I still don\u2019t know what made me go. The 10-year high school reunion invite sat in my inbox for weeks, a digital ghost I kept opening and closing. Why go back there? Fort Collins High. The place where I perfected the art of invisibility, where being ignored was a\u00a0good<\/i>\u00a0day. Where\u00a0she<\/i>\u00a0reigned. Trina.<\/p>\n
But something pulled at me. Maybe proving I survived? Maybe closure? Maybe just morbid curiosity. So, I clicked RSVP. Yes. One night only. What could possibly go wrong?<\/p>\n
Turns out, everything. And then, spectacularly, nothing I could have ever predicted.<\/p>\n
Fort Collins, Colorado wasn\u2019t exactly glamorous for me. Mom and I lived crammed in the back room of my aunt\u2019s already small house off Shields Street. Mom worked nights cleaning office buildings, weekends pulling shifts as a gas station cashier. Money wasn\u2019t just tight; it was a constant, suffocating anxiety. Dad? He vanished when I was eight. No calls, no cards, no child support. Just\u2026 gone.<\/p>\n
High school was a masterclass in social stratification. I was at the bottom. Shy, perpetually broke, rotating the same three worn hoodies. I ate lunch alone behind the auditorium, reading library books to escape. Teachers barely noticed me \u2013 quiet, no trouble. But the other students? They noticed. Or rather,\u00a0Trina<\/i>\u00a0noticed.<\/p>\n
Trina Dubois. If you went to FCHS in the early 2010s, you knew her. Blonde, rail-thin, with a wealthy stepdad who funded her seemingly endless supply of Abercrombie and attitude. She wasn\u2019t the loudest mean girl, but she was the most venomous. She could dismantle you with a single smirk. And for reasons I\u2019ll never understand, I became her favorite project.<\/p>\n
\u201cRoach Girl.\u201d That was my name. Because, she announced loudly in the cafeteria sophomore year, I probably lived in filth. She said my house likely smelled like \u201ccat piss\u201d (we didn\u2019t even have a cat). She\u2019d \u201caccidentally\u201d trip me in the hallway, sending my books flying. She\u2019d dump water on my chair before class. Her masterpiece? Stealing my official school photo from the display case, scribbling \u201cLICE\u201d across my forehead in Sharpie, and passing it around. It made the rounds for weeks. I stopped getting school pictures after that.<\/p>\n
And the worst part? The silence. No one ever stepped in. A few pitying glances, maybe, but mostly just averted eyes. Everyone knew it was wrong, but no one wanted to become her next target. Senior year, she was crowned Prom Queen. I didn\u2019t go. I was washing dishes at a pizza place off Mulberry Street, the smell of grease and burnt cheese clinging to my clothes. That felt like the appropriate end to my high school experience.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Flash forward ten years. I\u2019m 28. Living in Denver. I run my own small business \u2013 \u201cMaggie\u2019s Frames.\u201d Custom framing, mostly local artists and Etsy sellers. It\u2019s not glamorous, I don\u2019t drive a fancy car, but it\u2019s\u00a0mine<\/i>. Built from scratch with savings from years of waitressing and sheer stubbornness. Tiny one-bedroom apartment, a rescued tabby cat named Gus, a few solid friends who know the real me. For the first time, looking in the mirror doesn\u2019t feel like staring at garbage. I\u2019m\u2026 okay. Stable. Content, even.<\/p>\n
So, I decided to go. Prove to 18-year-old me that things got better. Booked a cheap hotel room back in Fort Collins. Bought a navy blue wrap dress on clearance at Nordstrom Rack. Simple, clean, fit well. Curled my hair. Drove up I-25 feeling a weird mix of dread and determination.<\/p>\n
The reunion was at some swanky new event space downtown, near Old Town Square. Exposed brick, fairy lights, open bar \u2013 clearly, some classmates had done well. I walked in, grabbed a sparkling water (Dutch courage wasn\u2019t my style), and scanned the room. Familiar faces, aged ten years. Some looked happy, some looked tired. Some looked exactly the same, just slightly puffier.<\/p>\n
My cautious optimism lasted exactly five minutes. That\u2019s when Trina spotted me.<\/p>\n
She hadn\u2019t changed, fundamentally. Just\u2026 amplified. Blonder hair, tighter face (Botox? Fillers?), lips that looked unnaturally plump. Huge diamond earrings glittered. She was poured into a tight, metallic gold dress that screamed \u201cLook at me, I peaked in high school but refuse to admit it.\u201d And slung over her arm, practically a weapon, was a massive, logo-heavy designer purse. The kind that costs more than my car.<\/p>\n
Her eyes landed on me. That slow, assessing scan. Then, the mouth curled. That specific, venomous smirk I hadn\u2019t seen in a decade but recognized instantly.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh. My. God,\u201d she drawled, loud enough to turn heads. \u201cIs that\u00a0who<\/i>\u00a0I think it is?\u201d<\/p>\n
I froze. Tried to turn, blend into the small group discussing real estate near the bar. Too late. She strode over, heels clicking aggressively on the polished concrete floor. Grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. Pulled me towards a circle of vaguely familiar faces \u2013 people who\u2019d probably watched her torment me back then.<\/p>\n
\u201cGuys, look!\u201d she announced, beaming like she\u2019d discovered a particularly interesting insect. \u201cIt\u2019s\u00a0Roach Girl<\/i>! She actually came!\u201d<\/p>\n
Every muscle in my body seized. The air felt thick.\u00a0Roach Girl.<\/i>\u00a0Ten years, and that\u2019s the first thing out of her mouth.<\/p>\n
She turned to me, still holding my wrist hostage, her voice dripping with fake sympathy but her eyes glittering with malice. \u201cWow, Maggie, look at you.\u201d Her eyes did a slow, deliberate scan from my clearance-rack dress down to my sensible flats. \u201cStill broke? Still lonely? Still\u2026\u00a0this<\/i>?\u201d<\/p>\n
A few people in the circle chuckled nervously. A couple looked away, suddenly fascinated by their drinks. No one spoke up. Just like old times.<\/p>\n
She shoved the enormous purse practically under my nose. \u201cThis,\u201d she declared, tapping the logo, \u201cis Herm\u00e8s. Ever heard of it? Retails for about\u2026 oh, never mind. What\u2019s yours? Goodwill special?\u201d<\/p>\n
My face flushed hot. I tried to pull my arm away. \u201cTrina, I don\u2019t want any trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTrouble?\u201d She laughed, a high, brittle sound. \u201cHoney, you\u00a0are<\/i>\u00a0the trouble. Always were.\u201d She blocked my path when I tried to step around her.<\/p>\n
And then, it happened. Fast. Calculated. She flagged down a passing waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Plucked a full glass of red wine off the tray with predatory grace. Turned back to me. And without a word, with that same chilling smirk firmly in place, she deliberately, slowly, poured the entire glass of dark red wine down the front of my navy blue dress.<\/p>\n
Shock.<\/i>\u00a0Cold liquid soaking through the fabric, hitting my skin. Dripping down my chest, onto my legs, pooling in my shoes. The smell of cheap Merlot filled the air. I couldn\u2019t move. Couldn\u2019t breathe. Just stood there, frozen, dripping red wine like a B-movie horror victim.<\/p>\n
Trina stepped back, admiring her work. Laughed again. Then, turning to the horrified waiter, she gestured towards me like I was a spill, not a person. \u201cUgh, can someone clean this mess up? She\u2019s leaking.\u201d<\/p>\n
That<\/i>\u00a0got the bigger laugh. Crueler this time. Someone \u2013 I didn\u2019t see who \u2013 actually pulled out their phone. The flash went off. A photo? A video? Didn\u2019t matter. The image was burned into my brain: me, soaked in wine, Trina smirking triumphantly, the crowd laughing or looking away. Ten years. Nothing had changed. I was 16 again, trapped in that hallway, utterly alone, utterly humiliated. I thought I might actually pass out.<\/p>\n
And then, just as the shame threatened to swallow me whole, everything shifted.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The heavy doors to the event space burst open with a bang that silenced the room. A man stood framed in the doorway, tall, maybe early 30s, wearing an expensive suit, but it was askew \u2013 jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened, hair messy. His face was flushed, eyes scanning the room frantically. He looked furious. Unhinged.<\/p>\n
\u201cWHERE IS TRINA?<\/b>\u201d he roared, his voice echoing in the sudden, absolute silence. \u201cWHERE THE F<\/b>* IS SHE?!**\u201d<\/p>\n
Every head turned. Trina\u2019s smirk vanished, replaced instantly by a mask of pale fear. Not confusion. Pure, unadulterated fear. She knew\u00a0exactly<\/i>\u00a0who this was and why he was here.<\/p>\n
He spotted her. Stormed across the room, ignoring the parted crowd, eyes locked on Trina. He was shaking, vibrating with rage. Didn\u2019t glance at me, didn\u2019t notice the wine, didn\u2019t see anyone but her.<\/p>\n
He stopped inches from her face. His voice dropped, low and menacing, but carried in the dead silence. \u201cYou forged my name.<\/b>\u201d<\/p>\n
Trina started to stammer, trying to play it off. \u201cAlan, honey, what are you talking about? Are you drunk?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDon\u2019t,\u201d he cut her off, his voice tight. \u201cYou cleaned out our joint account. You stole over $200,000.<\/b>\u201d<\/p>\n
Gasps rippled through the room. People who\u2019d been laughing moments ago now looked horrified.<\/p>\n
He pulled a crumpled folder from under his arm, shoved it towards her. Bank statements, documents, papers spilling out. \u201cYou signed a loan application in my name! Took out credit cards! Lied to my lawyer! Used my company \u2013\u00a0my father\u2019s company<\/i>\u00a0\u2013 to lease that ridiculous car you drive!<\/b>\u201d<\/p>\n
Trina reached for the papers, maybe to hide them, maybe to rip them up. He snatched them back. \u201cYou think you\u2019re some kind of mastermind?<\/b>\u201d he spat, voice thick with disgust. \u201cYou\u2019re a fraud! A parasite! I gave you\u00a0everything<\/i>, and you used me! Bled me dry! I\u2019m done protecting you. Done covering for you. The cops are on their way.<\/b>\u201d<\/p>\n
Dead silence. No one breathed. Trina looked like she might collapse.<\/p>\n
Then he delivered the line that became the stuff of Fort Collins legend. He glanced down at the ridiculously large, logo-emblazoned purse still clutched in Trina\u2019s white-knuckled hand. He sneered.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd by the way? That Herm\u00e8s bag?<\/b>\u201d Pause for effect. \u201cIt\u2019s fake. Just like you.<\/b>\u201d<\/p>\n
\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
If the room was silent before, it was now a vacuum. You could hear ice clinking in glasses three tables away. People started whispering, murmuring. Phones came out again, but this time, every single one was pointed at Trina.<\/p>\n
A few people subtly backed away from her, creating a small, clear circle of condemnation around her. Her face, under the expensive makeup, went stiff, then began to crumble. She looked around desperately, scanning the faces \u2013 former friends, admirers, people she\u2019d intimidated for years \u2013 searching for an ally, a defender. Someone to step in, smooth things over, make it go away like people always had.<\/p>\n
Nothing. Not even the girls who used to flank her like designer-clad bodyguards in high school. They stared at their shoes, at the ceiling, anywhere but at her.<\/p>\n
The husband \u2013 Alan \u2013 wasn\u2019t finished. His voice cracked now, not just with rage, but with raw pain. \u201cI opened that company with inheritance money from my father! You drained it in less than a year! Lied to every investor! Blew thousands on clothes, cars, dinners,\u00a0fake Instagram followers<\/i>! For what? So you could pretend to be someone you\u2019re not?\u201d<\/p>\n
Trina tried again, \u201cAlan, please, let\u2019s talk about this privately\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNO!<\/b>\u201d he roared, making several people jump. \u201cYou don\u2019t get to talk now! You had\u00a0years<\/i>\u00a0to talk! I\u00a0begged<\/i>\u00a0you to be honest about the finances! You looked me in the eye and swore everything was fine! While you were emptying our goddamn savings!\u201d<\/p>\n
Trina looked like she might genuinely faint. Her perfect facade was shattering, revealing something ugly and desperate underneath. I thought that might be it. Cops arrive, arrest her, whispers follow, I slip out the back. Humiliated, but vindicated in a strange, second-hand way.<\/p>\n
But the universe, apparently, wasn\u2019t done with Trina Dubois that night.<\/p>\n
Because then, a woman stepped forward from the edge of the crowd. Tall, elegant, Black, impeccably dressed in a way that made Trina\u2019s gold dress look cheap. Maybe late 30s. I hadn\u2019t noticed her before. She looked directly at Alan, her voice calm, clear, carrying easily.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d she said, politely but firmly. \u201cBut she told me she was single.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room collectively held its breath. Trina whipped around, eyes wide with panic. \u201cMonica? What are you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n
The woman \u2013 Monica \u2013 didn\u2019t flinch. Held up her phone. Scrolled briefly. Turned the screen towards Alan. \u201cWe\u2019ve been seeing each other for six months. She told me she was escaping a bad marriage. Said her husband was controlling, emotionally abusive. Said\u00a0you<\/i>\u00a0tried to restrict her access to funds, sabotage her \u2018startup\u2019.\u201d<\/p>\n
Gasps. Someone actually whispered, \u201cJesus Christ.\u201d<\/p>\n
Alan\u2019s jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack. He stared at Trina, the betrayal now layered, complex, unimaginably deep. \u201cYou told\u2026 you told someone\u00a0I<\/i>\u00a0was abusive? To cover your\u00a0theft<\/i>? To justify screwing around while you ruined my life?\u201d<\/p>\n
Trina reached for him, tears finally spilling, mascara starting to run. \u201cAlan, no, she\u2019s lying\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n
He recoiled like she was toxic. \u201cDon\u2019t.<\/b>\u201d His voice broke completely. Not anger now. Just raw, devastating hurt. \u201cYou didn\u2019t just wreck me financially. You lied\u00a0about<\/i>\u00a0me. Slandered me. And now I\u2019ve got cops, lawyers, probably reporters calling my\u00a0mother<\/i>. My mother, Trina! The woman who still thinks I married someone with a soul!\u201d<\/p>\n
Trina\u2019s perfectly applied mask dissolved. Fake lashes peeled at the corners. Streaks of black ran down her cheeks. She looked ragged. Desperate. And because her lifelong instinct was to deflect, to find a scapegoat, her wild eyes landed back on me. Still standing there. Still soaked in wine. Still silent.<\/p>\n
\u201cYOU!<\/b>\u201d she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger. \u201cYou did this! This was your plan all along! You\u2019re obsessed with me! Always been jealous! You planted her here! This is your pathetic revenge, isn\u2019t it?!<\/b>\u201d<\/p>\n
Every head in the room swiveled towards me. Caught in the spotlight again. But this time, something was different. I wasn\u2019t scared. I wasn\u2019t ashamed. I just felt\u2026 tired. And strangely, pityingly, clear.<\/p>\n
Before I could even formulate a response (not that I planned to), Monica spoke again, her voice laced with dawning realization and disgust. She looked confused, shaking her head slightly. \u201cYou mentioned her name once,\u201d she said to Trina, then looked at me. \u201cJust once. Called her\u2026 \u2018Maggot Girl\u2019\u2026 from high school?\u201d The room winced collectively at the name. \u201cSaid she was some creepy stalker, obsessed with you online, trying to\u00a0be<\/i>\u00a0you.\u201d<\/p>\n
There it was. The final, pathetic twist. She hadn\u2019t forgotten me. She\u2019d been thinking about\u00a0me<\/i>. Weaving me into her web of lies. Painting\u00a0herself<\/i>\u00a0as the victim of\u00a0my<\/i>\u00a0supposed obsession. Ten years, and she was still fighting high school battles in her head. While I hadn\u2019t thought about her in years, hadn\u2019t even followed her curated life online. She remembered every slight, real or imagined. And now, cornered, her instinct was to drag me down with her.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s when the police arrived. Two uniformed officers, calm, professional. They spoke quietly with Alan first. He handed them the folder of documents. People watched, whispered, kept their distance. Trina tried to slip out a side exit. An officer intercepted her calmly. \u201cMa\u2019am, we need you to come with us.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis is insane! A setup!\u201d She looked around frantically, begging with her eyes for someone, anyone, to intervene. Nothing. Silence. Even her old high school clique stood frozen, faces blank. Everyone saw her now. Not the Queen Bee. Just a thief. A liar. A fraud. Rotten underneath the shine.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The officer gently took her arm. But Trina wasn\u2019t done. She yanked away, spun towards the crowd, face contorted. \u201cYou\u2019re all a bunch of fakes!<\/b>\u201d she screamed, voice cracking. \u201cYou laughed at\u00a0her<\/i>\u00a0too! Don\u2019t pretend you were better! You called her names! You played along!<\/b>\u201d<\/p>\n
People shifted uncomfortably. Ian, the guy from chem class, stared at his shoes. I remembered him laughing when Trina dumped soup on my textbooks.<\/p>\n
She pointed at a woman near the bar. \u201cDanielle! You made those lice posters! Don\u2019t act brand new!<\/b>\u201d Danielle flushed scarlet, turned away.<\/p>\n
She pointed at another guy. \u201cWes! Didn\u2019t you text me pictures of her eating alone? \u2018Roach feeding time?\u2019 You think I forgot? You think\u00a0she<\/i>\u00a0forgot?!<\/b>\u201d<\/p>\n
Silence. Thick with guilt. I hadn\u2019t forgotten. Just never expected to hear it acknowledged.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou all used me to feel better about yourselves!<\/b>\u201d Trina shrieked, tears and mascara streaming. \u201cNow you act like heroes \u2019cause I got caught! F<\/b>* you! All of you!**\u201d<\/p>\n
The officer gently guided her again. \u201cThat\u2019s enough, ma\u2019am.\u201d As they led her out, the room stayed quiet, stunned. She\u2019d exposed not just her own rottenness, but the complicity of the crowd. Danielle left quickly. Wes slipped out a side door.<\/p>\n
Ten minutes later, another figure appeared. A short woman, graying hair, tear-streaked face. Looked exhausted, broken. \u201cIs\u2026 is Trina gone?\u201d she asked the room. Someone nodded. She walked in slowly. \u201cI\u2019m her mother.\u201d<\/p>\n
I barely recognized her. Last time I saw Mrs. Dubois, she was dripping in pearls at a school fundraiser. Now, she looked frail. She turned to Alan, who stood numbly by the wall. \u201cI didn\u2019t know,\u201d she whispered. \u201cAbout the money from your company. The other woman. Any of it.\u201d He didn\u2019t respond. \u201cShe forged my name too,\u201d the mother added, voice barely audible. \u201cOn a second mortgage. I might lose my house.\u201d A collective intake of breath. Trina had even victimized her own mother.<\/p>\n
Then, the final, bizarre twist. Monica, Trina\u2019s girlfriend, spoke again, piecing things together. \u201cWe didn\u2019t meet on Instagram. It was a real estate seminar in Boulder.\u201d She looked at Alan. \u201cShe said she was single. Showed me photos of\u00a0you<\/i>, told me you were her bankrupt\u00a0business partner<\/i>. Said she took over the company to save it from\u00a0your<\/i>\u00a0theft.\u201d More stunned silence. \u201cShe said you\u2019d stolen from her, that she covered it up.\u201d Alan just rubbed his face, speechless.<\/p>\n
Then Monica looked at\u00a0me<\/i>. \u201cI looked up your name. After she called you\u2026 that name. Found your framing business online. Saw your work.\u201d Pause. \u201cI showed Trina one of your pieces \u2013 a frame with pressed wildflowers. She got really quiet. Said she copied you. Said she always wanted to\u00a0be<\/i>\u00a0you.\u201d<\/p>\n
It hit me then. The obsession wasn\u2019t mine. It was\u00a0hers<\/i>. She\u2019d followed\u00a0me<\/i>. Watched my small, quiet business. Compared herself. That\u2019s why seeing me at the reunion, not broken, not a \u2018failure,\u2019 but just\u2026 okay\u2026 had triggered her attack. Because under all her noise and fake Herm\u00e8s,\u00a0she<\/i>\u00a0felt like the failure.<\/p>\n
The room emptied quickly after that. No music, no dancing, just people escaping the wreckage. I stayed. Watched the cleanup crew start sweeping up spilled wine and shattered illusions. Alan sat slumped in a chair, head in hands. Monica quietly apologized to me again, then left.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The video \u2013 Trina screaming, wine pouring, handcuffs clicking \u2013 was all over local social media by morning. Viral in Fort Collins. Everyone saw.<\/p>\n
But seeing her downfall wasn\u2019t enough. Not quite. Too many years of her voice echoing in my head. The posters. The whispers. The teachers looking away. She stole money, yes. But she also stole years of peace.<\/p>\n
So, I did something quiet. Strategic. Went home. Cleaned my dress (the stain never fully came out). Started compiling. Screenshots from the viral video. Old yearbook photos showing her victims. Posts from her fake business pages. Put it all in a digital folder. Emailed Alan. Subject:\u00a0Evidence<\/i>. Body:\u00a0Let me help.<\/i><\/p>\n
He responded in an hour.\u00a0Yes. Please.<\/i><\/p>\n
He had lawyers, yes, but was drowning in the chaos she left. Fake licenses, potentially stolen art pieces she passed off as hers (some looked suspiciously like prints from local artists I framed for). He had no idea where to even start untangling her web.<\/p>\n
I let him use my small framing studio back room for meetings. He brought coffee. We spent weeks, then months, sifting through papers, screenshots, timelines. Somewhere in the meticulous work of documenting Trina\u2019s fraud, we started talking. About life. Losing trust. His dad dying young. My mom working three jobs. He never looked at me like I was small or broken. He just\u2026 understood. The silence, the need to survive.<\/p>\n
Trina\u2019s case dragged. But Alan, armed with organized evidence (much of it compiled by me), had an airtight case.\u00a0$280,000+ stolen.<\/b>\u00a0Multiple forgeries. Fake brand identity. Tax fraud.\u00a0Sentence: 4 years, state prison.<\/b><\/p>\n
Her mugshot hit the local news. No fake lashes, no spray tan, no Herm\u00e8s (fake or otherwise). Just orange jumpsuit. Hollow eyes. Unrecognizable.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The fallout continued.\u00a0Trina\u2019s mother lost her house<\/b>\u00a0to foreclosure.\u00a0Monica pressed charges<\/b>\u00a0(fraud, emotional distress).\u00a0Danielle and Wes posted public apologies<\/b>\u00a0on Facebook years too late; no one cared.<\/p>\n
Me? I didn\u2019t gloat. Didn\u2019t need to. I just kept living. Kept building my business. Kept showing up.<\/p>\n
Six months after the trial ended, Alan and I started dating. Slowly. Carefully. Rebuilding trust, not just with each other, but with the idea of partnership itself. He didn\u2019t try to fix me or take over. He just stood beside me. Quiet. Solid. Supportive in ways I hadn\u2019t known existed.<\/p>\n
One year later, we opened a second location of my framing shop, this time in Boulder. We brainstormed names for weeks. Finally settled on one that felt right.\u00a0\u201cWildflower Frames.\u201d<\/b>\u00a0(I decided against including \u2018Maggot,\u2019 figuring subtlety was its own kind of power). Some people get the reference; most don\u2019t. But\u00a0I<\/i>\u00a0know. She gave me those names to break me. I kept one to remind myself I survived, and transformed the other into something beautiful.<\/p>\n
That\u2019s real revenge. Not loud or dramatic. Just quiet, persistent survival. Building a good life, a real life, on the ashes of the past. It\u2019s simple. It\u2019s sharp. And it\u2019s mine.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I still don\u2019t know what made me go. The 10-year high school reunion invite sat in my inbox for weeks, a digital ghost I kept opening and closing…. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":2454,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[39],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2448","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-echoes-of-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2448","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2448"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2448\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/2454"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2448"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2448"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2448"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}