{"id":3897,"date":"2026-06-28T00:08:25","date_gmt":"2026-06-28T00:08:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/?p=3897"},"modified":"2026-06-28T00:08:25","modified_gmt":"2026-06-28T00:08:25","slug":"on-our-21st-birthday-we-received-a-mysterious-box-that-changed-everything","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/?p=3897","title":{"rendered":"On our 21st birthday, we received a mysterious box that changed everything."},"content":{"rendered":"
On their 21st birthday, Gia and Leila receive a small wooden box that had been waiting for them for years. What they find inside turns an ordinary birthday breakfast into a moment neither sister can ever forget.<\/div>\n
\n
<\/div>\n

There were three of us once.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Me, Leila, and Nora.<\/p>\n

I know that sounds like the start of a story someone tells after they have already made peace with the ending, but I never made peace with ours.<\/p>\n

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

Not really.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

I only learned how to speak around it without falling apart in public.<\/p>\n

People always called Leila and me twins after Nora died, because it was easier for them. Easier than saying \u201cthe surviving two.\u201d Easier than watching our mother\u2019s face collapse every time someone asked where the third girl was.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

But Leila and I never felt like twins.<\/p>\n

We felt like two broken pieces of something that used to be whole.<\/p>\n

Nora was the oldest by seven minutes, and somehow she acted as if those seven minutes made her responsible for the entire universe. She reminded us of it all the time too.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

\u201cI\u2019m older,\u201d she would say, lifting her chin like she had been crowned queen of the nursery. \u201cThat means I decide.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Leila hated that.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\u201cSeven minutes doesn\u2019t count,\u201d she would snap.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt does if you were late,\u201d Nora would reply, grinning.<\/p>\n

I usually laughed first. Leila usually threw a pillow.<\/p>\n

That was how most of our childhood sounded before everything changed. Laughter. Arguing. Someone running down the hallway.<\/p>\n

Mom yelling that if one more crayon ended up on the wall, she was going to lose her mind. Dad, back when he was still around more often than not, pretending to be stern while secretly smiling into his coffee.<\/p>\n

Nora was the one who stood between us when Leila and I fought over toys, over clothes, over who got the window seat, and over stupid things children fight about because they don\u2019t understand yet how much they\u2019ll miss the noise one day.<\/p>\n

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

\u201cShe had it yesterday,\u201d Leila would protest.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\u201cAnd you\u2019ll have it tomorrow,\u201d Nora would say, handing me the doll or the sweater or whatever tiny treasure had started the war. \u201cGia gets it today.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou always take her side.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI take the side of peace,\u201d Nora would declare.<\/p>\n

Then she would make some ridiculous face, and somehow, even Leila would laugh.<\/p>\n

Nora was sunshine in human form.<\/p>\n

She could walk into a room and make everyone softer. She tied our shoelaces before school, saved the red candies for Leila because they were her favorite, and slept in the middle whenever there was a storm because she said leaders protected both sides.<\/p>\n

I remember one storm when thunder cracked so loudly the windows shook. Leila climbed into bed first, dragging her stuffed rabbit behind her.<\/p>\n

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

I followed two minutes later, pretending I was not scared.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Nora lifted the blanket without even opening her eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cBoth of you are terrible at being brave,\u201d she mumbled.<\/p>\n

Leila curled against her left side. I pressed into her right.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re scared too,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Nora said. \u201cI\u2019m responsible.\u201d<\/p>\n

She should have been worrying about homework, messy hair, and whether Mom would let us stay up late on Fridays. Instead, even then, she sounded like she believed love meant standing guard.<\/p>\n

Then she got sick.<\/p>\n

At first, adults whispered around us as if it could keep the truth from entering the room.<\/p>\n

But Nora knew.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Of course she knew.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

Nora always knew when someone was lying, especially when they were doing it kindly.<\/p>\n

I remember the first hospital stay. The smell of sanitizer. The bright lights. The cartoon stickers on the wall that did nothing to make the room feel less frightening. Leila would not sit still. She kept picking at the sleeve of her sweater until Mom gently took her hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cStop that, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with Nora?\u201d Leila asked.<\/p>\n

Mom looked toward the door, like an answer might walk in and save her.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s just very tired.\u201d<\/p>\n

Nora, lying in bed with tubes taped to her arm, rolled her eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not a baby, Mom.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Mom\u2019s lips trembled.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Nora turned her head toward us and smiled. It was smaller than her usual smile, but it was still hers.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t look like that,\u201d she told us. \u201cYou both look weird when you\u2019re worried.\u201d<\/p>\n

Leila burst into tears.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t. Not then. I stood frozen near the foot of the bed, gripping the metal rail with both hands. I thought if I held on tightly enough, nothing could move. Not time. Not sickness. Not Nora.<\/p>\n

She was 11 years old, tiny under hospital blankets, with wrists so thin my mother cried whenever she thought we weren\u2019t looking, and somehow Nora understood more about leaving than any child ever should.<\/p>\n

When she died, the house forgot how to be loud.<\/p>\n

No one said it, but I felt it everywhere.<\/p>\n

In the hallway where her slippers stayed for three weeks because Mom could not bring herself to move them. In the bathroom where her toothbrush remained beside ours. In the bedroom we had shared, where Leila slept facing the wall and I stared at Nora\u2019s empty bed until morning.<\/p>\n

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

After Nora, birthdays became strange.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

There were still balloons, cake, and candles.<\/p>\n

But there was always one chair missing.<\/p>\n

Every year, Leila and I would sit beside each other, pretending not to look at the empty space where Nora should have been. We\u2019d blow out candles for two, even though both of us silently counted three.<\/p>\n

At 12, I wished for Nora to come back.<\/p>\n

At 13, I wished for Mom to stop crying in the laundry room.<\/p>\n

At 14, I wished Leila would talk to me again the way she used to.<\/p>\n

Because losing Nora did something to my sister and me. It did not pull us together, the way people said grief was supposed to do. It pushed us into opposite corners.<\/p>\n

Leila became sharp. Quick to speak. Quicker to leave.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

I became quiet.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Too quiet, according to Mom.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\u201cYou girls need each other,\u201d she told us one night when we were 16.<\/p>\n

Leila stared at her plate.<\/p>\n

I stared at mine.<\/p>\n

Neither of us answered.<\/p>\n

The truth was, needing each other hurt. Every time I looked at Leila, I saw the space between us where Nora should have been. I think she saw the same thing when she looked at me.<\/p>\n

By the time our 21st birthday came around, I thought I had learned how to survive that emptiness.<\/p>\n

I was wrong.<\/p>\n

That morning, I woke before my alarm and lay there in the pale light of my apartment bedroom, listening to the city hum outside my window.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Twenty-one was supposed to feel exciting.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

Legal adulthood. A milestone. The kind of birthday people planned for weeks, with glittery dresses, crowded bars, and photos they would regret later.<\/p>\n

For me, it felt like stepping into a room where someone had forgotten to turn on the lights.<\/p>\n

Mom had asked us to come home for breakfast before any plans with friends. Leila arrived ten minutes after I did, wearing a cream sweater and the guarded expression she had perfected over the years.<\/p>\n

\u201cHappy birthday,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou too,\u201d she replied.<\/p>\n

We hugged, but it was careful. Brief. Like we were both afraid of leaning in too hard.<\/p>\n

Mom had decorated the dining room anyway. Gold balloons floated near the window. A small cake sat on the sideboard, even though it was barely 9 a.m. Three plates were set on the table by habit, or by heartbreak. I couldn\u2019t tell anymore.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Leila noticed too.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

Her eyes flicked toward the third place setting, then away.<\/p>\n

Neither of us said anything.<\/p>\n

We were halfway through breakfast when our mother walked into the dining room holding a small wooden box against her chest.<\/p>\n

She looked like she had aged ten years overnight.<\/p>\n

Leila frowned. \u201cMom? What is that?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mom didn\u2019t answer right away. Her eyes were already shining.<\/p>\n

Then she placed the box between us on the birthday table.<\/p>\n

It was simple, dark wood, worn at the corners like it had been hidden and handled over many years. My stomach tightened before I understood why.<\/p>\n

On top of it was a yellowed envelope with handwriting I recognized instantly, even after ten years.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cOPEN ON OUR 21ST BIRTHDAY.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

<\/div>\n

My breath caught.<\/p>\n

Leila\u2019s fork slipped from her hand and clattered against the plate.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n

Mom covered her mouth with one trembling hand.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe made this before she died,\u201d Mom said, her voice breaking. \u201cShe knew the illness was taking her. One night, she asked me for a box. She said she wanted to give you both something when you turned 21.\u201d<\/p>\n

My vision blurred.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe was so little,\u201d Mom continued, tears running down her face now. \u201cBut she kept saying, \u2018They\u2019ll need me when they\u2019re grown up too.\u2019 I promised her I wouldn\u2019t open it. I never looked inside. Not once.\u201d<\/p>\n

Leila reached for my hand under the table.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

For the first time in years, neither of us pulled away.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Her fingers were cold, and mine were shaking. I gripped her hand like we were little again, like thunder had split the sky and Nora was still between us, telling us she was responsible.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

I stared at that box as if it might breathe.<\/p>\n

Like if I opened it, Nora would somehow laugh from the doorway and tell us we were being dramatic.<\/p>\n

With shaking fingers, I lifted the lid and GASPED.<\/p>\n

Inside the box were three small bundles wrapped in faded purple ribbon.<\/p>\n

For a second, none of us moved.<\/p>\n

The ribbons were tied in Nora\u2019s crooked little bows, the kind she used to make on birthday gifts because she refused to let Mom help. One bundle had Leila\u2019s name written across the top. One had mine. The last had both our names.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

My hand flew to my mouth.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Leila leaned closer, her eyes wide and wet.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe really made these?\u201d she breathed.<\/p>\n

Mom nodded, pressing her fingers against her lips. \u201cShe worked on them for weeks. Some days, she was too tired to sit up, but she kept asking for paper, markers, photos, anything she could use.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

I touched the bundle with my name on it. The paper felt fragile beneath my fingers.<\/p>\n

\u201cOpen yours first,\u201d Leila said softly.<\/p>\n

I looked at her. \u201cAre you sure?\u201d<\/p>\n

She gave me a tiny nod, but her chin trembled.<\/p>\n

I untied the ribbon.<\/p>\n

Inside was a folded letter, a friendship bracelet made from blue and white thread, and a photograph of the three of us at the beach. Nora was in the middle, arms around our necks, grinning like she had personally invented summer.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

I unfolded the letter carefully.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cDear Gia,<\/p>\n

If you are reading this, you are 21 now. That sounds very old, but Mom says 21 is still young, so do not act like you know everything.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

A broken laugh escaped me.<\/p>\n

Leila wiped her cheeks with her sleeve.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

I kept reading.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cI hope you still draw flowers on everything. I hope you still sing when you think no one is listening. You always stop when people walk in, but you should not. Your voice is soft and pretty, even when you make up half the words.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

My throat closed.<\/p>\n

I had stopped singing after Nora died. I had not even noticed when it happened. Silence had settled over me so slowly that I mistook it for growing up.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

The letter continued.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cGia, you feel things very deeply. Sometimes you pretend you do not, but I know you. You hide when you are hurt because you think it makes you easier to love. Please do not do that forever. People who love you should know where it hurts.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

I pressed the letter to my chest.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe knew me,\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n

Mom\u2019s face crumpled. \u201cShe loved you so much.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Leila opened her bundle next.<\/p>\n

Her hands shook so badly that I reached over and steadied the ribbon for her. She did not pull away.<\/p>\n

Inside Leila\u2019s bundle was a red candy wrapper, pressed flat and saved like treasure, a small plastic ring from one of our childhood games, and a letter.<\/p>\n

Leila read the first line silently, then made a sound that broke something inside me.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does it say?\u201d I asked gently.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

She swallowed hard and read aloud.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cDear Leila,<\/p>\n

You probably rolled your eyes when you saw this. I can see you doing it. You roll your eyes when you are sad because you do not want people to know.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Leila covered her face.<\/p>\n

Mom sat down slowly, as if her knees had given up.<\/p>\n

Leila kept reading, her voice shaking.<\/p>\n

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

\u201cYou are not mean. You are scared. There is a difference. Sometimes you yell because crying makes you feel weak, but you are not weak. You are the bravest person I know because you feel angry and sad and still keep standing.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

A tear dropped onto the paper.<\/p>\n

I had spent years thinking Leila\u2019s sharpness meant she blamed me somehow. Maybe she thought the wrong sister had survived. Maybe she hated that I reminded her of Nora. But as I watched her bend over that letter, I realized she had been drowning beside me the whole time.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

I just never reached for her.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Leila looked at me, her face stripped bare of every wall she had built.<\/p>\n

\u201cI missed her so much,\u201d she admitted.<\/p>\n

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

\u201cNo, Gia.\u201d Her voice cracked. \u201cI missed you too.\u201d<\/p>\n

The words hit me harder than I expected.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

I moved around the table and wrapped my arms around her. At first, she froze. Then she grabbed me like she was afraid I would disappear too.<\/p>\n

Mom began to cry openly.<\/p>\n

For a while, the three of us just held on.<\/p>\n

When we finally pulled apart, the last bundle remained between us.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Both our names were written on it.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Leila wiped her face. \u201cTogether?\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded. \u201cTogether.\u201d<\/p>\n

We untied the ribbon.<\/p>\n

Inside was a stack of photographs, a folded paper crown, and one final envelope. On the envelope, Nora had written:<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cREAD THIS OUT LOUD. NO CHEATING.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Leila gave a watery laugh. \u201cStill bossy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe was older,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

\u201cBy seven minutes,\u201d Leila replied.<\/p>\n

For the first time in years, saying it did not hurt as much.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

I opened the envelope.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cDear Gia and Leila,<\/p>\n

If you are 21, that means you are grown-ups, which is weird because I still think of us as 11. Maybe you are wearing fancy shoes. Maybe you have jobs. Maybe one of you is married, which is disgusting but fine.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Mom laughed through her tears.<\/p>\n

I smiled and kept reading.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cI need you both to promise me something. Do not let me become the space between you. I am scared that when I go, you will look at each other and only remember I am missing. But you are not just the two who stayed.<\/p>\n

You are Gia and Leila. You are my sisters. You were my favorite people before I got sick, and you will still be my favorite people after.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Leila pressed her forehead against my shoulder.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

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

I forced myself to continue.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cI know birthdays might be hard. I know there will be one chair missing. But I want you to eat cake. I want you to laugh. I want you to fight over stupid things sometimes and make up after, because I would give anything to hear you both argue again.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

My voice broke on the next line.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cSo here is my rule: On every birthday from now on, save me one slice. Then tell each other one good thing that happened that year. Not sad things. Good things. I want to know you lived.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

The room blurred.<\/p>\n

At the bottom of the letter was one last sentence.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

\u201cAnd look under the paper crown.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Leila lifted the little crown from the box.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Beneath it was a tiny cassette tape and a sticky note.<\/p>\n

Mom gasped. \u201cI forgot she had that recorder.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

Leila stared at it. \u201cDo we even have something to play this on?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mom stood quickly. \u201cYour father\u2019s old stereo is in the den.\u201d<\/p>\n

We followed her with the tape like it was made of glass.<\/p>\n

Mom pushed it into the player. For a moment, there was only static.<\/p>\n

Then Nora\u2019s voice filled the room.<\/p>\n

Small. Thin. Alive.<\/p>\n

\u201cHi, Gia. Hi, Leila. Hi, Mom. If this works, I am basically a genius.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Leila made a choking sound and grabbed my hand.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

Nora continued.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wanted you to hear me say it. I am not mad that I have to go. I am sad, but I am not mad. I got to be your sister. That was the best thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mom covered her mouth.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

\u201cAnd I need to tell you a secret,\u201d Nora said.<\/p>\n

My heart stopped.<\/p>\n

\u201cI heard you two crying when you thought I was asleep. Gia, you asked God to take you instead. Leila, you said you wished you were the sick one because you thought you were stronger.\u201d<\/p>\n

Leila turned toward me, stunned.<\/p>\n

I could barely breathe.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

Nora\u2019s voice softened.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

\u201cYou were both wrong. Nobody should have taken your place. You have to stay because you have lives to live. You have to stay for me.\u201d<\/p>\n

The tape clicked, then continued.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo on our 21st birthday, do not just remember the day I am not there. Remember this too. I loved you first. I loved you last. And I am still your sister.\u201d<\/p>\n

The tape ended.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

No one spoke.<\/p>\n

Then Leila wrapped her arms around me, and Mom folded herself around both of us.<\/p>\n

That day, we cut three slices of cake.<\/p>\n

One for Leila.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n
\n

One for me.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<\/div>\n

One for Nora.<\/p>\n

And for the first time since she died, the empty chair did not feel like a wound.<\/p>\n

It felt like a place saved for love.<\/p>\n

But here is the real question<\/strong>: If losing someone you loved made you pull away from the people who were still beside you, would you keep hiding inside your grief, or would you finally reach for the hand that had been waiting for you all along?<\/p>\n

If this story touched your heart, here\u2019s another one for you: The woman on my computer screen looked so much like my mother that I forgot to breathe. For a second, I thought Facebook had glitched and shown me one of Mom\u2019s old photographs. Then I saw the name, Miranda. Suddenly, a family mystery that had lasted more than seven decades didn\u2019t feel impossible.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

On their 21st birthday, Gia and Leila receive a small wooden box that had been waiting for them for years. What they find inside turns an ordinary birthday breakfast into … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3898,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3897","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-old-story-life"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3897","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3897"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3897\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3899,"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3897\/revisions\/3899"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/3898"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3897"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3897"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/oldstorylife.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3897"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}