{"id":639,"date":"2026-08-03T08:42:50","date_gmt":"2026-08-03T08:42:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/?p=639"},"modified":"2026-08-03T08:42:51","modified_gmt":"2026-08-03T08:42:51","slug":"my-niece-told-my-adopted-son-he-wasnt-family-then-everyone-stayed-silent","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/?p=639","title":{"rendered":"My Niece Told My Adopted Son He Wasn&#8217;t Family\u2026 Then Everyone Stayed Silent"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-embed is-type-video is-provider-youtube wp-block-embed-youtube wp-embed-aspect-16-9 wp-has-aspect-ratio\"><div class=\"wp-block-embed__wrapper\">\n<iframe loading=\"lazy\" title=\"A Christmas Gathering Revealed A Family Assumption About My Child  I Stayed Quiet And Walked Away...\" width=\"860\" height=\"484\" src=\"https:\/\/www.youtube.com\/embed\/d4skYTapyfc?feature=oembed\" frameborder=\"0\" allow=\"accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share\" referrerpolicy=\"strict-origin-when-cross-origin\" allowfullscreen><\/iframe>\n<\/div><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\"><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p class=\"wp-block-paragraph\" style=\"font-size:17px\">At Christmas, my niece looked straight at my kid and said, Grandma told me you&#8217;re not her real<br>grandson. My sister giggled, no one corrected her. I said nothing just packed up our gifts and left.<br>That night, my mom asked if the family bonus had been sent, I replied, it was just not to you.<br>You&#8217;d think that by the 5th Christmas with your adopted son, people would stop acting like he&#8217;s<br>some kind of guest in your life. No, 5 years in, and we still got the stares, the polite.<br>But not really smiles, the way people talked around him like he wouldn&#8217;t understand my son&#8217;s 5.<br>He&#8217;s bright. He notices everything, and I&#8217;d spent years trying to bridge the gap between him and<br>the people I used to call family. We arrived at my parents&#8217; place in Ohio a day before Christmas.<br>I had gifts for everyone. Carefully picked, beautifully wrapped. My son had drawn little pictures to<br>tape onto each one.<br>He was excited. I should&#8217;ve known better. My mom greeted us, gave me one of those brief<br>sidehugs, then crouched to my son&#8217;s level and asked, Do you remember me? He nodded politely<br>held out the drawing he made for her.<br>She smiled like someone trying to accept a gift from a stranger on the subway. My dad didn&#8217;t say<br>much at all, just a grunt and a handshake to my husband, and a distracted glance at the boy.<br>Christmas morning, things seemed fine.<br>At first, my son was playing with his new toy car on the carpet. I was helping in the kitchen. Then<br>I heard the silence that makes your stomach drop, because something just went wrong.<br>I walked into the living room, and there it was. My niece, 8 years old, wearing a glittery headband,<br>and that smug little expression she gets. From her mother, looked straight at my son and said.<br>Grandma told me you&#8217;re not her real grandson. He didn&#8217;t respond. Just sat there, staring at the<br>floor.<br>I froze. Then came the worst part. My sister sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in her hand,<br>actually giggled.<br>She looked around like she was waiting for someone to join her in the laugh. No one corrected<br>her daughter, no one said that&#8217;s not okay, not even my mom. She just sit her tea and acted like<br>she hadn&#8217;t heard it.<br>My husband stood up, and I knew he was about to say something. But I shook my head. I didn&#8217;t<br>want my son to remember that moment as some big family argument.<br>I wanted him to forget it completely. Instead, I quietly started packing up our stuff. My sister asked<br>if we were seriously leaving already, I didn&#8217;t respond.<br>We loaded the car in silence. My son fell asleep before we got out of the neighborhood. That<br>night, after putting him to bed, my husband and I sat on the couch without talking for almost an<br>hour.<br>Not because we didn&#8217;t have anything to say, but because there was too much. To unpack too<br>much disappointment, then my phone buzzed. Who is my mother? No apology, no explanation,<br>just a message.<br>Did you send out the family bonus this year? Every year since our business took off, we&#8217;d send<br>something small to our parents and siblings, a gift card. One year we paid for their trip to Florida.<br>We never did it for show.<br>We just thought it was what families did. Helped each other out. I stared at that message, then<br>typed out my reply.<br>It was just not to you. Put my phone face down and didn&#8217;t wait for a response. Thing is I used to<br>tread carefully.<br>When we adopted our son, I knew not everyone would understand. I tried to be patient. I tried to<br>make them comfortable.<br>I used to bring him over often hoping he&#8217;d bond with them, hoping they&#8217;d come around. But I<br>finally saw it clearly. They didn&#8217;t want to bond.<br>They wanted to tolerate him without actually accepting him. And I wasn&#8217;t going to raise my son in<br>a house where he had to earn love that should have already been his. The next morning I woke<br>up to five missed calls, three from my mother, one from my dad, and one from my\u2026 sister.<br>No voicemails, no text at first, just a silent series of calls like they were checking a box. Like if<br>they called enough times, it would count as concern. I didn&#8217;t answer.<br>Instead, I turned off my phone and went downstairs. My son was already up sitting at the table<br>with his little superhero cape coloring in a picture of our family. He drew himself between me and<br>my husband.<br>He didn&#8217;t include anyone else. I made pancakes with him while my husband put on music in the<br>background. That morning was quiet, warm and completely ours.<br>And while I was sipping my coffee, watching my son eat his breakfast, like the weight of<br>yesterday never touched him. I decided I wasn&#8217;t going to let that house ruin another minute of his<br>life. Just afternoon, the first message came in who is from my sister.<br>Kids say stuff. Don&#8217;t take it so seriously. That was it? No name, no apology, no mention of what<br>was actually said, just a\u2026 flat, smug sentence that felt like a shrug dressed up as diplomacy.<br>Then came another one, a few hours later. A photo of my parents, her husband, and their kids,<br>sitting around my mother&#8217;s dinner table with the caption. We missed you guys.<br>Everything&#8217;s good. That table. The one where my son was supposed to be sitting.<br>Where his name had been written on a placecard I brought with. Us where I had planned to take<br>photos thinking maybe this would be the year everyone finally came around. Instead they just<br>carried on ate their ham and sweet potatoes, and smiled for the camera like nothing had<br>happened.<br>I didn&#8217;t respond. I wasn&#8217;t going to explain to someone who refused to understand. Later that night,<br>my mom tried again.<br>This time a text, I know you&#8217;re upset. Can we at least talk? That&#8217;s all she ever wanted to do when<br>comfortable? Never act, never stand up, just talk smooth it over, pretend nothing had happened.<br>But we had talked so many times about the looks, about the offhand, comments, about how my<br>son didn&#8217;t need to be treated like family? He was family, she did not say she understood.<br>Then a month later she&#8217;d say something like. I just feel like I&#8217;m missing, that special connection<br>with him, or he&#8217;s sweet, but it&#8217;s just not, the same. Every time she said things like that, I<br>swallowed it.<br>I made excuses for her. I told myself it was generational, cultural, a lack of exposure. I gave her<br>time didn&#8217;t fix it.<br>If anything it gave them more space to settle into their beliefs. The truth is, none of them saw him<br>as mine. Not really, not like they saw my sister&#8217;s kids, not like they saw the babies with the same<br>last names and noses, they thought I&#8217;d done something nice, something generous, adopting a<br>stray dog.<br>I told my husband that night I was done. I wasn&#8217;t going to spend another year trying to convince<br>people to love a child who deserved it automatically. He didn&#8217;t ask questions, just nodded.<br>He&#8217;d been waiting for this moment, but he never pushed me toward it. He let me come to it on my<br>own. We booked a trip that night, somewhere warm, somewhere far.<br>Just us three. We didn&#8217;t tell anyone. While I was packing our bags the next morning, folding tiny t<br>shirts and rolling up sunscreen bottles.<br>I realized something strange. I didn&#8217;t feel angry, or sad, or guilty, I felt relieved. We left the day<br>after Christmas, just the three of us.<br>And for the first time in a long time, I didn&#8217;t feel like I had to apologize for it. The flight was<br>peaceful. My son pressed his forehead to the window and whispered while at the clouds.<br>My husband and I held hands like we used to before things got heavy. We had five nights booked<br>at a quiet resort in the Keys, no big plans just rest. By the second day, I&#8217;d started sleeping<br>through the night again.<br>My son was running around in the sand, covered in sunscreen, giggling like he&#8217;d never had a bad<br>day in his life-that kind of laughter that makes you believe you might have done something\u2026<br>right. After all, I hadn&#8217;t seen him that happy in months, maybe longer. I was finally starting to<br>believe we were over the worst of it.<br>Then on the third night, I got a ping on my phone. Motion-detected living room camera. I&#8217;d almost<br>forgotten about the cameras.<br>We&#8217;d installed the months back after someone tried to steal packages from our porch. I figured it<br>was probably a light flicker, or the cats that are passing through. I opened the app-have<br>distracted, expecting nothing.<br>But it wasn&#8217;t nothing. Was my parents in my house? I blinked thinking maybe it was an old clip<br>plane, it wasn&#8217;t. The timestamp said 7.42 PM live feet.<br>There they were standing in our living room like they owned it. My mother still had her coat on<br>snow on her boots. She was sipping something from one of our mugs walking around, slowly<br>inspecting things.<br>My dad was in the hallway opening the linen closet, then the hallway drawers like he was looking<br>for something. I didn&#8217;t say anything at first, just handed the phone to my husband. He watched for<br>a minute before muttering what the hell is this.<br>They hadn&#8217;t said anything to us. They didn&#8217;t, text didn&#8217;t call. They had a key from when they used<br>to babysit years ago back when we thought, things were different, I had meant to ask for it back,<br>but kept putting it off.<br>Now I regretted every second of that hesitation. I kept watching. My mom wandered into my son&#8217;s<br>playroom, he picked up one of his toys, plastic robot.<br>He loved and held it up like it smelled bad. Then she bent it, heart. Snapped it at the joint and<br>tossed it on the floor like she was bored.<br>My son had saved up tickets from a carnival for that toy. My dad opened the game cabinet and<br>dumped out a box of puzzle pieces onto the carpet, just left them there. They were making a<br>mess for fun.<br>They actually laughed. Then they went upstairs. I felt my chest tighten.<br>My husband was already pulling out his phone ready to call the cops. But I grabbed his hand, just<br>wait. They went into our bedroom.<br>My mom looked through the jewelry box. Nothing expensive mostly sentimental stuff. She took a<br>bracelet.<br>When my son made me last Mother&#8217;s Day out of little plastic beets and stuffed it in her pocket. My<br>dad walked straight to the desk drawer, the one we kept business envelopes in. He opened it,<br>pulled one out, flipped through the bills, folded it, stuck it in his coat pocket.<br>And that was it? No hesitation, no doubt. Like he was taking what he thought he deserved. My<br>husband was livid.<br>Kept saying we have them on camera. What are we waiting for? But I couldn&#8217;t move. My hands<br>were shaking and not from anger or something deeper, that quiet horror when you realize the<br>people.<br>Who raised you who you made excuses for over and over, don&#8217;t even bother hiding who they are<br>anymore. They thought we were gone. They thought they could do whatever they wanted, and<br>they didn&#8217;t even care if they left a mess behind.<br>They didn&#8217;t know about the cameras. I thought about calling them right, then screaming,<br>demanding answers. But what was the point? They&#8217;d lie? They&#8217;d say they were checking in that<br>they were worried that it wasn&#8217;t how it looked.<br>And my sister she&#8217;d spin it. Like she always did. Turn it into something about.<br>How much pressure we put on mom and dad, or some story where we were the villains. So I told<br>my husband, no no police not yet, just save the footage. They stayed for almost 40 minutes, took<br>a bottle of wine from the kitchen, left the front door unlocked.<br>Didn&#8217;t even bother to clean up the puzzle pieces. I didn&#8217;t sleep that night. We waited until we got<br>home just after midnight.<br>Snow was still clinging to the trees untouched since the storm that hit two days after we left.<br>Porch light flickered as we walked up the steps. My son was asleep on my husband&#8217;s shoulder,<br>his arms around the stuffed turtle, heat named Mango.<br>I opened the door, and stepped inside. It felt wrong immediately, not like a break-in. Nothing was<br>trashed or stolen in an obvious way.<br>There was a smell something off the faint scent of stale cologne in my mom&#8217;s perfume with the<br>dusty air of a house that hadn&#8217;t been aired out in a week. My husband carried our son upstairs. I<br>stayed behind, and turned on every light one by one.<br>The wine bottle from the counter was gone, the one we planned to drink on New Year&#8217;s. It wasn&#8217;t<br>expensive, but I remembered placing it there before we left. The two coffee mugs we never use<br>were in the sink, not rinsed, just left.<br>In the playroom, my son&#8217;s toy robot was still broken on the carpet. It hadn&#8217;t even been moved.<br>The legs were cracked at the joint plastic bent and twisted, like someone had done it on purpose.<br>A pile of puzzle pieces was still scattered next to the bookshelf, half trampled, half kicked under<br>the couch. The longer I stood there, the more I realized they hadn&#8217;t just entered. They lingered.<br>They walked around, explored, helped themselves to food-drinks, moments. My husband came<br>downstairs quietly. He didn&#8217;t ask what I&#8217;d found.<br>He already knew. He opened the hallway closet, pulled out the small toolbox, and within minutes,<br>he was unscrewing the deadbolt. Neither of us said anything.<br>We replaced both locks that night, reprogrammed the security system, deleted the old access<br>codes. I turned off the app notification, so I wouldn&#8217;t keep checking them in the middle of the night<br>waiting for another violation. The next morning I went into our bedroom and opened the drawer<br>where we kept the business envelopes.<br>Two were still there. One was missing. I counted the cash in the remaining ones.<br>It wasn&#8217;t just the envelope they took. It was close to $900. Later that afternoon I opened my<br>jewelry box.<br>Most of it was still there. My engagement ring. My grandmother&#8217;s brooch, but the cheap plastic<br>bracelet? My son made me for Mother&#8217;s Day last year.<br>The one with mismatched beads and a lopsided heart was gone. And that broke me more than<br>anything else. It wasn&#8217;t valuable, not to anyone, but me, and they took it.<br>I emailed our lawyer that evening, told her what happened, sent over the footage. Every minute of<br>it, time-stamped, clear, undeniable. I asked her not to contact anyone.<br>I wasn&#8217;t ready for that. I just wanted to document it, saved a line drawn somewhere official, even<br>if no one else saw it. Night, I watched the camera footage again alone.<br>I watched my mother stand in the playroom doorway and look around like she was judging the<br>layout. I watched my father lift the envelope, count the bills like he was entitled to them, then slide<br>it into his pocket without a second thought. They weren&#8217;t rushing.<br>They weren&#8217;t nervous. They took their time. That was what really stuck with me.<br>They didn&#8217;t think there would be consequences. The next morning my mom sent a message<br>heard your back, hope the trip went well. Did everything look okay at the house? I didn&#8217;t respond.<br>Two hours later my sister called I let it ring, then came the voicemail. Hey! Mom said she tried<br>reaching you. He&#8217;s kind of upset.<br>Said you&#8217;re giving her the cold shoulder. She was just checking on the house for you. The big<br>deal.<br>The big deal was that they walked into my son&#8217;s space and broke things that belonged to him,<br>took things that belonged to me, laughed while doing it. Acted like our home was theirs to wander<br>through. We were gone too long, so they might as well enjoy what we left behind.<br>The next day, my mother called, I answered, she went straight into her pitch, said they&#8217;d only stop<br>by to make sure the pipes hadn&#8217;t frozen, that they were trying to be helpful that they only took the<br>wine because they thought it was community property that my son&#8217;s toy must have already been<br>broken. Then she asked why we changed the locks. I said because I didn&#8217;t give you permission to<br>be in my house.<br>She went quiet, then hung up. We didn&#8217;t hear from them for four days. On the fifth day, my sister<br>sent a text.<br>So you&#8217;re just cutting everyone off. Now, no apology, no attempt at understanding. Just<br>confirmation that they had no intention of taking responsibility.<br>I picked up my son early from school that afternoon. We drove to the aquarium, just the two of us.<br>He held my hand and told me he wanted to see the sea otters first this time.<br>We watched them swim in lazy circles. He laughed when one flipped upside down and floated<br>past us. On the way out, he asked me if sharks can be good.<br>Told him, yes. Some just don&#8217;t know how the silence stretched into January. First I thought<br>maybe they were embarrassed.<br>Maybe they finally realized what they&#8217;d done and needed time to sit with it. I almost let myself<br>believe they were wrestling with guilt behind the scenes that maybe they would reach out not to<br>defend themselves, but to take responsibility, but that wasn&#8217;t what was happening. What was<br>happening was a shift a slow deliberate one, no one apologized.<br>No one mentioned the house. No one said a single word about my son&#8217;s toy or the envelope of<br>cash or the bracelet he made me. What they did instead was stop pretending altogether.<br>I saw the change start with my sister. She used to at least act like she was stuck in the middle.<br>Now she didn&#8217;t bother, she posted a group photo online of her kids with my parents, matching<br>outfits, captioned the only ones that matter, no tag, no reference to me.<br>Just subtle enough to deny, just obvious enough that I knew it was meant for me. I didn&#8217;t say<br>anything. I just stopped looking.<br>Then the email came from my dad. It wasn&#8217;t a check-in. It wasn&#8217;t an olive branch.<br>It wasn&#8217;t even an attempt to reconnect the subject line. Said about the investment opportunity, no<br>greeting no warmth? He asked if we were still moving ahead with the second property, my<br>husband and I had been researching, and if we consider allowing a small portion to go toward<br>helping him and my mom get through a tough season? That was, the wording transaction, no<br>context, just a request for money to breaking into my house, breaking my son&#8217;s things. After<br>taking what wasn&#8217;t theirs, I stared at the email for a long time.<br>They hadn&#8217;t even tried to lie about it. Not a single word about the visit, not a question about our<br>son, not even a fake apology. I thought about writing a long response, something that spelled out,<br>everything they&#8217;ve done.<br>I imagined attaching the camera footage. I pictured their faces watching it. I drafted five versions<br>of a reply.<br>Each one, angrier than the last. Then, I deleted them all. Eventually, I sent one sentence.<br>Now we&#8217;re not doing that. Ten minutes later he replied, not even a conversation. That was the<br>moment I knew we were done.<br>Because what he wanted wasn&#8217;t money whose control is a seat at a table they never help set.<br>After that, the tone shifted. Settle it first.<br>The kinds of things you only notice when you&#8217;ve been raced around guilt. My mother posted a<br>photo of her grandkids playing at the park with her. Just the others.<br>Captioned family is a blessing, some people forget that. Cousin liked it intact me. I didn&#8217;t react.<br>I knew what it was. A performance. None of them seemed to understand was that I wasn&#8217;t playing<br>anymore.<br>I was living. We booked a trip in February a weekend away at a quiet cabin in Michigan. Tucked<br>in the trees, no phones, no noise.<br>Just snow soup on the stove, and the three of us under one roof with no one pretending to love<br>us halfway. My son brought his drawings, taped one to the cabin fridge with a magnet, shaped<br>like a moose. It was a picture of the three of us.<br>Me, my husband, and him holding hands in front of a house. Just us, no grandparents, no<br>cousins, no crowd. That night we played board games and drank hot cocoa.<br>And after we tucked him into bed, my husband asked if I missed them, and I told him the truth. I<br>don&#8217;t miss them. I miss the version of them I thought was real.<br>I miss who I believed they were before I learned who they really were. That illusion is gone. Now<br>what I have instead is something better.<br>A son who knows he&#8217;s safe. A husband who never asked me to shrink a home where no one<br>walks through the door uninvited and calls it love. We were finally almost free.<br>And they knew it. Spring crept in late that year, but inside our house something had already<br>shifted. Air felt lighter.<br>We&#8217;d opened a window and let something old drift out. I realized it one morning as I watched my<br>son playing on the back porch with his sidewalk chalk. He&#8217;d drawn three stick figures, me, my<br>husband, and him with matching smiles and hair.<br>He colored the sky bright blue, filled the rest with stars, even though it was daylight. That&#8217;s what<br>his world looked like now. No more names he didn&#8217;t understand, no more forced hugs, no more<br>wondering why some people smiled at him, like he was a favor.<br>Someone had done. The silence from my family had gone on long enough that I stopped noticing<br>it. No longer surprised me when birthdays passed with nothing.<br>No check-ins, no cards, no more messages wrapped in passive judgment. Until one day, I got a<br>text from my cousin Jenna. It was a screenshot of a family group chat.<br>I wasn&#8217;t in. My mother had started planning Easter brunch. There was a list of who was bringing<br>what, who get which color basket, which grandchild liked, which kind of candy.<br>My son&#8217;s name wasn&#8217;t there, not even a blank space where it might&#8217;ve been. He wasn&#8217;t forgotten.<br>He was excluded.<br>That was the moment I understood exactly what I meant to them. Now, nothing, not a wounded<br>daughter, not a disappointment, not even a problem to fix. Just gone.<br>I didn&#8217;t cry. I didn&#8217;t get angry. I sat there, re-reading the message, like I was scanning the label on<br>something I already knew I wasn&#8217;t buying again.<br>Then I blocked the numbers, not out of spite, not as a grand gesture, because I didn&#8217;t want my<br>son growing up, hearing the phone buzz and wondering if this time they&#8217;d show up for him. I didn&#8217;t<br>want to keep reading between the lines of their silence. I just wanted peace.<br>The next few weeks were quiet, peaceful in a way I hadn&#8217;t realized was possible. No forced<br>dinners, no fake apologies. Just our house, our lives, and the family we were actually building.<br>Day by day. We started traveling more. Weekend drives turned into long vacations.<br>We spent time in cities where no one knew us where my son was, just a kid. Not the adopted<br>one, not the outsider, he stopped asking about them. He stopped flinching at the word grandma.<br>He stopped checking with me after every drawing, every card, every story. Should I send this to<br>them? He stopped asking because he finally knew the answer. We bought a second home in the<br>mountains, nothing flashy, just space, quiet trees tall enough to erase the past.<br>One night that summer we were sitting on the porch, my husband and I our son had fallen.<br>Asleep early, worn out from hiking his favorite stuffed turtle under one arm. The stars were sharp<br>above the trees.<br>My husband asked me if I thought we&#8217;d ever see them again, it took a long breath before I<br>answered. Well, not because I hated them, not even because I couldn&#8217;t forgive them, because I<br>finally stopped needing them. I used to carry this belief that family was something you held on to,<br>no matter what that you found a way that you fixed it.<br>But, I don&#8217;t believe that anymore. I believe in protecting the people who protect you. I believe in<br>building something.<br>Better, even if it means walking away from everything that came before it. I believe in my son<br>knowing every single day that he is enough. That, he belongs, that he&#8217;s not waiting for anyone to<br>love him properly.<br>He already has that we all do. They made their choice. And I made mine.<br>I stopped being a daughter in their house. I could finally be a mother in mind. The first update<br>been over a year now.<br>No contact, no accidental run-ins, no half-hearted birthday cards with unfamiliar handwriting, just<br>space, real clean space. My son just turned six. We threw him a party in the backyard with a<br>dinosaur cake and too many balloons.<br>He invited two kids from school and his swim teacher. We built a little obstacle course and let<br>them run wild. He laughed so hard he got the hiccups.<br>Not once did he ask if anyone else was coming. He doesn&#8217;t talk about them anymore. Not in the<br>sad, confused way he used to.<br>They&#8217;re just not part of his story now. And honestly, mine either. The other night he brought home<br>a drawing from school.<br>It was a family tree. He filled it with names. Mine, my husband&#8217;s is our dog, his best friend Toby,<br>even his swim teacher made it onto a branch, but no grandparents, no cousins, no gaps waiting<br>to be filled.<br>He said, I didn&#8217;t add anyone else because this is enough. It is, I used to wonder if I&#8217;d regret<br>cutting ties. There would be a hole I couldn&#8217;t fill.<br>Truth is what I let go of was never mine to begin with. What I have now is something I built,<br>honest, safe, and completely ours. We&#8217;re not missing anything.<br>We&#8217;re full.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>At Christmas, my niece looked straight at my kid and said, Grandma told me you&#8217;re not her realgrandson. My sister giggled, no one corrected her. I said nothing just packed up our gifts and left.That night, my mom asked if the family bonus had been sent, I replied, it was just not to you.You&#8217;d think [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":640,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[32],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-639","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-listen-to-full-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/639","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=639"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/639\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":641,"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/639\/revisions\/641"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/640"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=639"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=639"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/storycornerstream.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=639"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}