My name is Mark Ellison, and I built a comfortable life out of good instincts and bad excuses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I’m forty-two, a regional sales director for a medical device company headquartered in Seattle, Washington, pulling in a little over $260,000 a year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I drove a black Porsche Macan, wore loafers that pinched my feet, and genuinely believed I had outgrown the kind of trouble that ruins other men.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My wife, Sarah, is forty, a senior operations manager at a large nonprofit healthcare network, and easily the most observant person I have ever known.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For a decade I described her steadiness as a comfort.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Somewhere along the way I started calling it boring instead, which was really just me looking for an excuse to be reckless.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah never forgot a premium due date, never lost track of a family birthday, and somehow kept our house in Queen Anne feeling warm instead of showroom perfect.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I mistook that ease for something dull, the way spoiled men often do when nobody is applauding them anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wanted flattery, not partnership.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I wanted someone dazzled by a version of me that hadn’t been tested yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That is roughly when Bella walked into the frame.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I met her at an upscale coffee shop in Capitol Hill, the kind of place charging eight dollars for a latte, tucked between a client meeting and a miserable crawl of traffic on I-5.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She sat one table over with a sketchbook, dark hair loose over one shoulder, a smudge of paint on her finger that looked accidental at the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She caught me looking at my own watch and smiled like it meant something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That smile did most of the damage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I would love to claim she hunted me down, but honestly I walked straight into the fantasy because my ego held the door wide open for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She told me she was twenty-two, an art student at the University of Washington working odd shifts to cover rent and supplies while her scholarship money sat delayed somewhere in bureaucracy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I slid effortlessly into the role she needed, generous, wise, endlessly understanding of a girl trying to make it on her own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By our third meeting I had started inventing fake meetings out in Bellevue just to buy more time with her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Within two weeks I was covering rent on a small studio she kept in Belltown.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Within three weeks I bought her a $2,800 designer bag because, she said, no one had ever chosen something beautiful just for her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Within a month I had convinced myself the word for this feeling was love.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It wasn’t love.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was the drug of being worshipped by someone who understood exactly which of my insecurities to press.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah noticed the changes almost immediately, because Sarah notices everything, down to a different squeak in the dishwasher or a twelve cent jump on the grocery receipt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One Thursday evening, loosening my tie by the kitchen island, she asked if it was another late night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Client dinner, I told her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With who, she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
An account out in the Pacific Northwest region, I said, reaching into the fridge to avoid her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Which contact, she pressed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tom, I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There’s no Tom on that account, she answered, calm as ever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I laughed too hard and corrected myself to Todd, blaming exhaustion, and she watched me two full seconds longer than the moment required before returning to her cutting board.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Of course, she said quietly, and went back to chopping basil like nothing had happened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was always Sarah’s method, never striking in anger, only waiting until she had gathered enough proof to be certain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bella felt like the opposite of everything steady about my wife, chaotic where Sarah was composed, unpredictable where Sarah planned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I mistook her instability for excitement and her immaturity for freedom, the same mistake plenty of foolish men make once they start hunting for permission instead of clarity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Looking back, there were details I chose to ignore, the expensive champagne always chilling in her fridge, the way she never once suggested meeting anywhere near her supposed campus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She requested money constantly through payment apps under rotating labels, art supplies one week, emergency rent the next, a gallery fee, a medical bill, even a car repair despite insisting she owned no car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I ignored every inconsistency because ignoring them let the fantasy keep breathing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For two straight months I lived inside hotel rooms, invented meetings, and deleted messages, coming home to Sarah each night carrying someone else’s perfume hidden beneath my guilt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She never once raised her voice, and somehow that silence should have terrified me far more than it did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then came a particular Tuesday deep in November, rain sheeting down over downtown Seattle in that steady gray curtain the city does so well.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My last meeting wrapped early, and instead of stopping by Belltown, I drove straight home, feeling oddly proud of myself for skipping one betrayal out of dozens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pulled into our garage at 5:42 p.m.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah’s car sat already parked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The house was dark except for a single lamp glowing in the living room, no music, no television, no smell of dinner cooking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just quiet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I called out for her, and she answered simply, in here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She sat on the beige sofa in black slacks and a cream sweater, hair pulled back neatly, tea steaming on the side table, wearing the diamond earrings I had given her years earlier.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A thick manila envelope waited on the coffee table in front of her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You’re home early, she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Meeting wrapped up, I told her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Good, she said, gesturing toward the chair across from her, sit down, Mark.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I tried a smile and asked what was going on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She glanced at the envelope and told me she had some light reading for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
About what, I asked, mouth already dry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Your little art student in Belltown, she said, finally meeting my eyes directly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The floor seemed to shift beneath me, and for one shameful second I considered lying my way out of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What are you talking about, I said anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Open the folder, she told me, taking a slow sip of tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No shouting, no tears, only that single flat instruction.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My legs felt unreliable as I sat and pulled back the clasp.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first page held a photograph of Bella entering her building, except the caption underneath named someone else entirely, Monica Reyes, age 29, Las Vegas, Nevada.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at that name until the letters stopped making sense, while Sarah watched me without moving a single muscle in her face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The file in my lap was not gossip pieced together from rumors or angry friends online.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It read like a professionally sourced report, the kind meant for an attorney rather than a heartbroken spouse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Public records, known aliases, civil filings, past addresses, business registrations, and photographs taken in ordinary public places filled page after page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bella was not twenty-two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was twenty-nine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was no record she had ever attended the University of Washington, no tuition payments, no coffee shop shifts funding paint and canvas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The Belltown studio was never the home of a struggling student.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was, according to the report, part of a repeated pattern targeting married men in hotel bars, airport lounges, and pricey coffee shops around the city.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Men flattered by their own wealth into believing a much younger woman had chosen them for something other than access.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Men exactly like me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I kept turning pages while my stomach folded in on itself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The transfer records were mine, pulled straight from our shared financial dashboard that Sarah apparently reviewed every single Sunday morning over coffee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
$1,900 for rent help.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
$650 for art supplies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
$3,200 listed as an emergency lease fee.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
$1,450 for a medical appointment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
$4,700 labeled simply as a personal loan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Each individual charge had felt small and explainable in the moment I sent it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Stacked together on paper, they looked obscene, adding up to nearly $38,000 spent across two months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not on rescue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not on love.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just on access to a lie I had paid for willingly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She was expensive, Sarah said quietly from the sofa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I can explain, I told her, though I already knew I couldn’t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No, she said, you can’t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Further pages showed Monica photographed outside hotels with other men, wedding rings visible on several of them, climbing into black cars near restaurants across the city.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A humiliating flash of jealousy hit me before the absurdity of that feeling landed fully, since I was the one betraying my own wife while somehow feeling wounded that this woman hadn’t been loyal to me either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That is the moral compass of a cheating man, rock bottom dressed in cologne.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She told me I was different, I whispered before I could stop myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah laughed once, quietly, and that soft sound cut deeper than shouting ever could.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I’m sure she did, she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Further along came references to profiles on companionship websites, the explicit portions blacked out carefully by Sarah’s own marker, controlled even in the middle of devastation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then a page labeled Potential Health Exposure Concern stopped me cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Keep going, Sarah said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The page summarized a civil complaint filed three months earlier in King County Superior Court, alleging financial manipulation and personal damages against Monica by a former partner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The case had apparently settled quietly, but certain filings remained publicly viewable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The investigator had not accessed private medical files, had not bribed anyone, had not broken any law, only located references buried inside public court documents pointing toward a serious unresolved health dispute.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Attached was a partially redacted exhibit, imperfectly sealed before attorneys cleaned the case file, containing words that froze the blood in my chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Positive result.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
HIV.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Treatment status unclear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A note from the investigator sat in bold beneath it, warning clearly that this document was not confirmed as a current medical record and recommending immediate testing and physician consultation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I did not absorb the caution.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I absorbed one word.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For two months I had been with Monica without protection, convincing myself she was untouched, clean, safe from the complicated world I thought I was escaping.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No, I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah stayed silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This is fake, I insisted, standing too fast, papers scattering off my lap and across the rug.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Then your doctor will tell you that, she said, lifting her teacup calmly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The room tilted, and I bolted for the downstairs bathroom before I even finished the thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I barely reached the toilet in time, sweat soaking through my shirt as my body emptied itself completely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Kneeling there on the tile, I thought less about myself and more about Sarah, the woman who had shared a bed with me for ten years without knowing what risk I had carried home to her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She kept spare allergy medicine in her purse because I always forgot mine, remembered my mother’s birthday better than I did, and once drove forty minutes through snow just to bring me a forgotten laptop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had dragged a stranger’s danger straight into that kind of devotion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I finally came out, Sarah sat exactly where I’d left her, the folder already gathered neatly back into place.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So, she asked quietly, was she worth it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had nothing to say.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She stood, rinsed her cup in the sink, and told me she had already booked an appointment for the next morning at Virginia Mason, adding that I could cancel it if I wanted, but that cancelling would answer her question well enough on its own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You made an appointment, I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Yes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For me, I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For both of us, she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Those three words crushed me harder than anything printed on that paper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next morning Seattle sat under a gray, unforgiving sky as Sarah drove us to the clinic herself, saying flatly she didn’t trust my hands not to shake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They were shaking anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Traffic crawled along Boren Avenue, brake lights blooming red through the drizzle, ordinary people walking dogs and holding umbrellas as though the world hadn’t ended that week.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We checked in separately, then sat together without touching, the silence between us louder than any fight we’d ever had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside the exam room I admitted enough truth to burn my own face, unprotected contact outside my marriage, unknown status of my partner, and new information that had just come to light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The doctor stayed calm and professional, explaining that panic rarely helps, that HIV today is a manageable condition with proper treatment, and that court documents or rumors are never the same thing as a confirmed diagnosis.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Because the exposure window was recent enough to matter, he discussed PEP, a preventive medication regimen sometimes started after possible exposure, walking me through it clearly and without judgment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You should be tested for other infections too, he added, and your wife needs a separate evaluation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My wife.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I had pulled her into that room without ever asking her permission, not physically, but morally, medically, completely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first blood draw felt like punishment even though it was simple care, the nurse tapping for a vein while I stared at the wall trying not to picture headlines, divorce papers, or Sarah’s face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I came out she had already gone in for her own appointment, leaving me alone with a folder of pamphlets and one desperate, repeating prayer that she would be okay.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When she returned, her face gave nothing away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What did they say, I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That results come when they come, she answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah, I started.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Do not ask me to comfort you, she said, sitting two chairs away from me in that waiting room at 10:18 a.m. on a rainy Wednesday, two chairs measuring exactly how far my betrayal had pushed her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The initial rapid tests for both of us came back negative.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I cried in the car.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah did not.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The doctor had warned that early negative results were encouraging but not final, with follow-up testing still required down the line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Science had handed me hope, not forgiveness.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
PEP made my body miserable, nausea and headaches and a metallic taste that clung to everything, exhaustion heavy enough to make stairs feel like mountains.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I deserved the discomfort, though discomfort born from fear isn’t the same thing as virtue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For weeks afterward I slept in the guest room without being told to, Sarah simply changing the sheets, removing my pillow from our bedroom, saying nothing at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That was her punishment, delivered entirely through quiet logistics rather than confrontation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She paid her own bills from her own account, moved her direct deposit, changed shared passwords, and I watched her methodically separate her life from mine in real time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
One Sunday morning I found a third folder resting beside the French press, squared perfectly with the edge of the counter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The tab read Personal Accountability Plan, and inside were typed, dated sections laid out like a corporate transition document.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Medical follow-up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Financial restitution.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Individual therapy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Conditions for couples counseling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Digital transparency.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Legal consultation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Temporary separation options.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Non-negotiables.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My wife had transformed my betrayal into something resembling a project timeline, and instead of feeling insulted, I felt something closer to relief, because chaos was killing me and she had drawn a map through it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She required continued medical monitoring until fully cleared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She required full repayment of the nearly $38,000 taken from our shared finances, funded through my personal bonus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She required individual therapy with a licensed counselor specializing in infidelity and midlife identity collapse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She required couples counseling only after eight solo sessions, and only if she chose to participate at all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the bottom, in her own handwriting, she’d added one line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am not responsible for making you feel like a good man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I sat there until the coffee turned cold.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Is this a divorce plan, I asked when she came downstairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It’s a survival plan, she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For who, I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For me, she said, possibly for us, but first for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I agreed to everything immediately.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Do not agree because you’re scared, she warned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am scared, I admitted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know, she said, that’s the problem, fear can imitate change for a while.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Therapy humbled me in ways I hadn’t expected. My therapist, Dr. Alan Brooks, wore wire-rim glasses and had zero patience for self-pity dressed up as reflection.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I tried explaining the affair through feeling unseen, aging, and work pressure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Those might be contributing feelings, he said, they are not causes, the cause is that you gave yourself permission.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Owning that distinction became the whole project, owning the money, the lies, the risk, the entitlement, the ugly comfort of being adored by someone whose attention I had purchased outright.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Meanwhile Sarah worked with her own therapist and met twice with an attorney, telling me plainly one evening that staying was never guaranteed just because I completed a checklist.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She moved into the upstairs guest suite indefinitely, took half the closet, bought new bedding, and quietly rearranged the artwork, turning our shared house into two separate living spaces under one roof.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Three months after that first envelope, my follow-up tests remained negative, and instead of relief I felt only clearer shame, since fear could no longer excuse anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I told Sarah the results, she closed her eyes for a moment, relief crossing her face fully for the first time in months, relief for herself and for the risk I had put her through.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That same week Monica texted from an unfamiliar number, casually asking if I was okay.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I screenshotted it, blocked the number, and forwarded everything straight to Sarah.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thank you for documenting it, she replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No warmth, no praise, but no contempt either, the first small plank laid across a very wide canyon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A month later Sarah agreed to exactly one couples counseling session, sitting on the far end of a gray sofa in Ballard while rain tapped steadily against the windows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don’t just feel betrayed, she told the therapist, I feel like he made me live inside a contaminated version of my own life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I whispered another apology, and the therapist asked what I wanted Sarah to do with it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I want her to believe I’m not that man anymore, I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
And I want to know why it took terror for you to become decent, Sarah answered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I still don’t have an answer that makes me look good.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Eighteen months have passed since that folder first appeared on the coffee table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am still married, technically, though not to the marriage we used to have.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That version died on the living room rug the night the envelope opened, and whatever remains now is colder, more careful, and probably more honest than anything before it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I repaid every dollar taken from our shared accounts, plus additional funds Sarah requested for therapy, testing, legal fees, and what she dryly called administrative damage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I still attend therapy regularly, not because she demands it anymore, but because I finally understand the man who cheated didn’t appear out of nowhere, he was built slowly out of entitlement and avoidance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Sarah changed too, softer toward herself, far less willing to manage the parts of my life I once treated as her unpaid job.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When my mother called asking why birthday flowers hadn’t arrived for my aunt, Sarah simply handed me the phone and said, your family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Our friends noticed the shift, and at dinners she no longer covers for me, though she doesn’t expose me either, telling anyone who jokes about my luck that I’m learning to organize myself now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Monica vanished completely after that blocked message, and I later learned parts of the investigator’s report were accurate while others weren’t, her real life messier and sadder than the fantasy I had purchased, though none of that excuses what I did to my own marriage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
As for the HIV document, I never learned the full story, and my doctor was clear that no person should be defined by a redacted court exhibit, that the condition is manageable with proper treatment and deserves compassion rather than fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What truly frightened me wasn’t only the medical risk, it was the mirror it forced in front of me, showing an affair stripped bare of romance and revealed as pure selfishness and risk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Last spring, at a downtown fundraiser, a friendly young woman leaned in a little too warmly while we talked near a silent auction table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The old version of me would have leaned back into that attention without thinking twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Instead my stomach tightened, and I stepped back, searching the room until I found Sarah across it, elegant in navy, unaware of the quiet war I had just won inside myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I handed the woman my assistant’s card instead and copied my whole team on the follow-up email within minutes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Later in the car Sarah said simply, I saw that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Saw what, I asked, eyes on the road.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Your choice, she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I’m trying, I told her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I know, she said, and those two words meant more than any speech of forgiveness ever could.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I still wake sometimes near 3:00 a.m. remembering the bathroom tile against my knees, the word positive burned into memory, and Sarah’s voice saying for both of us.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Fear brought me to my knees that night, but it was her silence, patient, organized, and unwavering, that actually changed me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not screaming, not revenge, just a folder on the counter, a clinic appointment, a spreadsheet, and the unbearable clarity of a woman who finally stopped shielding me from myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If there’s a lesson buried in any of this, it isn’t that observant women are dangerous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It’s that betrayal eventually makes them necessary.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Names have been changed and this story has been dramatized for entertainment purposes.<\/p>\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
A husband convinces himself he is rescuing a young art student, all while lying to the wife who quietly notices everything. When she finally hands him a private investigator’s report, the fantasy collapses into fear, shame, and a marriage that has to be rebuilt from the floor up.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":7976,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7730","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-family-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7730","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=7730"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7730\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7977,"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7730\/revisions\/7977"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/7976"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7730"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=7730"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blog.rungbeg.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=7730"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}