I sat in the front row with a white coat folded across my lap, my fingers resting on the embroidery I had turned carefully out of sight.<\/p>\n
The dean was still reading names from a card at the podium.<\/p>\n
![\"Image\"](\"https:\/\/cdn.duatop.net\/t1-chainityai\/2026\/05\/img_a1f11069e4594_0ae5b8f9.png\")
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Behind him, a small American flag stood beside the stage, barely moving in the air from the vents.<\/p>\n
I had dreamed of this day so many times that I thought I would feel only relief when it finally came.<\/p>\n
Instead, I felt the past sitting three rows behind me.<\/p>\n
Karen Higgins was in the reserved family section.<\/p>\n
Thomas Higgins sat beside her.<\/p>\n
Megan was on the aisle with her phone balanced in her palm.<\/p>\n
My biological family had arrived like guests at a celebration they had paid for, earned, and endured.<\/p>\n
They smiled for strangers.<\/p>\n
They accepted congratulations from people who did not know what they had done.<\/p>\n
Karen leaned toward my father and whispered, just loudly enough for me to hear, \u201cShe owes us this moment after everything.\u201d<\/p>\n
I did not turn around.<\/p>\n
There are some sentences that do not hurt because they are new.<\/p>\n
They hurt because they prove nothing changed.<\/p>\n
Fifteen years earlier, I had been thirteen years old in Room 314 at St. Jude\u2019s Medical Center, sitting in a paper hospital gown that scratched my knees.<\/p>\n
My legs were too short to reach the floor, so my heels tapped the metal base of the examination table.<\/p>\n
I remember the smell first.<\/p>\n
Antiseptic.<\/p>\n
Plastic tubing.<\/p>\n
Fake flowers from an air freshener plugged into the wall.<\/p>\n
Dr. Robert Lawson sat across from my parents with a tablet in his hand and the careful face adults wear when they are about to say something that splits a childhood in half.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is acute lymphoblastic leukemia,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
He looked at me first.<\/p>\n
That mattered later.<\/p>\n
At the time, I only knew that he had said leukemia, and that the room seemed to tilt.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is the most common type of childhood cancer,\u201d he continued. \u201cWith aggressive chemotherapy, Emily\u2019s survival rate is around eighty-five to ninety percent.\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard good odds.<\/p>\n
I heard treatable.<\/p>\n
I heard the possibility that somebody might still reach for my hand.<\/p>\n
My mother sat near the window with her purse locked in both hands.<\/p>\n
My father stood with his arms crossed.<\/p>\n
Megan, sixteen years old and already treated like the family investment, tapped on her phone as if my diagnosis had made us late for something.<\/p>\n
My father asked one question.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow much?\u201d<\/p>\n
Dr. Lawson paused.<\/p>\n
I was too young to understand every detail of insurance, but I understood that the air changed.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe full treatment protocol usually lasts two to three years,\u201d he said. \u201cWith your insurance, your out-of-pocket responsibility may fall somewhere between sixty and one hundred thousand dollars, though there are assistance programs and payment options.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father laughed once.<\/p>\n
It was not a laugh that belonged in a hospital room.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re telling me we have to pay a hundred grand because she got sick?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThomas,\u201d my mother whispered.<\/p>\n
She sounded embarrassed.<\/p>\n
Not afraid.<\/p>\n
Not heartbroken.<\/p>\n
Embarrassed.<\/p>\n
Dr. Lawson leaned forward and said treatment needed to begin immediately.<\/p>\n
My father looked past him.<\/p>\n
\u201cMegan is applying to colleges next year,\u201d he said. \u201cStanford, Harvard, maybe Yale.\u201d<\/p>\n
Megan did not look up.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe\u2019ve saved since she was born,\u201d he continued. \u201cWe have one hundred and eighty thousand dollars in her college fund, and we are not wiping out her future over this.\u201d<\/p>\n
I waited for somebody to correct him.<\/p>\n
I waited for my mother to say I was also his daughter.<\/p>\n
I waited for Megan to be annoyed with him, not with me.<\/p>\n
No one did.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere are resources,\u201d Dr. Lawson said, and the calm in his voice had turned hard around the edges. \u201cEmily is a child. She needs treatment, not a financial debate in front of her.\u201d<\/p>\n
My mother finally spoke clearly.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe are not taking charity,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat would people in our neighborhood think if they found out we were on welfare?\u201d<\/p>\n
I remember staring at her purse.<\/p>\n
It had a gold clasp shaped like a knot.<\/p>\n
I stared at it because looking at her face hurt too much.<\/p>\n
My father asked whether I could become a ward of the state.<\/p>\n
He said Medicaid would cover everything that way.<\/p>\n
He said it like he had found a coupon.<\/p>\n
Dr. Lawson stood halfway out of his chair.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou cannot be serious.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe have another daughter to think about,\u201d my mother said.<\/p>\n
Then my father looked at me.<\/p>\n
Really looked at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cMegan has potential,\u201d he said. \u201cShe is brilliant, focused, extraordinary. You have always been average, Emily, and we are not sacrificing a promising future for an average one.\u201d<\/p>\n
Cancer had frightened me.<\/p>\n
Their math erased me.<\/p>\n
I did not scream.<\/p>\n
I did not throw anything.<\/p>\n
I was a child, and I did what children do when the adults in the room decide their value out loud.<\/p>\n
I tried to become smaller.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m your daughter too,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n
My voice broke on daughter.<\/p>\n
Dr. Lawson pushed his chair back so hard it scraped the floor.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am going to ask you to leave this room now while I speak to Emily privately.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe are her parents,\u201d Karen snapped.<\/p>\n
\u201cLeave,\u201d he said, \u201cor I will call security and social services this second.\u201d<\/p>\n
Thomas looked offended.<\/p>\n
Karen looked humiliated.<\/p>\n
Megan looked bored.<\/p>\n
They left without hugging me.<\/p>\n
They left without touching my shoulder.<\/p>\n
They left without saying they loved me.<\/p>\n
The door closed behind them with a soft click.<\/p>\n
That sound stayed with me longer than the word leukemia.<\/p>\n
Within an hour, Susan Myers from social services came in with a clipboard and tired, kind eyes.<\/p>\n
Within two hours, I had been admitted to pediatric oncology.<\/p>\n
Within three hours, my parents had signed emergency custody papers giving the state temporary responsibility for me.<\/p>\n
No goodbye.<\/p>\n
No note.<\/p>\n
No return to the room after they calmed down.<\/p>\n
The first night after that was darker than any room with lights on should have been.<\/p>\n
Machines beeped beside my bed.<\/p>\n
Clear bags of fluid hung from hooks.<\/p>\n
The hallway outside my door glowed with a soft hospital brightness that made loneliness feel official.<\/p>\n
I was not thinking about dying by then.<\/p>\n
I was thinking that if I died, maybe my parents would feel relieved that the bill had stopped growing.<\/p>\n
Then Laura Davidson walked into my room.<\/p>\n
She was thirty-four, with dark curly hair tied back, blue scrubs, worn sneakers, and a smile that did not ask me to perform happiness for her.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey there, Emily,\u201d she said gently. \u201cI\u2019m Laura. I\u2019m going to be your night nurse.\u201d<\/p>\n
I turned my face toward the window.<\/p>\n
\u201cI feel terrible.\u201d<\/p>\n
She did not tell me to be brave.<\/p>\n
She did not say everything happened for a reason.<\/p>\n
She checked my monitors, pulled a chair beside my bed, and sat like she had decided I was not a task to finish.<\/p>\n
\u201cI heard what happened today,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd I am so sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
I cried so hard my ribs hurt.<\/p>\n
Laura handed me tissues and stayed.<\/p>\n
That was the first thing she gave me.<\/p>\n
She stayed.<\/p>\n
Later that night, she came back with a deck of cards and crackers she called hospital treasure.<\/p>\n
We played until nearly two in the morning.<\/p>\n
She told me about her fat cat, Waffles, her small house fifteen minutes from the hospital, and the mystery podcasts she listened to while folding laundry.<\/p>\n
She told me her little brother had survived leukemia years earlier.<\/p>\n
She told me watching him suffer had made her want to become the kind of nurse who stayed when things got ugly.<\/p>\n
My parents did not visit the next day.<\/p>\n
Or the next week.<\/p>\n
Or the week after that.<\/p>\n
Chemotherapy stole my appetite first.<\/p>\n
Then it stole my strength.<\/p>\n
Then it took my hair in clumps that stuck to my pillow and shower drain.<\/p>\n
Laura was there with clean blankets, bad jokes, a soft knit cap, and the kind of practical tenderness that did not need a speech to be real.<\/p>\n
She learned that I hated grape gelatin.<\/p>\n
She learned that I liked the door cracked at night.<\/p>\n
She learned that I pretended not to be scared when new tubing came in, because I thought scared girls got left behind.<\/p>\n
On the twenty-eighth day, Dr. Lawson told me I was responding beautifully.<\/p>\n
He said outpatient care could begin soon.<\/p>\n
Susan arrived with a folder and explained that they had found a foster placement.<\/p>\n
Laura was supposed to be off duty.<\/p>\n
She was still standing beside my bed.<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to take her,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
Susan went still.<\/p>\n
So did I.<\/p>\n
\u201cI want to foster Emily,\u201d Laura repeated. \u201cI\u2019m already state-approved, and I know exactly what her medical needs are.\u201d<\/p>\n
Susan warned her about the commitment.<\/p>\n
Medications.<\/p>\n
Appointments.<\/p>\n
School coordination.<\/p>\n
Emergency plans.<\/p>\n
County paperwork.<\/p>\n
Laura did not flinch.<\/p>\n
Then she turned to me.<\/p>\n
\u201cOnly if you want to come home with me.\u201d<\/p>\n
For the first time since Room 314, I felt something rise inside me that was not fear.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I whispered. \u201cPlease.\u201d<\/p>\n
Laura\u2019s house was small, with a front porch, a mailbox that leaned slightly to one side, and a little American flag stuck in a planter by the steps because her neighbor gave it to her every summer.<\/p>\n
Waffles hated me for three days, then slept on my feet like I had always belonged there.<\/p>\n
Laura set alarms for my medication.<\/p>\n
She taped appointment cards to the refrigerator.<\/p>\n
She drove me to treatment when snow iced the roads and to school when I was strong enough to return.<\/p>\n
She never called me average.<\/p>\n
She called me stubborn when I needed to drink water.<\/p>\n
She called me brilliant when I passed algebra after missing half the semester.<\/p>\n
She called me kiddo even when I rolled my eyes and pretended I was too old for it.<\/p>\n
The adoption did not happen overnight.<\/p>\n
Nothing official ever does.<\/p>\n
There were hearings, home visits, signed reports, medical updates, school records, and the kind of waiting that makes a child afraid to unpack too much.<\/p>\n
But Laura kept showing up.<\/p>\n
Dr. Lawson wrote letters.<\/p>\n
Susan filed what needed filing.<\/p>\n
And eventually, the last name on my school forms changed.<\/p>\n
Higgins became Davidson.<\/p>\n
I did not think a name could feel like shelter until I had one that had been chosen for me with love.<\/p>\n
Years passed in the ordinary hard way.<\/p>\n
Remission.<\/p>\n
Checkups.<\/p>\n
College applications.<\/p>\n
Scholarships.<\/p>\n
Late nights with textbooks and cold coffee.<\/p>\n
Laura worked extra shifts when I needed help with fees, and I worked whatever campus jobs I could find.<\/p>\n
I became the person my father had declared I was not worth becoming.<\/p>\n
Not to prove him wrong at first.<\/p>\n
Survival came before revenge.<\/p>\n
But eventually, the life I built became evidence.<\/p>\n
Medical school was not glamorous.<\/p>\n
It was exhaustion with a library card.<\/p>\n
It was ramen, anatomy labs, aching feet, and calling Laura from stairwells when I thought I could not memorize one more pathway.<\/p>\n
She always answered.<\/p>\n
Sometimes she said, \u201cCry for ten minutes, then eat something.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sometimes she said, \u201cYou are allowed to be tired without quitting.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sometimes she just stayed on the phone while I breathed.<\/p>\n
On graduation morning, she helped me steam my dress in the laundry room.<\/p>\n
She fussed over my collar like I was still thirteen.<\/p>\n
Then she lifted the white coat from its hanger.<\/p>\n
Dr. Emily Davidson was stitched over the heart.<\/p>\n
Laura touched the embroidery with two fingers.<\/p>\n
She did not cry then.<\/p>\n
Neither did I.<\/p>\n
We both knew we needed all our makeup intact for later.<\/p>\n
When we reached the auditorium, staff directed graduates one way and families another.<\/p>\n
Laura squeezed my hand before leaving me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll be right where you can see me,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I believed her because she had spent fifteen years proving it.<\/p>\n
I did not know Karen, Thomas, and Megan would be there until I saw them taking seats in the reserved family section.<\/p>\n
At first, I thought I had imagined them.<\/p>\n
Then Karen smiled at a woman beside her and pointed toward me, proud and practiced.<\/p>\n
Thomas accepted a program from an usher.<\/p>\n
Megan crossed her legs and unlocked her phone.<\/p>\n
My body remembered Room 314 before my mind caught up.<\/p>\n
The soft door click.<\/p>\n
The gold clasp on Karen\u2019s purse.<\/p>\n
The word average.<\/p>\n
I looked for Laura and found her near the side of the stage.<\/p>\n
She saw my face change.<\/p>\n
She did not rush over.<\/p>\n
She did not make the day about panic.<\/p>\n
She pressed her hand to her chest once, a small signal only I understood.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m here.<\/p>\n
So I stayed in my seat.<\/p>\n
When Karen whispered that I owed them this moment, I almost laughed.<\/p>\n
Not because it was funny.<\/p>\n
Because some people will abandon the work and still arrive for the applause.<\/p>\n
The dean stepped to the microphone.<\/p>\n
He welcomed the families.<\/p>\n
He praised the graduates.<\/p>\n
He spoke about service, resilience, and the privilege of caring for others.<\/p>\n
Then he lifted a separate card.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd now,\u201d he said, \u201cit is my honor to recognize this year\u2019s valedictorian.\u201d<\/p>\n
My fingers tightened on the white coat.<\/p>\n
\u201cDr. Emily Davidson.\u201d<\/p>\n
The applause started before I moved.<\/p>\n
Behind me, Karen made a small broken sound.<\/p>\n
I stood.<\/p>\n
The coat unfolded in my hands, and the embroidery became visible.<\/p>\n
Davidson.<\/p>\n
Not Higgins.<\/p>\n
Thomas stared at the name like it was a verdict.<\/p>\n
Megan\u2019s phone lowered slowly into her lap.<\/p>\n
Karen\u2019s smile disappeared so completely that the woman beside her leaned away.<\/p>\n
I walked to the stage.<\/p>\n
Every step felt longer than it was.<\/p>\n
The dean shook my hand and then turned back to the microphone.<\/p>\n
\u201cDr. Davidson has asked that her first white coat be presented by the woman listed in her student file as her mother, emergency contact, medical advocate, and family.\u201d<\/p>\n
Laura stepped onto the stage.<\/p>\n
She was wearing a navy dress and low heels, but I saw the nurse in her anyway.<\/p>\n
I saw the woman who had brought cards to my hospital bed.<\/p>\n
I saw the woman who sat through fevers, test results, school conferences, and bad nights without once making me feel expensive.<\/p>\n
The applause changed when people understood.<\/p>\n
It became softer first, then louder.<\/p>\n
Karen covered her mouth.<\/p>\n
Thomas leaned toward the aisle like he wanted to leave but could not bear being seen leaving.<\/p>\n
Laura reached me and opened the coat.<\/p>\n
Her hands trembled.<\/p>\n
\u201cReady, Emily?\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
It was the same question she had asked before procedures, before court dates, before college drop-off, before the first day of medical school.<\/p>\n
This time, I nodded.<\/p>\n
She helped me into the coat.<\/p>\n
The fabric settled over my shoulders.<\/p>\n
For a moment, I was thirteen again and not thirteen at all.<\/p>\n
I stepped to the microphone.<\/p>\n
The auditorium quieted.<\/p>\n
I had prepared a speech about medicine, resilience, and the people who make healing possible.<\/p>\n
I had not prepared for my biological parents to sit in the reserved section like witnesses called by accident.<\/p>\n
So I folded the paper once and looked up.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen I was thirteen,\u201d I said, \u201ca doctor told me I had leukemia.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room went still.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was also told, that same day, that my life was not worth the cost of saving it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Karen\u2019s face crumpled.<\/p>\n
Thomas stared straight ahead.<\/p>\n
\u201cI survived because medicine mattered,\u201d I continued. \u201cBut I became whole because someone stayed.\u201d<\/p>\n
I turned slightly toward Laura.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis coat has my name on it because Laura Davidson gave me hers before I had anything to give back.\u201d<\/p>\n
Laura pressed her fingers to her mouth.<\/p>\n
The dean looked down.<\/p>\n
Dr. Lawson was in the audience too, seated near the aisle with Susan Myers beside him.<\/p>\n
I had invited them both.<\/p>\n
My first family saw them at the same time I did.<\/p>\n
Dr. Lawson did not smile at Thomas.<\/p>\n
Susan did not look away.<\/p>\n
That was the part I had not planned to enjoy, but I would be lying if I said I felt nothing.<\/p>\n
After the ceremony, Karen found me near the lobby doors.<\/p>\n
Her makeup had settled into the lines under her eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cEmily,\u201d she said, and my old name in her mouth sounded borrowed.<\/p>\n
Laura stood beside me.<\/p>\n
Not in front of me.<\/p>\n
Not speaking for me.<\/p>\n
Beside me.<\/p>\n
Thomas came up behind Karen with Megan hovering a few feet away.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe didn\u2019t know how to reach you,\u201d Karen said.<\/p>\n
I looked at her for a long second.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou signed papers with a social worker before dinner that night,\u201d I said. \u201cYou knew exactly where I was.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her mouth opened.<\/p>\n
No words came.<\/p>\n
Thomas cleared his throat.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe made a difficult decision under pressure.\u201d<\/p>\n
Dr. Lawson\u2019s voice came from behind them.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d he said. \u201cYou made a financial decision in front of a child.\u201d<\/p>\n
Thomas turned red.<\/p>\n
Susan stepped up beside Dr. Lawson with the same calm tired eyes I remembered from the worst day of my life.<\/p>\n
Megan looked between them, then at me.<\/p>\n
For the first time, she seemed less bored than frightened.<\/p>\n
Karen started crying.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was your mother,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n
I looked at Laura.<\/p>\n
Then I looked back at Karen.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cYou gave birth to me. My mother sat beside me when my hair fell out.\u201d<\/p>\n
The lobby was crowded, but that sentence made a small circle of silence around us.<\/p>\n
Karen reached for me.<\/p>\n
I stepped back.<\/p>\n
Not dramatically.<\/p>\n
Not cruelly.<\/p>\n
Just enough.<\/p>\n
There are boundaries that look small to everyone except the person who had to bleed to build them.<\/p>\n
Thomas\u2019s face hardened the way it had in Room 314.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo that\u2019s it?\u201d he said. \u201cYou\u2019re going to humiliate us in public after we came to support you?\u201d<\/p>\n
I almost smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou came to be seen supporting me,\u201d I said. \u201cThere\u2019s a difference.\u201d<\/p>\n
Megan finally spoke.<\/p>\n
\u201cEmily,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI was sixteen.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
She flinched, maybe because forgiveness had not arrived in the shape she expected.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were a child,\u201d I continued. \u201cBut you became an adult who never called.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her eyes filled.<\/p>\n
I did not enjoy that.<\/p>\n
Pain is not justice just because it lands on someone who once ignored yours.<\/p>\n
But I also did not apologize for telling the truth.<\/p>\n
Laura touched my elbow.<\/p>\n
\u201cReady to go home?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n
Home.<\/p>\n
The word still had power after all those years.<\/p>\n
I looked one last time at Karen, Thomas, and Megan.<\/p>\n
They looked smaller than they had in my memories.<\/p>\n
Not harmless.<\/p>\n
Just human.<\/p>\n
That almost made it worse.<\/p>\n
Because monsters are easier to hate than ordinary people who choose cruelty when love gets expensive.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I said to Laura. \u201cI\u2019m ready.\u201d<\/p>\n
We walked out together into bright afternoon light.<\/p>\n
The air smelled like cut grass and warm pavement.<\/p>\n
A family nearby was taking pictures beside a school sign, and someone\u2019s little brother was complaining that his dress shoes hurt.<\/p>\n
Laura laughed through her tears when I handed her my diploma folder.<\/p>\n
\u201cHold this,\u201d I said. \u201cYou earned it too.\u201d<\/p>\n
She held it against her chest the way she had once held my discharge papers.<\/p>\n
Then Dr. Lawson caught up to us and asked for a picture.<\/p>\n
Susan stood on my other side.<\/p>\n
Laura put her arm around my waist.<\/p>\n
In the photo, my white coat is bright, my eyes are red, and the name over my heart is clear.<\/p>\n
Davidson.<\/p>\n
The name they did not give me.<\/p>\n
The name that got me there.<\/p>\n
For years, I thought the door closing in Room 314 was the sound of my life ending.<\/p>\n
I was wrong.<\/p>\n
It was the sound of the wrong people leaving before the right one walked in.<\/p>\n
Cancer had frightened me.<\/p>\n
Their math had erased me.<\/p>\n
But love, the real kind, wrote my name back in.<\/p>\n
The auditorium smelled like polished floors, coffee in paper cups, and the dry ink of hundreds of folded programs. I sat in the front row with a white coat folded … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":8215,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8214","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-new-story"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8214","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8214"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8214\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8216,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8214\/revisions\/8216"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/8215"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8214"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8214"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8214"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}