{"id":8911,"date":"2026-06-16T08:20:13","date_gmt":"2026-06-16T08:20:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/?p=8911"},"modified":"2026-06-16T08:20:13","modified_gmt":"2026-06-16T08:20:13","slug":"my-sister-managed-moms-pension-after-dad-died-2100-a-month-mom-is-84-lives-in-a-mobile-home-same-3-outfits-i-sent-her-200-monthly-last-christmas-i-visited-fridge-had-expired-milk-a","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/?p=8911","title":{"rendered":"My sister managed Mom\u2019s pension after Dad died. $2,100 a month. Mom is 84. Lives in a mobile home. Same 3 outfits. I sent her $200 monthly. Last Christmas, I visited. Fridge had expired milk and canned corn. She\u2019d lost 18 pounds. I drove to the bank. The teller\u2019s face changed. \u201cYour mother\u2019s pension goes to a linked account.\u201d My sister\u2019s. For 6 years. $151,200. Mom got $300 a month. Rest went to my sister\u2019s sister\u2019s mortgage. $340,000 house in Lake Worth. I sat in the parking lot shaking. Called her. She said, \u201cMom doesn\u2019t need that money. She barely goes anywhere.\u201d I said, \u201cShe barely EATS.\u201d Filed with Adult Protective Services. The investigator pulled records. At the bottom was a forged POA with my signature. Notarized by my sister\u2019s \u2026"},"content":{"rendered":"
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The drive from Atlanta to Ocala takes about seven hours if you don\u2019t stop, and Renata Voss hadn\u2019t stopped.<\/p>\n

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

She\u2019d eaten half a granola bar somewhere around Valdosta and thrown the rest out the window because it tasted like chalk, and she\u2019d drunk a gas station coffee that was so bad it felt like a punishment. She drove with both hands on the wheel, which she never did normally, because it gave her something to focus on besides the phone call she\u2019d gotten from her mother at 2 a.m.<\/p>\n

Not a desperate call. That would have been easier to interpret. It was just her mother saying, \u201cI think the freezer is broken, sweetheart. The ice cream is soft,\u201d and then a long pause in which Renata heard the particular silence of a woman who had learned not to ask for things, and then, \u201cIt\u2019s been soft for a few weeks, I think. I lose track.\u201d<\/p>\n

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

Renata had not slept after that.<\/p>\n

She pulled off I-75 at the Marion County exit as the sun came up pink and flat over the scrub palms, and she drove the twelve miles to Shady Pines Estates \u2014 which had no pines and was not particularly shady, just a grid of mobile homes on small lots with a community mailbox and a concrete recreation room nobody used \u2014 and she parked in front of Unit 14 and sat in the car for a moment looking at it.<\/p>\n

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<\/div>\n

The flower boxes her father had hung under the windows were still there, but the flowers had been replaced by dirt and one desiccated stem. The wooden steps had a new crack running diagonally across the middle one. The curtains, the ones with the little yellow roosters her mother had made herself thirty years ago, were drawn.<\/p>\n

It was 7:40 in the morning. Her mother would be up. Her mother had been up by six every day of her life.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

She knocked, and after a moment the door opened, and there was Dolores Voss, eighty-four years old, in a housecoat Renata recognized from a decade ago. It hung on her. That was the thing that hit first \u2014 not the kitchen, not the fridge, not any of it \u2014 just the way the fabric fell off her mother\u2019s shoulders like it was hung on a wire hanger, not a person.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t have to drive all this way,\u201d her mother said, and smiled, and the smile was real. That was the thing about her mother. The smile was always real.<\/p>\n

Renata had a system for not crying in front of her mother. She\u2019d developed it over the years, through her father\u2019s decline, through the funeral, through all the small devastations that accumulate around a parent\u2019s aging. She breathed through her nose. She found something to do with her hands. She asked practical questions.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom, when did you last go to the grocery store?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Darlene usually picks things up.\u201d<\/p>\n

Darlene. Her sister. Renata opened the refrigerator.<\/p>\n

The expired milk she\u2019d learn about later was there, pushed to the back. Two eggs. A jar of pickle relish. Half a block of Velveeta in its foil, the edges gone hard and orange. In the freezer: a bag of corn, a pint of freezer-burned ice cream, and a frost-coated chicken breast that she estimated had been there for at least a year based on its transformation into something geological.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom.\u201d Renata closed the refrigerator. \u201cWhat did you eat yesterday?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI had some crackers. And I wasn\u2019t very hungry for dinner.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about the day before?\u201d<\/p>\n

Her mother looked at the window. \u201cI think Darlene brought something. A casserole. Or maybe that was last week.\u201d<\/p>\n

Renata breathed through her nose. She found something to do with her hands, which was gripping the refrigerator handle until her knuckles hurt.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom, I\u2019m going to go get some groceries. While I\u2019m out, I\u2019m going to stop at the bank, okay? Just to make sure everything is in order with the accounts.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, you don\u2019t need to do that. Darlene handles all of that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know she does,\u201d Renata said.<\/p>\n

The branch manager\u2019s name was Patricia, and she had the particular facial expression of someone who has just bitten into something bad and is working out how to spit it out politely. She\u2019d asked Renata to come to her office after Renata had stood at the teller window for three minutes while the young man behind the counter typed things into his computer with increasing slowness, like a person stalling.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour mother has a pension account with us,\u201d Patricia said. She had the account pulled up, and she turned her monitor slightly so Renata could see the screen without seeing it fully, a gesture that communicated both transparency and caution. \u201cThe monthly deposit comes in on the third. $2,100.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Renata said. \u201cDad\u2019s pension from the railroad. It transferred to her as survivor benefit when he passed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right. And there\u2019s an automatic transfer set up. Goes out on the fourth.\u201d Patricia paused. \u201cTo a linked account.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat linked account?\u201d<\/p>\n

Another pause. \u201cI\u2019m not able to share the account holder\u2019s information without authorization. But I can tell you that your mother\u2019s account \u2014 after the transfer \u2014 retains $300 each month. The remainder transfers out.\u201d<\/p>\n

Renata did the math in the way you do when you already know the answer and are just confirming the wound. $1,800 a month. Twelve months a year. Six years since her father died.<\/p>\n

\u201c$129,600,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Patricia looked at her. \u201cI\u2019ve been here eleven years,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cI\u2019ve seen this before. I want you to know \u2014 the paperwork appears to have been filed correctly. Power of attorney. All of it. Notarized. Your mother came in herself, with her daughter, about six months after her husband passed. The authorization was signed.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy mother signed it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour mother signed one document, yes.\u201d Patricia folded her hands. \u201cThere were multiple documents that day.\u201d<\/p>\n

Renata sat with that for a moment. Her mother, six months a widow, grief-soft and trusting, sitting at this desk or one like it, Darlene beside her with a stack of papers,\u00a0just sign here, Mom, it\u2019s just the banking stuff, I\u2019ll take care of everything.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThere was also,\u201d Patricia said carefully, \u201ca secondary authorization. A co-signer on the power of attorney document. For additional legal weight, apparently. The name on it is\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMine,\u201d Renata said. She didn\u2019t know how she knew. She just knew.<\/p>\n

Patricia said nothing.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t sign anything,\u201d Renata said. \u201cI\u2019ve never been in this branch. I\u2019ve never signed any document related to my mother\u2019s accounts.\u201d<\/p>\n

Patricia\u2019s expression didn\u2019t change, but her hands tightened slightly on the desk. \u201cI think,\u201d she said, \u201cthat you may want to speak with Adult Protective Services.\u201d<\/p>\n

She sat in the parking lot for forty-five minutes. She watched people come and go \u2014 a man with a deposit envelope, a woman with a stroller, a teenager on a phone \u2014 and she felt entirely outside of it, like she was watching it through glass. The shaking in her hands had started when she was still at Patricia\u2019s desk and hadn\u2019t stopped.<\/p>\n

She called Darlene.<\/p>\n

Three rings. Then her sister\u2019s voice, easy, slightly annoyed in the way she always was when Renata called, like the call was an interruption of something more important.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m at Mom\u2019s bank,\u201d Renata said.<\/p>\n

A pause. \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been talking to the branch manager. About the account.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRenata, I handle Mom\u2019s finances. That\u2019s been the arrangement. You live in Atlanta, you\u2019re not\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhere does the money go, Darlene?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTo Mom\u2019s expenses\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe has expired milk and two eggs in her refrigerator. She\u2019s lost eighteen pounds. She has three outfits. Where does the money go?\u201d<\/p>\n

Silence. Then, in a different tone \u2014 flatter, harder, the voice Darlene used when she\u2019d decided to stop pretending: \u201cMom doesn\u2019t need $2,100 a month. She doesn\u2019t go anywhere. She doesn\u2019t do anything. The money was just sitting there.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s her money.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe doesn\u2019t even know what to do with it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDarlene\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have a mortgage. Do you understand what the market is like? I have a daughter in college. I have\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou forged my signature.\u201d<\/p>\n

The silence this time was different. Longer.<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know what you\u2019re talking about,\u201d Darlene said.<\/p>\n

\u201cOn the power of attorney. My name. My signature. Notarized. I\u2019ve never signed any document for Mom\u2019s accounts.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re confused.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTell me who notarized it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not doing this with you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTell me.\u201d<\/p>\n

The call ended. Renata looked at her phone for a long moment, then set it face-down on the passenger seat, and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, and let herself shake.<\/p>\n

The Adult Protective Services investigator was a compact, watchful woman named Sylvia who had a yellow legal pad and a pen she clicked three times before she started writing. She came to the house two days after Renata filed, and she sat on the couch with the yellow rooster curtains behind her and asked Dolores gentle, careful questions.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you understand where your pension money goes each month, Mrs. Voss?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDarlene handles all of that,\u201d Dolores said. She said it the way she said most things related to Darlene \u2014 with a faint protective quality, like she was speaking about someone fragile. Renata had noticed this her whole life. Their mother had always protected Darlene. Even now. Especially now.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you know that after a transfer each month, your account holds approximately $300?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dolores looked at her hands. \u201cI have enough for my needs.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMom,\u201d Renata said softly. \u201cYou don\u2019t have enough to eat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her mother\u2019s face did something complicated. Not surprise, exactly. More like the expression of someone who has been carefully not-knowing something, and has just been asked to know it.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe said she\u2019d take care of things,\u201d Dolores said. \u201cDarlene said she\u2019d take care of everything.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAfter your father died \u2014 I didn\u2019t understand any of it. The bank accounts, the pension, all of it. Your father always \u2014 he was so good with all of that. And Darlene said she\u2019d take care of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sylvia wrote something. Clicked her pen. \u201cMrs. Voss, did you ever sign any documents authorizing your daughter Darlene to manage your finances?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI signed what she put in front of me,\u201d Dolores said simply. \u201cI trusted her.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was the plainest thing in the world. The most devastating.<\/p>\n

The notary, as it turned out, was a woman named Connie Ferrell who worked out of a UPS store in Lake Worth and who had, over a period of three years, notarized eleven documents for Darlene Voss Marchetti. Including the power of attorney with Renata\u2019s forged signature. Including two documents that bore the signatures of people who, when the investigator made calls, had never heard of Darlene Marchetti at all.<\/p>\n

Connie Ferrell, when visited by law enforcement, cried and said she hadn\u2019t known. Then she said she\u2019d been paid $200 per document. These two statements were irreconcilable, and Sylvia noted that in her report.<\/p>\n

The forensic accountant hired by the attorney Renata found \u2014 a woman named Grace Okafor who wore reading glasses on a chain and had the energy of someone who had seen everything and judged most of it \u2014 spent three weeks with bank records and produced a document that ran to forty-one pages. The total, across six years and several accounts, was $151,200.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe house in Lake Worth,\u201d Grace said, spreading printouts across the conference table. \u201cShe put $60,000 down in 2019. Traced directly from your mother\u2019s pension, routed through a business account \u2014 your sister had an LLC, nominal flooring business, two invoices ever issued, both to herself. The rest went to mortgage payments, a car, a vacation to Costa Rica, her daughter\u2019s tuition.\u201d Grace looked at Renata over the reading glasses. \u201cHer daughter \u2014 your niece \u2014 doesn\u2019t appear to have known.\u201d<\/p>\n

Renata thought about that. Her niece Becca, twenty years old, who sent emojis on holidays and had her mother\u2019s eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes she need to be\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s not implicated,\u201d Grace said. \u201cShe\u2019s a recipient of stolen funds, but there\u2019s no evidence of knowledge or intent. She may be subpoenaed as a witness. That\u2019s for the DA to decide.\u201d<\/p>\n

The DA, as it turned out, had things to say.<\/p>\n

Darlene was arrested on a Tuesday. Renata knew because Sylvia called her, and she sat in her car in the parking garage of the building where she worked in Atlanta and received the information in silence.<\/p>\n

Elder financial exploitation. Forgery. Fraudulent notarization \u2014 Connie Ferrell had agreed to testify. Wire fraud, because the transfers had crossed state lines at one point in the routing. The charges had a weight to them, an accumulation, and each one was another name for the same thing: her sister had looked at their mother, eighty-four years old, alone since their father died, trusting, afraid to ask for things \u2014 and had decided that this was an opportunity.<\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t feel triumphant. She\u2019d expected to feel something cleaner than what she felt, which was a grief so layered she couldn\u2019t find the bottom of it. Grief for her mother. Grief for the six years. Grief for the version of her sister who had not done this. Grief for the fact that she kept reaching for that version and finding it wasn\u2019t there.<\/p>\n

She thought about all the Christmases she hadn\u2019t come down. The times she\u2019d called and her mother had said \u201cI\u2019m fine, sweetheart, Darlene takes care of everything\u201d and Renata had felt, she was ashamed to admit, relieved. Because Darlene taking care of everything meant Renata could stay in Atlanta and work her job and live her life and send $200 a month and tell herself that was enough. That she was doing her part.<\/p>\n

Her part. While her mother ate crackers and lost eighteen pounds and wore the same three outfits until they hung off her like grief.<\/p>\n

Dolores moved in with Renata in October. They painted the guest room a color her mother picked from a catalog, something called Pale Seagrass, and Renata bought a reading chair that her mother sat in for the first week with the expression of someone who was worried it would be taken away. They went to the grocery store together on Saturdays. Her mother put things in the cart slowly, carefully, and Renata learned not to watch her face when she did it.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t have to choose the store brand,\u201d Renata said once. \u201cGet whatever you want.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her mother looked at a jar of name-brand pasta sauce for a long moment, then put it in the cart. It was a small thing. It felt enormous.<\/p>\n

The civil case ran parallel to the criminal. Grace Okafor\u2019s report was entered as evidence. Darlene\u2019s attorney \u2014 the second one, after she\u2019d dismissed the first \u2014 argued that the financial arrangement had been consensual, that Dolores had understood and approved, that the documents were valid. The judge, a woman named Honorable Tessa Whitmore who wore her hair in a silver bun and had clearly encountered this argument before, was not moved.<\/p>\n

Darlene sat at the defense table and looked at her hands, and Renata sat in the gallery and looked at Darlene, and their mother sat beside Renata and looked at nothing, which was the thing that Renata thought about afterward, lying awake at 3 a.m. in Atlanta. Not Darlene\u2019s face. Not the judge\u2019s face. Her mother\u2019s face, with its expression of careful absence, the face of a woman who had loved her daughter for seventy years and had run out of ways to hold that alongside what her daughter had done.<\/p>\n

The house in Lake Worth was sold. The proceeds, along with Darlene\u2019s car and the contents of her business account, were applied toward restitution. It didn\u2019t come to $151,200. It came to $89,000. The remainder was a judgment that would take years to collect, if it was collected at all.<\/p>\n

Becca called Renata from a dorm room. She could hear the particular acoustics of it \u2014 hard floors, small space, someone\u2019s music bleeding through a wall.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know,\u201d Becca said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d Renata said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI keep thinking about Grandma\u2019s fridge.\u201d A pause. \u201cMom told me Grandma was fine. That she had everything she needed. I believed her.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s your mother.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI could have \u2014 I went down there for a weekend once. Two years ago. Grandma made me a grilled cheese and I thought it was sweet, her doing that. I didn\u2019t think\u2014\u201d Her voice broke. \u201cI didn\u2019t think it was because that was all she had.\u201d<\/p>\n

Renata closed her eyes. \u201cBecca. You were eighteen. This was not your job to find.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhose job was it?\u201d<\/p>\n

Renata sat with that. It was not a rhetorical question. It was a genuine one, and it deserved a genuine answer.<\/p>\n

\u201cMine,\u201d she said finally. \u201cIt was mine. I should have looked sooner.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was a long silence in which neither of them tried to fill it with something false.<\/p>\n

Her mother started talking about her father more, in the Pale Seagrass room. Not the end of him, not the illness, but the earlier parts \u2014 the railroad job, the way he danced badly and knew it and didn\u2019t care, the year they\u2019d tried to grow tomatoes in the backyard of the house in Kissimmee and the raccoons had gotten every one.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe would have caught it sooner,\u201d her mother said once. Not bitterly. Just as a fact.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe,\u201d Renata said.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe never trusted anyone with money. He\u2019d have been watching.\u201d She smiled faintly. \u201cI always thought that was just him being a certain way. Old-fashioned. Suspicious. Turns out he just understood something I didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat love doesn\u2019t mean the same thing to everyone.\u201d Her mother smoothed the arm of the Pale Seagrass chair. \u201cI kept thinking \u2014 it\u2019s Darlene. She\u2019s my daughter. Of course she\u2019s looking after me. I didn\u2019t want to think anything different, so I didn\u2019t.\u201d She paused. \u201cThat\u2019s not naivety. That\u2019s a choice. I know that now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Renata thought about this for a long time after her mother went to sleep. The way love can be weaponized by its own completeness. The way trust can be the thing someone counts on when they decide to take from you.<\/p>\n

She thought about the forged signature. Her name, on a document she\u2019d never seen, authorizing what had been done. There was something in that she kept turning over \u2014 the specific quality of the contempt it implied. Not just the taking. But the decision to use Renata\u2019s name to do it. As if implicating her was part of the satisfaction.<\/p>\n

She thought about the phone call in the parking lot.\u00a0Mom doesn\u2019t need that money. She barely goes anywhere.<\/em><\/p>\n

She barely eats, Renata had said. And that was true. But what she understood now, in a way she hadn\u2019t fully then, was that hunger wasn\u2019t even the worst of it. The worst of it was the $300 a month. Not because of what it couldn\u2019t buy. Because of what it said. That after all the paperwork was signed and the account was linked and the money was flowing the other way, someone had decided that $300 was enough for their mother. That she was worth $10 a day. That her life, at eighty-four \u2014 her comfort, her warmth, her groceries, her dignity \u2014 was worth $300, and the other $1,800 was more usefully applied elsewhere.<\/p>\n

That was the number Renata kept coming back to. Not the $151,200, which was staggering, which was crime. The $300. Which was the intimate arithmetic of how much someone had decided their mother\u2019s life was worth.<\/p>\n

Darlene was sentenced to four years, with the possibility of parole after two. Renata did not go to the sentencing. She stayed home and made her mother breakfast \u2014 eggs and toast and the good orange juice, the kind with the pulp \u2014 and they ate at the kitchen table and her mother told her about the raccoons again, how her father had chased one across the yard in his bathrobe at midnight and slipped in the wet grass and laughed so hard he couldn\u2019t get up.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe just laid there laughing,\u201d her mother said. \u201cThe raccoon was already gone. Just him in the wet grass, laughing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Renata laughed. The real kind \u2014 the kind that surprises you.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was a good man,\u201d her mother said.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe was.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe would have liked you doing all this.\u201d Her mother looked at her over the orange juice. \u201cDriving down. Going to the bank. All of it. He would have said \u2014 he would have said you didn\u2019t let it stand.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI should have come sooner.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re here now,\u201d her mother said.<\/p>\n

It was not absolution. It was not meant to be. It was just what was true: she was here now, and her mother was here, at a table with good orange juice and eggs, in a city where she didn\u2019t have to count what was left in the fridge against what was left in the month. It was not nothing. It was, in its own specific, painfully clear-eyed way, enough to begin with.<\/p>\n

Outside, October light came through the window at an angle and fell across the table, and her mother wrapped both hands around her coffee cup, and they sat there together in the ordinary warmth of it \u2014 which is all anyone, at eighty-four, should ever have had to ask for.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The drive from Atlanta to Ocala takes about seven hours if you don\u2019t stop, and Renata Voss hadn\u2019t stopped. She\u2019d eaten half a granola bar somewhere around Valdosta and thrown … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":8906,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-8911","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\/8911","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=8911"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8911\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8912,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8911\/revisions\/8912"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/8906"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8911"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8911"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/reallifedaily.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8911"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}