{"id":7680,"date":"2026-02-06T09:41:47","date_gmt":"2026-02-06T09:41:47","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/echoesofstories.com\/?p=7680"},"modified":"2026-02-06T10:34:46","modified_gmt":"2026-02-06T10:34:46","slug":"my-parents-secretly-charged-95000-on-my-gold-credit-card-for-my-sisters-luxury-trip-to-hawaii-when-my-mom-called-she-laughed-and-said-we-emptied-your-card-its-y","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/?p=7680","title":{"rendered":"My parents secretly charged $95,000 on my gold credit card for my sister\u2019s luxury trip to Hawaii. When my mom called, she laughed and said, \u2018We emptied your card\u2014it\u2019s your punishment.\u2019 I only replied, \u2018Don\u2019t regret it later,\u2019 but when they came home, everything collapsed."},"content":{"rendered":"

The Line of Credit: A Family Liquidation<\/span><\/h3>\n

My name is Rachel Monroe<\/span><\/strong>, and for the first thirty-two years of my life, I believed that love was a transaction. You gave compliance, you received affection. You gave success, you received validation. But in the ledger of the Monroe family, I was always the liability, and my parents were the sole shareholders.<\/span><\/p>\n

I sat in my corner office on the forty-second floor of a steel-and-glass tower in downtown Chicago, the gray expanse of Lake Michigan churning below. As a senior financial analyst for Sterling & Krow<\/span><\/strong>, my life was governed by risk assessment. I could spot a failing derivative from three spreadsheets away. I could predict a market correction by the pitch of a CEO\u2019s voice.<\/span><\/p>\n

Yet, I hadn\u2019t predicted that the biggest volatility in my portfolio would be my own mother.<\/p>\n

I was careful with money. Obsessive, even. I wore tailored suits that I bought second-hand and had altered. I packed my lunch in Tupperware containers that I washed and reused until they warped. I did this because I knew a secret that most people learn too late: Security is not a given; it is a fortress you build brick by brick.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

When I was twenty-three, fresh out of grad school and terrified of the world, my father, Thomas Monroe<\/span><\/strong>, had sat me down. He looked at me with those soft, watery eyes that I always mistook for kindness.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRachel,\u201d he had said, his hand over mine. \u201cThe world is dangerous. You\u2019re in a big city alone. You need a safety net. Add us as authorized users to your emergency gold card. We won\u2019t touch it. It\u2019s just… for peace of mind. In case something happens to you, we can handle your affairs.\u201d<\/p>\n

It sounded logical. It sounded paternal. I trusted him. That was the first entry in the error log.<\/p>\n

For nine years, that card sat dormant. A zero balance. A phantom limb of trust.<\/p>\n

Then came the summer of my thirty-second year. My younger sister, Olivia<\/span><\/strong>, was twenty-six and functionally a teenager. She drifted between “aspirational careers”\u2014lifestyle blogging, dog yoga instruction, artisanal candle making\u2014always funded by the Bank of Mom and Dad. When she announced she was going to <\/span>Hawaii<\/span><\/strong> for two weeks with her entourage to “reset her chakras,” I rolled my eyes but didn’t intervene. I assumed my parents were bleeding their retirement dry to fund her delusions, as they always did.<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn’t know the funding had changed sources.<\/p>\n

It was a Tuesday afternoon. The air conditioning in my office was humming, a low-frequency drone that usually helped me focus. My phone vibrated against the mahogany desk.<\/p>\n

Mom.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

I hesitated. Calls from Karen Monroe<\/span><\/strong> were rarely good news. They were usually guilt trips or requests for tech support. But I answered.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRachel?\u201d<\/p>\n

She was laughing. It wasn\u2019t a nervous laugh, or a warm laugh. It was the wet, breathless sound of someone who has just gotten away with something illicit.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello, mother.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI just wanted to tell you,\u201d she said, her voice giddy, slurred slightly by what I assumed was a midday mimosa. \u201cWe did it. We emptied it.\u201d<\/p>\n

I frowned, staring at a spreadsheet of municipal bond yields. \u201cEmptied what?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe gold card, silly. Your card.\u201d She giggled. \u201cNinety-five thousand dollars. First-class flights for Olivia and her friends. The penthouse suite at the Royal Hawaiian<\/span><\/strong>. Diamond earrings for me. A new watch for your father. We maxed it out, Rachel.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The world stopped. The hum of the AC vanished. My blood ran cold, a physical sensation like ice water being poured down my spine.<\/p>\n

\u201cExcuse me?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou heard me,\u201d she snapped, the laughter vanishing, replaced by a sudden, jagged cruelty. \u201cYou hid this money from us. You pretend to be so poor, with your little Tupperware lunches and your old car, but you had a limit of a hundred thousand dollars sitting there. It\u2019s your punishment, you cheap girl. Family money is family money. Olivia deserves to live. We deserve to enjoy life.\u201d<\/p>\n

I pulled the phone away from my ear, staring at it as if it had turned into a snake. I tapped the banking app with a trembling finger.<\/p>\n

Login…
Authenticating…<\/span><\/p>\n

And there it was. A wall of red.<\/p>\n

Pending: ALO HAWAII AIRLINES – $12,400<\/span><\/strong>
Pending: ROYAL HAWAIIAN RESORT – $24,000<\/span><\/strong>
Pending: CARTIER HONOLULU – $15,600<\/span><\/strong>
Pending: NOBU WAIKIKI – $3,200<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Dozens of them. A hemorrhage of wealth. My down payment for a condo. My safety net. My fortress. Gone in swipe after swipe.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you there?\u201d my mother taunted. \u201cDon\u2019t be dramatic. You can pay it off. You have that fancy job. Consider it… retroactive rent for raising you.\u201d<\/p>\n

My hands were shaking so hard I had to press my palm flat against the desk to stabilize it. But when I spoke, my voice was unrecognizable. It wasn’t the voice of a daughter. It was the voice of a senior analyst discussing a hostile takeover.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou committed fraud,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, stop it,\u201d she scoffed. \u201cWe\u2019re authorized users. You gave us permission nine years ago. We can spend whatever we want. And we did. Don’t regret it later, Rachel. Don’t you dare try to ruin your sister’s trip.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not going to ruin her trip,\u201d I said, my eyes fixing on the gray horizon of the lake. \u201cI\u2019m going to ruin her life.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hung up.<\/p>\n

\n

For ten minutes, I didn’t move. I sat in my ergonomic chair, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, forcing my heart rate to decelerate.<\/p>\n

Panic is a luxury I couldn’t afford. Panic is for amateurs. In my line of work, when a catastrophic loss occurs, you don’t cry. You audit.<\/p>\n

I picked up the phone again. Not to call my parents back, but to dial a number I had memorized for client crises.<\/p>\n

David Thorne.<\/span><\/strong> He was the head of corporate litigation for my firm, a man who viewed human emotion as an inefficiency in the legal process.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThorne,\u201d he answered on the first ring.<\/p>\n

\u201cDavid, it\u2019s Rachel Monroe. I have a situation. A localized breach of personal assets involving unauthorized use by family members. The exposure is ninety-five thousand.\u201d<\/p>\n

I heard the click of a pen on the other end. \u201cAre they authorized users?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTechnically, yes. From a decade ago. But the intent was emergency only. They have just admitted, on a recorded line\u2014I record all incoming calls to my work phone, David\u2014to malicious intent. Punitive spending.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you gave them the card, the bank will say it\u2019s civil, not criminal,\u201d David warned, his voice smooth and detached. \u201cThey\u2019ll say you authorized the spending by authorizing the user. It\u2019s a gray area.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe card is tied to my corporate profile, David. It\u2019s a personal card, but it\u2019s under the Sterling & Krow<\/span><\/strong> preferred banking umbrella. If I default, it triggers a compliance audit for the firm. It risks my security clearance.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Silence. Then, the sound of a keyboard clacking furiously.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d David said, his tone shifting from colleague to shark. \u201cThat changes the leverage. If this impacts the firm\u2019s compliance standing, we can aggressive. Freeze the card. File a fraud affidavit immediately. Not \u2018unauthorized user,\u2019 but \u2018theft by deception.\u2019 And Rachel?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo not scream at them. Do not text them. Go silent. Let them enjoy the vacation. We need the charges to post so we have a paper trail. If you cancel them while they\u2019re pending, it\u2019s just a misunderstanding. If they consume the goods, it\u2019s theft.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cUnderstood.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hung up. Then I called the bank\u2019s fraud division. I spoke with a precision that frightened even me. I didn’t sound like a victim. I sounded like a coroner.<\/p>\n

By midnight, the account was flagged. The investigation had begun.<\/p>\n

What my parents didn\u2019t understand\u2014what they were too arrogant to realize\u2014was that high-level financial instruments aren’t like the credit cards you get in the mail. They come with surveillance.<\/p>\n

The bank\u2019s investigation team, spurred by the threat of a corporate compliance issue, moved with terrifying speed. They didn\u2019t just look at the numbers. They pulled the data.<\/p>\n

Three days later, I sat in a small conference room with a fraud investigator named Mr. Henderson<\/span><\/strong>. He turned his laptop screen toward me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe pulled the CCTV footage from the Cartier boutique in Honolulu,\u201d Henderson said. \u201cStandard procedure for purchases over ten thousand dollars.\u201d<\/p>\n

I watched the grainy video.<\/p>\n

There was my mother, Karen, pointing at a diamond necklace. She was laughing, her head thrown back. Beside her was Olivia, looking tan and bored, scrolling on her phone while my father signed the receipt.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook at the signature,\u201d Henderson said, zooming in.<\/p>\n

My father hadn\u2019t signed his own name. He had signed Rachel Monroe<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was a clumsy forgery, a loop-de-loop that looked nothing like my sharp, angular signature.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe signed your name,\u201d Henderson said, his voice devoid of pity. \u201cThat removes the \u2018authorized user\u2019 defense. An authorized user signs their own name because they have permission. Signing your<\/span> name implies they were pretending to be you. That is identity theft. That is a felony.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I stared at the screen, at the pixelated face of my father. The man who taught me to ride a bike. The man who was currently wearing a fifteen-thousand-dollar watch he had stolen from my future.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo it,\u201d I said softly. \u201cExecute the chargeback.\u201d<\/p>\n

The bank reversed the charges. All ninety-five thousand dollars.<\/p>\n

But the money didn’t disappear into the ether. When a bank reverses a charge for fraud, the merchant demands payment from the person standing in the store. And when the bank determines who that person is, the debt is reassigned.<\/p>\n

The bank sent a demand letter. Not to me. To Thomas and Karen Monroe.<\/p>\n

\n

They came to my apartment four days later.<\/p>\n

I hadn’t spoken to them since the call. I hadn’t answered the texts from Olivia showing off her \u2018new bling.\u2019 I hadn’t liked the Facebook posts of them drinking Mai Tais.<\/p>\n

It was a rainy Tuesday evening. The buzzer rang.<\/p>\n

Front Desk: Your parents are here, Ms. Monroe. They seem… distressed.<\/p>\n

\u201cSend them up,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

I opened the door before they could knock.<\/p>\n

They looked like holiday ghosts. The tans were peeling. The euphoria of the trip had evaporated, replaced by the crushing weight of reality. My mother was clutching a certified letter in her hand like it was a live grenade. My father looked gray, his shoulders slumped. Olivia stood behind them, looking annoyed, as if this were just another boring administrative error.<\/p>\n

\u201cRachel,\u201d my father started, his voice cracking. \u201cWe need to talk. There\u2019s been a mistake. The bank… they froze our accounts. All of them.\u201d<\/p>\n

I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. I didn’t invite them in.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo mistake,\u201d I said. \u201cI reported the fraud. The bank investigated. They found that you forged my signature. That\u2019s a crime, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was a technicality!\u201d my mother shrieked, stepping forward. Her eyes were wild. \u201cWe are your parents! You gave us the card! You can\u2019t just\u2014they\u2019re talking about police, Rachel. They\u2019re talking about jail!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNinety-five thousand dollars is a Class 1 felony,\u201d I said calmly. \u201cThe bank has a zero-tolerance policy for identity theft involving corporate-affiliated accounts.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFix it,\u201d Olivia snapped, popping gum in her mouth. \u201cJust call them and say you said it was okay. God, you\u2019re so dramatic. It\u2019s just money.\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked at my sister. She was wearing a new designer sundress. I recognized it from the transaction log. Nordstrom: $450.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t fix it,\u201d I lied. \u201cIt\u2019s out of my hands. The bank\u2019s legal team has taken over. However…\u201d<\/p>\n

I let the word hang in the air.<\/p>\n

\u201cHowever what?\u201d my father asked, hope flickering in his eyes like a dying candle.<\/p>\n

\u201cI spoke to my attorney. The bank is willing to drop the criminal referral\u2014the jail time\u2014if the debt is acknowledged and a repayment plan is executed immediately. Personally. By you.\u201d<\/p>\n

My mother gasped. \u201cWe don\u2019t have ninety-five thousand dollars! You know that! That\u2019s why we used your card!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen you\u2019ll have to find it,\u201d I said. \u201cOr you can explain to the judge why you forged my signature.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stepped back and pulled a document from the entry table. David Thorne had drawn it up that morning. It wasn\u2019t a standard repayment plan. It was a capitulation.<\/p>\n

Civil Confession of Judgment.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is this?\u201d my father asked, taking the papers with shaking hands.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s an agreement,\u201d I explained. \u201cIt states that you accept full liability for the unauthorized charges. It states that you agree to repay the principal plus the interest the bank charges. And it grants a lien against your house as collateral.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOur house?\u201d my mother screamed. \u201cYou\u2019re trying to take our home?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m trying to keep you out of prison,\u201d I countered, my voice sharp. \u201cIf you don’t sign, the bank presses charges on Monday. I can\u2019t stop them. This is the only lifeboat I could build for you.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was a bluff, partially. The bank would have preferred a settlement to a trial, but the threat of prison was the only currency my parents understood.<\/p>\n

My father looked at the paper. He looked at me. For the first time, he didn’t see his daughter. He saw a creditor.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll have to sell the cabin,\u201d he whispered. \u201cWe\u2019ll have to liquidate your mother\u2019s IRA.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen you better call your broker,\u201d I said. \u201cBecause the first payment is due in thirty days.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are evil,\u201d my mother hissed, tears streaming down her face\u2014not tears of sorrow, but tears of rage. \u201cYou are a cold, heartless bitch. We raised you! We fed you!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd now I\u2019m paying you back,\u201d I said. \u201cThe cost of raising a child to age eighteen is roughly two hundred thousand dollars. You stole half of that in one week. Consider us even.\u201d<\/p>\n

I held out the pen.<\/p>\n

My father signed. He pressed so hard the paper tore slightly.<\/p>\n

My mother signed, sobbing the entire time.<\/p>\n

Olivia refused to look at the paper. \u201cI\u2019m not signing anything. I didn\u2019t swipe the card.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re named as a beneficiary of the fraud,\u201d I said. \u201cIf they go down, you go down as an accessory. Sign it, Olivia.\u201d<\/p>\n

She looked at our parents, waiting for them to save her. Waiting for them to yell at me to stop being mean. But they were broken. They were doing the math in their heads, realizing their retirement was gone.<\/p>\n

Olivia signed.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet out,\u201d I said, taking the papers.<\/p>\n

\u201cRachel, please,\u201d my father tried, reaching for my arm.<\/p>\n

I stepped back, closing the door in his face. I locked the deadbolt. Then the chain. Then I slid down to the floor and sat there in the dark, listening to them weep in the hallway.<\/p>\n

\n

The aftermath was a slow-motion car crash.<\/p>\n

The debt was real. The bank transferred the liability to them based on the confession of judgment. The interest rate was punitive\u201424.99%.<\/p>\n

My parents didn\u2019t just have to pay back the money; they had to pay for the audacity of taking it.<\/p>\n

They sold the second car, my father\u2019s prized vintage Mustang. They sold the vacation cabin in Wisconsin that had been in the family for two generations. My mother went back to work as a receptionist at sixty-two, a humiliation she complained about to anyone who would listen.<\/p>\n

Olivia\u2019s life collapsed the fastest. Without the parental subsidy, she couldn’t make rent. She moved back in with them, into her old childhood bedroom. The tension in that house must have been suffocating\u2014three people trapped in a shrinking lifeboat, blaming each other for the leak.<\/p>\n

They tried to destroy me in the court of public opinion. My aunts and uncles called, leaving nasty voicemails calling me ungrateful. My cousins posted vague statuses on Facebook about “snakes in the family.”<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t engage. I didn\u2019t argue.<\/p>\n

I simply took a screenshot of the Confession of Judgment<\/span><\/strong>, highlighting the paragraph where they admitted to <\/span>Identity Theft and Fraudulent Conveyance<\/span>, and sent it to the family group chat.<\/span><\/p>\n

Caption: I kept them out of prison. You\u2019re welcome.<\/p>\n

The messages stopped. No one wants to defend a felony when the paperwork is right there in black and white.<\/p>\n

A year passed.<\/p>\n

I received a notification from the bank legal team. Debt Satisfaction: Paid in Full.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

They had done it. It had cost them their retirement cushion, their assets, and their dignity, but they had paid it.<\/p>\n

I sat in my office, looking at the notification. I expected to feel triumphant. I expected a surge of dopamine. Instead, I just felt… light. A heavy, wet coat had finally been taken off my shoulders.<\/p>\n

My phone rang that evening.<\/p>\n

It was my mother.<\/p>\n

I debated ignoring it. I had moved to Boston<\/span><\/strong> three months prior for a promotion to Director of Strategy. They didn\u2019t have my address. They didn\u2019t know I was seeing someone new. They didn’t know I was happy.<\/span><\/p>\n

I answered.<\/p>\n

\u201cHello, mother.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her voice was different. The arrogance was gone. The anger was gone. It was brittle, hollowed out by a year of financial terror.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s done,\u201d she said quietly. \u201cWe paid the last cent today.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI know. I saw the alert.\u201d<\/p>\n

Silence stretched between us, spanning the thousand miles of wire.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe had to refinance the house,\u201d she said, her voice trembling. \u201cYour father… he had a minor heart attack last month. Stress.\u201d<\/p>\n

I felt a pang, a ghost of the daughter I used to be. But then I remembered the laughter. I remembered her mocking me while buying diamonds with my future.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hope he recovers,\u201d I said politely.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t think you\u2019d really do it,\u201d she whispered. \u201cI didn\u2019t think you\u2019d let us fall like that. We\u2019re your blood, Rachel. How could you be so cold?\u201d<\/p>\n

I turned my chair to look out the window at the Boston skyline, the city lights glittering like spilled coins.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou didn\u2019t think I was a person,\u201d I replied, my voice steady. \u201cYou looked at me and you saw an ATM. You saw a resource to be mined. You broke the contract, Mom. Not me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re family,\u201d she pleaded, a last-ditch effort to invoke the old magic.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cWe\u2019re bad business partners. And I\u2019m liquidating my position.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRachel, please\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cGoodbye, mother.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hung up. Then, I blocked the number.<\/p>\n

I blocked my father.
I blocked Olivia.<\/span><\/p>\n

I opened my laptop and logged into my bank account. The balance was high. Secure. Mine.<\/p>\n

I thought about the trip to Hawaii they had taken. The sunsets they had seen. I hoped they enjoyed them. I hoped the memory of that ocean was worth the house they were sitting in.<\/p>\n

Because that was the thing about boundaries. They are expensive to build. You have to pay with guilt, with loneliness, with the judgment of others. But once they are up, the cost of maintenance is zero.<\/p>\n

I stood up, grabbed my coat, and walked out of the office.<\/p>\n

Down on the street, the air was crisp and cold. I walked to a nearby bistro where my boyfriend was waiting. He waved when he saw me, a genuine, warm smile that wanted nothing from me but my company.<\/p>\n

I smiled back.<\/p>\n

My name is Rachel Monroe. I am thirty-three years old. I have no debt. I have no contact with the people who raised me.<\/p>\n

And I have never been richer.<\/p>\n

If you\u2019ve ever had to draw a hard line with family to save yourself, or if you believe that respect is more important than blood, please like and share this post. Your story matters.<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Line of Credit: A Family Liquidation My name is Rachel Monroe, and for the first thirty-two years of my life, I believed that love was a transaction…. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":7715,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7680","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7680","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=7680"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7680\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/7715"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=7680"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=7680"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/happylifeaura.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=7680"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}