At my daughter\u2019s wedding, her mother-in-law handed her a housemaid uniform. My son-in-law smiled and said, \u201cPerfect. She\u2019ll need this at home.\u201d My daughter broke down. I stood up quietly and said, \u201cPlease open my gift.\u201d When the box was opened\u2026 the room went still\u2026<\/p>\n
\u201cPerfect. She\u2019s going to need this at home.\u201d<\/p>\n
Those words slithered out of my son-in-law\u2019s mouth, dripping with a venomous arrogance that instantly chilled the warm, scented air of the Grand Ballroom in Dallas. He held up the maid\u2019s uniform\u2014a cheap, stiff polyester dress in navy blue with a starched white apron\u2014that his mother had just gifted to my daughter, Molly, on her own wedding day.<\/p>\n
I watched the light in my girl\u2019s eyes, usually so bright and full of hope, flicker and die. I saw her beautiful hands, trembling inside her delicate white lace gloves, clutch that degrading fabric as if it were a prison sentence she had no choice but to serve. The ballroom, moments ago filled with the clinking of crystal champagne glasses and polite, high-society chatter, fell into a suffocating silence.<\/p>\n
And something inside me\u2014something that had been asleep, dormant under layers of politeness, submission, and the desire to \u201ckeep the peace\u201d for 60 years\u2014woke up. It wasn\u2019t just anger; it was a beast made of pure maternal rage.<\/p>\n
My name is Elellanena Pierce. I am 60 years old. And what happened that night changed everything. But tragedies like this aren\u2019t written in a single night. They are humiliations slowly woven with fake smiles, poisoned words, and the silence of good women who are taught to look the other way.<\/p>\n
The insult wasn\u2019t just the uniform. It was the culmination of three years of erasure. Robert\u2019s mother, Constance Harrington, a woman who measured a person\u2019s worth by the carat of their diamonds and the pedigree of their bloodline, had treated us like invisible servants since day one.<\/p>\n
I watched Mrs. Harrington smirk, her red lipstick looking like a fresh wound on her pale face. \u201cSo you are presentable when you do the housework,\u201d she cooed, her voice carrying to the back of the room. \u201cA wife must know her place.\u201d<\/p>\n
The laughter from her table was like the sound of broken glass. And then Robert\u2014my daughter\u2019s husband of only three hours\u2014had sided with her.<\/p>\n
I stood up. My legs were shaking under my wine-colored dress, but my voice felt like granite.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat an interesting gift, Mrs. Harrington,\u201d I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs. I walked toward them, clutching my purse. The click of my heels on the marble floor was the only sound in the room. \u201cNow, allow me to give my daughter mine.\u201d<\/p>\n
I pulled out a small box lined with blue velvet. \u201cOpen it, my love.\u201d<\/p>\n
Molly\u2019s trembling fingers opened the box. Inside were not jewels, but two folded documents.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom, what is this?\u201d she whispered, tears spilling onto her cheeks.<\/p>\n
\u201cRead it out loud,\u201d I commanded gently.<\/p>\n
She swallowed hard. \u201cWarranty Deed\u2026 Property located at 43 Magnolia Street\u2026 Beverly Hills neighborhood. Owner: Molly Sophia Pierce Adams.\u201d<\/p>\n
The silence in the ballroom shifted. It became heavy, thick, and delicious. Mrs. Harrington\u2019s face went from pale to a violent shade of crimson.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd the second paper?\u201d I urged.<\/p>\n
\u201cIrrevocable Trust Agreement,\u201d Molly read, her voice gaining a fraction of strength. \u201cEstablishing that this property is the sole asset of Molly Sophia Pierce Adams and cannot be claimed, sold, transferred, or leveraged by any spouse\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat does this mean?\u201d Robert barked, the smile wiped from his face. He looked at the papers as if they were toxic.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt means,\u201d I said, turning to look him dead in the eye, \u201cthat my daughter has her own roof. Her own sanctuary. A place that belongs to her, and only her. It means she will never be homeless, regardless of what happens in her marriage.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t understand,\u201d Robert stammered, his facade of the polite Ivy League gentleman crumbling. \u201cWhy would you do this? Don\u2019t you trust me?\u201d<\/p>\n
I stepped closer to him. \u201cIt\u2019s not about trust, Robert. It\u2019s about ensuring that my daughter never has to wear that uniform your mother just gave her. It means if she is ever humiliated, she has a door she can lock from the inside.\u201d<\/p>\n
To understand why I sold everything I owned to buy that house, you have to understand the ghosts that haunt my family.<\/p>\n
Six months before the wedding, when Molly came home crying because Mrs. Harrington had criticized her cooking and Robert had laughed, I went to visit my sister, Lucy.<\/p>\n
Lucy was the beauty of the family. Two years older than me, she had married Richard, a man from a \u201cgood family,\u201d just like Robert. For twenty years, Lucy lived in a mansion in the Hamptons. She had drivers, maids, and country club memberships. She had everything a woman could desire\u2014except respect.<\/p>\n
Richard cheated on her. Everyone knew it. He didn\u2019t even bother to hide the lipstick stains or the late-night calls. And when Lucy finally gathered the courage to ask for a divorce at age 42, she discovered the terrible truth.<\/p>\n
The house was in his name. The cars were in his name. The bank accounts were in his name.<\/p>\n
I remember sitting in our childhood kitchen with Lucy after she had been evicted from her own life. She was making chamomile tea, her hands rough and un-manicured for the first time in decades.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know what the worst part is, Ellie?\u201d she had said, staring into the steam. \u201cIt\u2019s not that he didn\u2019t love me. It\u2019s that I was never the owner of my own life. I was a guest in his house. And when I stopped being useful, he evicted me.\u201d<\/p>\n
Lucy died of a stroke three years later, but I believe she died of a broken spirit.<\/p>\n
When I saw Robert laughing at Molly\u2019s humiliation, I saw Richard. I saw the ghost of my sister standing behind my daughter, warning me.<\/p>\n
That night, I started making calculations. I was an administrator at a high school. I wasn\u2019t rich. But I had my mother\u2019s jewelry\u2014the pearl necklace, the diamond ring my father gave her for their 25th anniversary.<\/p>\n
\u201cForgive me, Mom,\u201d I whispered as I took them to the jeweler. \u201cBut this is for your granddaughter.\u201d<\/p>\n
I sold the jewelry. I sold my 2008 Ford Focus and started taking the bus, walking miles when the routes didn\u2019t connect, ignoring the fire in my 60-year-old knees. I took extra shifts teaching computer classes to seniors on weekends. Every dollar was a brick in the fortress I was building.<\/p>\n
I found the house on Magnolia Street. It wasn\u2019t a mansion. It was a simple, peach-colored house with a small fountain in the patio that sang a song of peace. It was 43 Magnolia Street.<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Pierce,\u201d my lawyer, Mr. Davis, had warned me. \u201cCreating a trust like this\u2026 it\u2019s aggressive. It excludes the husband completely. It might cause tension.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Davis,\u201d I had replied, \u201cIf a man is offended that his wife has a roof over her head that he doesn\u2019t control, then he is not looking for a partner. He is looking for a subject.\u201d<\/p>\n
The reception disintegrated after my revelation. Mrs. Harrington shrieked about insults and family honor. Robert drank whiskey in the corner, fuming. But Mr. William, Robert\u2019s father, did something unexpected. He walked up to me, tired sorrow in his eyes, and whispered, \u201cI wish I had done this for my daughter Gloria. You are a wise woman, Elellanena.\u201d<\/p>\n
But the war was far from over. In fact, giving Molly the house was like declaring war on a tyrant.<\/p>\n
The honeymoon was a disaster. Molly called me from Hawaii, sobbing.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s not talking to me, Mom,\u201d she cried. \u201cHe says I humiliated him. He says that if I really loved him, I would sell the house and put the money into a joint account to prove my loyalty.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe is manipulating you, Molly. Silence is a punishment. It is emotional abuse.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe says I\u2019m selfish. He says true marriage is two becoming one.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSubmission is not unity, Molly. Do not sign anything.\u201d<\/p>\n
When they returned, they moved into the house on Magnolia Street. Robert hated it. He hated the fountain. He hated the size. But mostly, he hated that he didn\u2019t own the keys.<\/p>\n
He began a campaign of subtle destruction. It started with the furniture. Molly wanted colorful, cozy decor. Robert insisted on \u201cminimalist\u201d grey and black leather, claiming anything else was \u201ctacky.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then came the clothes.<\/p>\n
\u201cBright colors are for children, Molly,\u201d he would say, looking at her yellow sundress with disdain. \u201cA married woman should look dignified.\u201d<\/p>\n
Month by month, my daughter began to fade. She started wearing beige and black. She stopped seeing her friends because Robert said they were \u201cbad influences\u201d or \u201cjealous of our happiness.\u201d<\/p>\n
I went to visit one evening with a pot of mac and cheese\u2014Molly\u2019s favorite comfort food. I rang the bell. Molly opened it, looking exhausted, wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt.<\/p>\n
\u201cRobert isn\u2019t here,\u201d she whispered, looking over her shoulder as if the walls had ears. \u201cHe went to his parents\u2019 for dinner. I wasn\u2019t invited.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy not?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMrs. Harrington says until I apologize for the \u2018wedding stunt\u2019 and sell the house, I am not welcome.\u201d<\/p>\n
We sat in the kitchen, eating the mac and cheese. For a moment, she seemed like my Molly again. But then Robert\u2019s car pulled into the driveway. The light in her eyes instantly vanished, replaced by a flinch of fear.<\/p>\n
Robert entered, smelling of expensive cologne and arrogance.<\/p>\n
\u201cElellanena,\u201d he greeted me coldly. \u201cI didn\u2019t know we had guests.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI brought food.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI already ate. Real food,\u201d he sneered, looking at the mac and cheese.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t hit her. He never laid a hand on her. But he hit her with words, with looks, with silence. He was erasing her, day by day.<\/p>\n
Three months after the wedding, the trap snapped shut.<\/p>\n
I went to visit her unannounced on a rainy Thursday. I found her on the master bedroom balcony, sitting on the cold floor, hugging her knees.<\/p>\n
\u201cMolly?\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked up. Her eyes were red, swollen from hours of crying.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m pregnant,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
The world stopped. I felt a rush of joy, immediately strangled by terror. \u201cPregnant? Does he know?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes. He\u2026 Mom, he found a buyer for the house.\u201d<\/p>\n
My blood ran cold. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe says we need a bigger place for the baby. An apartment in Midtown, near his mother. He says this neighborhood isn\u2019t safe. He says if we sell this house, we can pool the money with his savings and buy a luxury penthouse.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIn whose name?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cJoint names. He says it\u2019s time to be a \u2018real family\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMolly, listen to me. He has his own money. He has a trust fund. Why does he need the money from your house?\u201d<\/p>\n
She looked down. \u201cHe says it\u2019s a test. A test of my trust. He had me sign a paper last night\u2026 a letter of intent.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou signed it?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe yelled for hours, Mom. He said I was choosing you over him and the baby. I just wanted him to stop yelling.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGet your purse,\u201d I said, my voice shaking with adrenaline. \u201cWe are going to see a lawyer. Now.\u201d<\/p>\n
We went to see Sarah Thompson, a family law specialist recommended by Mr. Davis. She was a shark in a silk suit. She looked at the paper Molly had signed.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is a letter of intent,\u201d Sarah said. \u201cIt\u2019s not the final deed. You can back out. It\u2019s not legally binding yet.\u201d<\/p>\n
Molly exhaled, a sound like a balloon deflating. \u201cBut if I back out\u2026 he will be furious.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMolly,\u201d Sarah said, leaning forward. \u201cYou are pregnant. You are vulnerable. This house is your only leverage. If you sell it and put the money into a joint account, and he divorces you in a year, you will have nothing. Just like your Aunt Lucy.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe wouldn\u2019t\u2026\u201d Molly started, but her voice lacked conviction.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe would,\u201d I said. \u201cHe is already doing it.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sarah handed Molly a card. \u201cIf you feel unsafe. If he threatens you. Call me.\u201d<\/p>\n
We thought we had time. We were wrong.<\/p>\n
Somehow, Robert found out. Maybe he tracked her phone. Maybe he had hired someone. But that night, at 11:30 PM, my phone rang.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom!\u201d It was Molly. She wasn\u2019t just crying; she was hyperventilating. \u201cHe knows! He knows we saw the lawyer! He came home early\u2026 he\u2019s screaming\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m in the bedroom. He\u2026 Mom, he locked the door!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe installed a lock on the outside! He locked me in! He took my phone charger\u2026 I have 4% battery\u2026 He says I need to stay in here until I \u2018learn my lesson\u2019 and agree to sign the final papers tomorrow!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m coming,\u201d I screamed. \u201cDo not open that door for anyone but me.\u201d<\/p>\n
The line went dead.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t think. I didn\u2019t breathe. I ran out of my apartment in my pajamas and a raincoat. I flagged a taxi in the pouring rain.<\/p>\n
\u201cBeverly Hills. Magnolia Street. Drive like the devil is chasing us,\u201d I threw a hundred-dollar bill at the driver.<\/p>\n
The ride felt like an eternity. I imagined my pregnant daughter, trapped in the dark, with that man pacing outside.<\/p>\n
When I arrived at 43 Magnolia Street, the house was dark. Too dark. Robert\u2019s BMW was in the driveway.<\/p>\n
I pounded on the front door. \u201cRobert! Open this door!\u201d<\/p>\n
Silence. The rain hammered against the roof.<\/p>\n
I used my emergency key\u2014the one Robert didn\u2019t know I had. I burst into the living room. It was a wreck. A lamp was smashed on the floor. The wedding photo on the mantelpiece was face down.<\/p>\n
I ran up the stairs. \u201cMolly!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMom!\u201d Her voice came from behind the master bedroom door. \u201cMom, help me!\u201d<\/p>\n
I tried the handle. It was a heavy, solid wood door, and true to her word, a fresh, shiny deadbolt had been installed on the outside.<\/p>\n
\u201cRobert!\u201d I screamed his name, ready to tear him apart with my bare hands. But the house was empty of him. He had left her there.<\/p>\n
I called 911. \u201cMy daughter is being held false prisoner in her own home. Send the police and the fire department.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ten minutes later, the sirens cut through the night. Two firefighters, large men with axes, came up the stairs.<\/p>\n
\u201cStand back, Ma\u2019am,\u201d one said.<\/p>\n
With two swings, the wood splintered. The door gave way.<\/p>\n
Molly was huddled in the corner of the room, clutching her belly, shaking so hard her teeth chattered. The room was cold\u2014he had turned off the heat.<\/p>\n
I rushed to her, wrapping her in my coat. \u201cI\u2019ve got you. It\u2019s over.\u201d<\/p>\n
The police officer looked at the lock on the outside of the door. \u201cThis is false imprisonment, Ma\u2019am. Domestic violence. Do you want to press charges?\u201d<\/p>\n
Molly looked up, her eyes wide with trauma. \u201cI just want to leave. Please, just take me away from here.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cPack a bag,\u201d I told her. \u201cWe are never coming back to him.\u201d<\/p>\n
The next morning, the war truly began.<\/p>\n
I took Molly to my apartment in Queens. It was small, but it was safe. We met with Sarah Thompson again. We filed for divorce, full custody, and a restraining order.<\/p>\n
Robert didn\u2019t take it lying down. He bombarded Molly\u2019s phone with messages. First, they were apologies (\u201cI just lost my temper, I love you, baby\u201d). Then, they were threats (\u201cYou\u2019re kidnapping my child!\u201d). Then, they were gaslighting (\u201cYou\u2019re crazy, it was just a timeout, you\u2019re hormonal\u201d).<\/p>\n
On the fourth day, Mrs. Harrington showed up at my door. She was wearing a mink coat and oversized sunglasses, looking like a vulture in couture.<\/p>\n
\u201cI need to speak to Molly,\u201d she demanded.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe doesn\u2019t want to speak to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is ridiculous, Elellanena. A divorce? Over a little argument? She is pregnant.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYour son locked her in a room without heat. That is not an argument. That is a crime.\u201d<\/p>\n
Mrs. Harrington sighed, reaching into her Hermes bag. She pulled out a thick envelope.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is an offer from my husband, William. If Molly returns to Robert and drops this nonsense, we will buy her an apartment in Midtown. In her name. Only hers.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at her. \u201cYou are trying to buy my daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI am trying to secure my grandchild\u2019s future. Robert is\u2026 difficult. We know. But he is a Harrington. That baby deserves the best.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe best,\u201d I said, my voice shaking, \u201cis a mother who is not afraid of her husband. The best is safety. You can keep your money. We have the house.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat little house?\u201d she scoffed. \u201cIt\u2019s nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat house,\u201d I said, closing the door in her face, \u201cis freedom.\u201d<\/p>\n
The legal battle was ugly. Robert\u2019s lawyers tried to paint Molly as mentally unstable. They tried to claim the house was marital property because he had paid some utility bills.<\/p>\n
But the trust agreement held. Mr. Davis had done his job well. The house was untouchable.<\/p>\n
Because Molly owned the house outright, she could borrow against it to pay for Sarah Thompson\u2019s legal fees. She didn\u2019t have to beg Robert for money. She didn\u2019t have to starve.<\/p>\n
Six months later, Ellen was born.<\/p>\n
It was a difficult birth, but I was there, holding Molly\u2019s hand. Robert was not allowed in the hospital due to the restraining order.<\/p>\n
When Molly held Ellen for the first time, she cried. Not tears of fear, but tears of relief.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s safe, Mom,\u201d she whispered. \u201cShe\u2019s ours.\u201d<\/p>\n
Seven years have passed since the night of the lock.<\/p>\n
Robert is a ghost in our lives. He remarried quickly\u2014a young girl his mother chose. I heard from Gloria, Robert\u2019s sister who finally left her own abusive marriage, that the new wife lasted two years before running away with their son.<\/p>\n
Robert lost his job at his father\u2019s company for embezzlement; he was trying to fund a lifestyle he couldn\u2019t afford to impress his friends. He lives in a small apartment now, bitter and alone, blaming \u201cmodern women\u201d for his failures. He sees Ellen maybe once a month, but she comes home quiet and hugs us tight, happy to be back in her sanctuary.<\/p>\n
And Molly?<\/p>\n
Molly blossomed. The gray and beige clothes are gone. She wears bright yellows, vibrant reds, and floral prints. She is the Creative Director of a graphic design agency. She is strong. She is fierce.<\/p>\n
And the house on Magnolia Street? It is unrecognizable.<\/p>\n
Molly didn\u2019t sell it. She transformed it. The bugleweed I planted has grown into a massive, magenta canopy covering the back wall. The fountain sings its song all day long. The kitchen is painted a sunny yellow, filled with the smell of cookies and laughter\u2014not fear.<\/p>\n
Molly met a man named Jeff two years ago. He is a teacher. He is kind. He doesn\u2019t have a trust fund, but he has a heart of gold. When he comes over, he asks Molly, \u201cIs it okay if I sit here?\u201d He respects her space. He respects that this is her house.<\/p>\n
This afternoon, I am sitting on the patio, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and purple. My granddaughter, Ellen, is seven years old now. She is running around the fountain, chasing a butterfly.<\/p>\n
\u201cGrandma!\u201d she yells, stopping in front of me with dirt on her knees and a smile that lights up the world. \u201cWhen I grow up, am I going to have a house like this?\u201d<\/p>\n
I look up at the kitchen window. Molly is there, watching us, a mug of tea in her hand. She smiles at me\u2014a smile of pure, unadulterated peace.<\/p>\n
I look back at Ellen.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, my love,\u201d I tell her, smoothing her messy hair. \u201cYour mother and I will make sure of it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d she asks, tilting her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cSo that no one can ever lock you in,\u201d I say softly. \u201cSo you are always free. So you always have a place that is yours, and yours alone.\u201d<\/p>\n
Ellen nods, satisfied with the answer, and runs off to play.<\/p>\n
I touch the small velvet box in my pocket\u2014I still keep it. It reminds me that love isn\u2019t just hugs and kisses. Sometimes, love is a deed. Sometimes, love is a legal document. And sometimes, love is a 60-year-old mother standing up in a ballroom, facing down a room full of people, and saying, \u201cNo more.\u201d<\/p>\n
If you enjoyed this story, or if you have ever had to fight for your own freedom, I\u2019d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Please share this with the women in your life\u2014sometimes, knowing you have options is the first step to freedom.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
At my daughter\u2019s wedding, her mother-in-law handed her a housemaid uniform. My son-in-law smiled and said, \u201cPerfect. She\u2019ll need this at home.\u201d My daughter broke<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":735,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-734","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-viral-article"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/734","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=734"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/734\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":736,"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/734\/revisions\/736"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/735"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=734"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=734"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mindfulescapades.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=734"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}