Julianna. She looked at them, confused.<\/p>\n

\u201cTake them,\u201d I whispered, my voice finding a steady, chilling rhythm. \u201cTake them and sell them. Use the money to hire movers. I want everything of mine, and everything of Leo\u2019s, out of that house by tomorrow night.\u201d<\/p>\n

Julianna\u2019s eyes widened. \u201cElara, you need to rest. We can handle the divorce later\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I interrupted, my grip on her wrist surprisingly strong. \u201cHe gets back tomorrow afternoon. I want the house emptied. But listen to me carefully, Jules. I want the nursery left exactly as it is. Don\u2019t clean the blood. Don\u2019t move the bassinet. Leave the bloody towels you used to compress the wound. I want the house to look exactly as it did when I fell.\u201d<\/p>\n

Julianna stared at me, the horror of my request dawning on her, followed quickly by a grim, fierce understanding.<\/p>\n

\u201cI want him to walk into an empty house,\u201d I said, staring at the blank wall opposite my bed. \u201cI want him to see the ghost of the woman he murdered.\u201d<\/p>\n

By the third day, the trap was set. From my hospital bed, I pulled up the live feed of our home\u2019s doorbell camera on my tablet. The driveway was empty. Inside, according to Julianna, the house was a hollow shell, save for the gruesome, unedited reality of the nursery.<\/p>\n

At exactly 4:00 PM, the roar of a sports car engine cut through the suburban quiet. Mark\u2019s sleek Audi pulled into the driveway. He stepped out, wearing designer sunglasses, a fresh tan on his face. He was humming a jaunty tune, carrying his leather duffel bag in one hand, and a small, crisp shopping bag from a luxury watch boutique in the other.<\/p>\n

He hadn\u2019t noticed the missing car in the garage. He hadn\u2019t noticed the silence.<\/p>\n

I watched the screen as he approached the front door, slipping his key into the lock.<\/p>\n

I pressed my finger against the glass of the tablet, right over his smiling face. \u201cWelcome home, Mark,\u201d I whispered to the empty, sterile hospital room. \u201cHope the watch was worth it.\u201d<\/p>\n

4. The Silence of the House<\/h3>\n

Mark pushed the front door open, the heavy wood swinging wide. Through the interior camera feeds Julianna had discreetly left active, I watched the psychological collapse of my husband unfold in real-time.<\/p>\n

\u201cAlright, Elara, I\u2019m back!\u201d Mark called out, his voice booming through the empty foyer. He kicked the door shut with his heel, dropping his heavy duffel bag onto the hardwood. \u201cHope you\u2019re done with the silent treatment! I brought you a keychain from the lodge!\u201d<\/p>\n

He paused. He stood in the entryway, the smile slowly faltering.<\/p>\n

There was no smell of dinner cooking. There was no hum of the television. Most importantly, there was no sound of a baby. The silence of the house was absolute, thick, and deeply unnatural.<\/p>\n

\u201cElara?\u201d he called again, annoyance creeping back into his tone. \u201cSeriously? Are you pouting upstairs?\u201d<\/p>\n

He walked past the living room, freezing mid-step. The couch was gone. The television was gone. The family photos that usually lined the mantelpiece were completely absent, leaving only stark white rectangles on the painted drywall.<\/p>\n

Confusion morphed into genuine unease. He gripped the shopping bag tighter and hurried toward the stairs.<\/p>\n

As he reached the second-floor landing, a new sensory shock hit him. It was a smell. It was heavy, metallic, and sweet\u2014the unmistakable, primal scent of dried blood and decaying iron. It was wafting directly from the nursery at the end of the hall.<\/p>\n

Mark\u2019s breathing hitched. His arrogant stride slowed into a cautious, trembling creep. He pushed the nursery door open.<\/p>\n

\u201cHope you\u2019re done with the\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

The sentence died in his mouth. The shopping bag slipped from his paralyzed fingers. It hit the hardwood floor, the impact shattering the glass face of the new, five-thousand-dollar watch inside with a sharp, pathetic\u00a0crunch<\/em>.<\/p>\n

He stared at the center of the room.<\/p>\n

The massive, dark, dried stain on the cream-colored carpet had soaked through to the floorboards. It was the distinct, undeniable silhouette of a human body\u2014my body. Beside it lay the blood-soaked towels Julianna had frantically discarded. The mahogany crib was pushed askew.<\/p>\n

The bassinet was completely, horrifyingly empty.<\/p>\n

Mark backed up, his shoulders hitting the doorframe. The color drained from his face with the speed of a falling guillotine, leaving his skin a ghostly, translucent white. The reality of his actions\u2014the \u201cdrama queen\u201d comment, the refusal to call an ambulance, the three days of complete radio silence\u2014crashed down upon him with the weight of a collapsing building.<\/p>\n

He fell to his knees, his designer slacks soaking into the edge of the dried blood.<\/p>\n

\u201cElara?\u201d he croaked, his voice a pathetic, high-pitched wheeze. His hands shook violently as he reached out, his fingertips hovering over the cold, stained carpet. \u201cOh god\u2026 oh my god. Elara? Leo?!\u201d<\/p>\n

For the first time in his perfectly curated, narcissistic life, the \u201cdrama\u201d was undeniably real, and he was staring directly at the irrefutable evidence that he was the villain of the story. He believed, in that agonizing moment, that he had killed his wife and starved his newborn son to death.<\/p>\n

He scrambled backward, clawing wildly at his pockets, pulling out his phone. He dialed 911, tears streaming down his face, his chest heaving with hysterical, ugly sobs.<\/p>\n

\u201cHelp!\u201d he screamed at the phone before the operator even answered. \u201cPlease, I just got home\u2026 my wife\u2026 there\u2019s so much blood! I think she\u2019s dead! I left her and I think she\u2019s dead!\u201d<\/p>\n

Just as the operator\u2019s voice crackled through the phone, the smart-speaker sitting on the nursery shelf\u2014the one I had synced to my phone before leaving\u2014glowed blue.<\/p>\n

My voice, channeled through the speaker, filled the blood-stained room. It was calm, steady, and terrifyingly cold.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not in that room, Mark,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

Mark shrieked, dropping his phone, staring wildly at the speaker as if it were a demon.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m alive,\u201d I continued, the digital distortion making my voice sound like a judge handing down a sentence. \u201cLeo is alive. We are currently at my lawyer\u2019s office signing the restraining order. And the police are already on their way. They have the security footage of you walking over my bleeding body to go on your vacation.\u201d<\/p>\n

I paused, letting the silence wrap around his throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cHappy birthday, Mark. The vibe is officially ruined.\u201d<\/p>\n

5. The Reckoning<\/h3>\n

The fallout was biblical.<\/p>\n

The \u201cBirthday Videos\u201d Mark had so proudly posted to his thousands of followers became the cornerstone of his absolute destruction. They weren\u2019t just poor taste anymore; they were the primary evidence in a criminal negligence and reckless endangerment lawsuit brought against him by the district attorney.<\/p>\n

Within forty-eight hours of his return, the fa\u00e7ade of his perfect life violently crumbled. The tech firm he worked for fired him under the \u201cmorals clause\u201d of his contract the moment the police report hit the local news blotter. His fraternity brothers\u2014the men he had toasted his \u201cfreedom\u201d with\u2014scattered like roaches when the lights turn on, instantly blocking his number to protect their own reputations from the radioactive fallout of his sociopathy.<\/p>\n

He was entirely, spectacularly alone.<\/p>\n

Three months later, I sat in the austere, wood-paneled courtroom for our final custody and civil liability hearing. I wore a tailored navy suit. My hair was cut sharply to my shoulders. I was no longer the fragile, gaslit woman begging for her life on a nursery floor. I was a survivor, forged in the fire of my own near-death experience.<\/p>\n

Across the aisle, Mark looked utterly pathetic. The man who used to spend an hour staring at his reflection was gone. His designer suit hung loosely on a frame that had lost fifteen pounds. His hair was unkempt, his eyes bloodshot and darting nervously around the room. His \u201ccelebrity\u201d status had been traded for the infamy of a local pariah.<\/p>\n

When he took the stand, he tried to play the victim one last time. He turned to the judge, his voice trembling with manufactured sorrow. \u201cYour Honor, I didn\u2019t know. I swear to you, I didn\u2019t know it was that bad. She always exaggerated things. If I had known she was truly in danger, I never would have left.\u201d<\/p>\n

My lawyer gestured for me to stand. The judge nodded.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t scream. I didn\u2019t cry. I walked calmly to the projector screen at the front of the court. I clicked a button.<\/p>\n

On the left side of the screen appeared the timestamp of Mark\u2019s \u201cSteak and Cigars\u201d Instagram post, geotagged at the luxury mountain resort.<\/p>\n

On the right side of the screen appeared the transcript and timestamp of my 911 call\u2014made by Julianna\u2014detailing my hemorrhagic shock and plunging blood pressure. The timestamps were exactly four minutes apart.<\/p>\n

I turned to the jury box, then looked directly into Mark\u2019s terrified eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe didn\u2019t know because he fundamentally did not care,\u201d I said, my voice echoing clearly through the silent courtroom. \u201cWhen a woman says she is bleeding to death, you do not check your watch. You do not step over her. He wanted a trophy to polish, not a wife to care for. He wanted a birthday party, not a family.\u201d<\/p>\n

The jury didn\u2019t even need to deliberate long. The judge granted me full, sole physical and legal custody of Leo. Mark was ordered to pay exorbitant restitution for my medical bills, pain, and suffering, effectively bankrupting what little savings he had left after his legal fees.<\/p>\n

As I walked out of the courthouse, stepping into the crisp, bright Seattle air a truly free woman, my phone buzzed in my purse.<\/p>\n

It was a final email forwarded from Mark\u2019s bankruptcy lawyer. Attached was a desperate plea for a reduction in alimony. In the itemized list of his liquidated assets, I saw a specific entry:\u00a0Sold: Luxury Men\u2019s Watch (Damaged face).<\/em>\u00a0He had sold the souvenir of his betrayal just to afford his defense against it.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t feel pity. I didn\u2019t feel anger. I felt nothing for him at all. I deleted the email and didn\u2019t look back.<\/p>\n

6. The Ghost in the Credits<\/h3>\n

One year later, the sterile, oppressive walls of the Seattle house were a distant, fading nightmare.<\/p>\n

I sat on the wooden porch of a small, sun-drenched cottage in the lush valleys of\u00a0Oregon<\/strong>. The air smelled of blooming lavender and fresh rain. In the grass a few yards away, Leo, a robust and wildly happy one-year-old, was taking his clumsy, joyful first steps, chasing a yellow butterfly that darted above the clover.<\/p>\n

I sat at a rustic wooden table, my laptop open. After the trial, I hadn\u2019t retreated into silence. I had channeled the cold fury of my survival into advocacy. I started writing, detailing the insidious, terrifying reality of medical gaslighting and narcissistic abuse in marriages that look perfect on the internet.<\/p>\n

I watched Leo tumble into the soft grass, giggling uncontrollably. I smiled, a genuine, deep warmth spreading through my chest. I turned back to my screen and typed the final line of my memoir.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey told me I was a drama queen for bleeding, so I decided to write a play where I was the hero, and he was just a ghost in the credits.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

I closed the laptop. I instinctively touched my hand to my abdomen. Beneath my shirt was a thick, jagged surgical scar from the emergency operation that saved my life. I didn\u2019t view it as a mark of shame or trauma anymore. It was a badge of absolute survival. I had bled out on that floor, yes, but I had grown back stronger, rooting myself in a world where my voice was finally louder than his silence.<\/p>\n

I had heard through the grapevine\u2014from a mutual acquaintance who still morbidly followed the fallout\u2014that Mark was currently working as a junior sales rep at a regional paper supply company. He lived in a cramped studio apartment. The arrogant, untouchable golden boy had been ground down into the mundane reality of the menial labor he used to mock. The \u201cBlood-Stained Carpet\u201d was gone, replaced by a life entirely of my own making.<\/p>\n

I stood up from the porch and walked out into the grass to scoop Leo up. As I lifted him into the air, spinning him around, a bright red toy truck slipped from his little hands and rolled toward the edge of the walking path that bordered our property.<\/p>\n

A man jogging down the path slowed to a stop. He picked up the plastic truck, jogging over to hand it to me. He had kind eyes, laugh lines around his mouth, and a gentle demeanor.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think you dropped this, buddy,\u201d the stranger smiled, handing it to Leo, before looking up at me. \u201cBeautiful day for it, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n

He looked at me with genuine kindness. A simple, uncomplicated human acknowledgment. A look Mark never, ever had.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt really is,\u201d I smiled back, the warmth reaching my eyes.<\/p>\n

The stranger nodded politely and continued his run. As I turned back toward the cottage with Leo on my hip, I felt a familiar buzz in the pocket of my jeans.<\/p>\n

I pulled out my phone. The caller ID glowed brightly:\u00a0Restricted Number.<\/em>\u00a0I knew who it was. The desperate, pathetic ghost trying to haunt the living. The man who realized far too late that he had thrown away gold for dirt.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t hesitate. I didn\u2019t feel a spike of adrenaline. With a single, fluid motion of my thumb, I hit \u2018Decline\u2019 and permanently blocked the caller. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, holding my son close to my chest as the afternoon sun bathed us in golden light.<\/p>\n

The drama was over. The real life had just begun.<\/p>\n

If you want more stories like this, or if you\u2019d like to share your thoughts about what you would have done in my situation, I\u2019d love to hear from you. Your perspective helps these stories reach more people, so don\u2019t be shy about commenting or sharing.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cSTOP BEING A DRAMA QUEEN, ELARA. IT\u2019S MY BIRTHDAY, AND I WON\u2019T LET YOUR \u2018HEAVY PERIOD\u2019 RUIN THE VIBE, \u201d Mark shouted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings of … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":6648,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6647","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"brizy_media":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6647","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=6647"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6647\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6649,"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6647\/revisions\/6649"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/6648"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=6647"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=6647"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/dailyreaders.store\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=6647"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}