It happened the morning after we buried him.<\/p>\n
Seventeen years after my parents dropped me at that house and disappeared, they came back.<\/p>\n
Not with flowers. Not with condolences.<\/p>\n
Not one of the three of them had been at the funeral, which I want on the page early, because people assume they were.<\/p>\n
With a moving truck.<\/p>\n
Booked. Paid for. Two men in it who were being charged by the hour and who had been told, I found out later, that it was a house clearance for a deceased relative.<\/p>\n
Which is a true sentence if you squint at it, and which tells you exactly what was said on that telephone.<\/p>\n
My sister climbed out behind them in oversized designer sunglasses, on a grey morning, with no sun anywhere in that county.<\/p>\n
She looked past the black funeral wreath still hanging on the front door.<\/p>\n
She glanced up at the second floor \u2014 at the windows, working out which room was which from the outside.<\/p>\n
And she smiled.<\/p>\n
She said, to nobody in particular, in a voice meant to carry: I call the master bedroom.<\/p>\n
My name is Calliope. I am twenty-two. He was called Thackery and he was seventy-nine years old.<\/p>\n
I was standing on the porch in one of his old flannel shirts holding a cup of coffee I had not touched.<\/p>\n
I had been standing there since about half past six.<\/p>\n
Because I had not slept, and because the house was quiet in a way it had never once been in seventeen years.<\/p>\n
The house still smelled of funeral lilies and wet autumn and the dish somebody had brought on the Tuesday.<\/p>\n
There were four arrangements in the hall and nobody had thrown any of them out yet, because throwing them out is a decision and I had not been able to make one since Thursday.<\/p>\n
And underneath all of it, that trace of pipe tobacco.<\/p>\n
He gave it up ten years ago, the week after a doctor told him to, with no discussion and no fuss, which is how that man did everything.<\/p>\n
It never left his coat pockets or those walls, and I have been told by a man who does restorations that it never will.<\/p>\n
My mother came up the steps like she already owned the place.<\/p>\n
She looked me up and down and said: you look awful, Calliope.<\/p>\n
She said it the way you criticise somebody’s clothes. Not unkindly, even. Briskly.<\/p>\n
That was the first thing my mother said to me in seventeen years.<\/p>\n
Not hello. Not your name. Not one syllable about the man in the ground.<\/p>\n
You look awful.<\/em> Four words, about my face, on the morning after I buried the person who raised me.<\/p>\n My father did not hug me.<\/p>\n He did not ask how I was. He did not say he was sorry about his own father, who had been dead for six days.<\/p>\n He turned to the movers and said: start upstairs. Furniture first.<\/p>\n That is the sentence I would put in front of anybody who asks me what my father is like.<\/p>\n His own father was six days dead and the first full sentence out of him, on that property, was an instruction about load order.<\/p>\n My sister pushed past me into the hall and wrinkled her nose.<\/p>\n She said: seriously? This place smells like an old man.<\/p>\n She is twenty-six. Her name is Linnea.<\/p>\n She was nine when they left me here. She has no memory of this house being anything other than a place an old man lived, and she has been in it four times in her life.<\/p>\n She does not remember me living with them. She was nine and I was five and the whole thing took one afternoon.<\/p>\n I do not blame her for that. I want to be fair about it because somebody should be.<\/p>\n And I am still going to write down what she said, because she was twenty-six and not nine when she said it, and because the man she was describing had been dead for six days.<\/p>\n Something in me went very still.<\/p>\n Not angry. I know what angry feels like and that was not it. It was more like a room going quiet.<\/p>\n I was five when they brought me to that house.<\/p>\n They told him I would stay for the weekend. There was a bag with four days of clothes in it and a toy rabbit.<\/p>\n That weekend lasted seventeen years.<\/p>\n I have the bag. It is in the loft. He kept it, and he never said why, and I did not ask that either.<\/p>\n The rabbit is in a box in my room and I am twenty-two years old.<\/p>\n No birthday calls. No Christmas cards. No visits. No explanation.<\/p>\n Four telephone calls in seventeen years, all of them initiated by my grandfather, all of them under eleven minutes, and I was on the line for two of them.<\/p>\n I was eleven before I stopped asking him when they were coming.<\/p>\n I was eleven before I stopped asking him when they were coming, and he never once answered that question with a lie, which I only appreciated at about nineteen.<\/p>\n He raised me instead.<\/p>\n On a pension. Vegetables out of the garden, which I thought was a hobby and which I now understand was about eleven hundred dollars a year.<\/p>\n Secondhand furniture he did up himself in the shed, badly, and sold at a stall on Saturdays, which I also thought was a hobby.<\/p>\n And bedtime stories, every night until I was about nine, mostly about people who meant what they said.<\/p>\n He went to four parents’ evenings a year for eleven years.<\/p>\n He sat at the back, because he was the oldest person in that room by about twenty-five years and he knew it, and because he did not want anybody asking me about it the next day.<\/p>\n He wore a tie to every single one. I did not understand that until I was about nineteen either.<\/p>\n Yesterday I buried him. There were about sixty people at it and not one of them was related to me by blood.<\/p>\n Today the people who left me came back for everything he had.<\/p>\n There were about twenty people in that house and in the drive by then.<\/p>\n Two neighbours who had come to help clear plates. My great-aunt. The two movers. A woman from the church with a dish.<\/p>\n My mother snapped her fingers in front of my face.<\/p>\n Then she pushed two black bin bags into my arms.<\/p>\n She said: pack your things. Clothes, toothbrush, that ugly quilt. Whatever’s yours.<\/p>\n That quilt was made by a woman I never met, in 1974.<\/p>\n My grandmother. She died in 1998. It was on his bed for twenty-three years before it was ever on mine.<\/p>\n That ugly quilt.<\/em> Three words. My mother knew exactly whose it was. She is the one who told me, when I was about seven, in one of the few phone calls that ever happened.<\/p>\n And then she got hold of my wrist.<\/p>\n In front of twenty people, in a hall where her husband’s father had been dead for six days, she took hold of my arm and said it loud enough for every one of them:<\/p>\n You were his burden. This house is ours now.<\/p>\n Nobody moved. Somebody set a box down on the floor, very carefully, which in that silence was the loudest thing in the house.<\/p>\n She did not let go. She leaned in and said: don’t make this difficult.<\/p>\n From upstairs my sister shouted: Mum, can I paint the master white? This dark wood is depressing.<\/p>\n My father finally looked at me.<\/p>\n He said: your grandfather always wanted the property to stay in the family.<\/p>\n Family.<\/p>\n I almost laughed. I have thought since about how close I came, and about how completely different the next ten minutes would have been if I had.<\/p>\n Because a laugh is an opening. A laugh is something they can take hold of and build an account around \u2014 she was hysterical, she was unstable, she had just lost him<\/em> \u2014 and I have heard my mother construct exactly that about other people at other times.<\/p>\n I did not laugh. It took everything I had and it is the single best decision I have made in my life.<\/p>\n Instead I carefully put those bin bags down on the floor.<\/p>\n Because I remembered what he told me.<\/p>\n And I want to be clear: I did not do any of that because I am clever or because I had a plan. I had no plan. I did it because an old man told me to, eleven days earlier, and because I did what he said.<\/p>\n A few days before he died I was sitting beside his bed. His hand was thin in mine and his voice was still steady.<\/p>\n He said: when they come, don’t argue with them at the door.<\/p>\n I said: when who comes?<\/p>\n He already knew. He said: your parents.<\/p>\n And he squeezed my hand and said: let them in.<\/p>\n I said: I don’t want to let them in.<\/p>\n And he said: I know. That’s why I’m asking.<\/p>\n I leaned closer. I said: why?<\/p>\n He said: let them talk.<\/p>\n Then: let them show everybody exactly who they are.<\/p>\n I said: and then?<\/p>\n He looked straight at me. He said: open my study.<\/p>\n Four words. He had enough left for four words and he spent them on that.<\/p>\n That was all.<\/p>\n He did not explain. I did not ask, because he was seventy-nine and it was eleven at night and I thought he was tired and wandering.<\/p>\n I have replayed that conversation about four hundred times since, and the thing I notice now is that he was not wandering at all. Every sentence is in order. He had the sequence worked out.<\/p>\n He had worked out the sequence of a morning he was not going to be alive for.<\/p>\n So I did none of it.<\/p>\n I did not shout.<\/p>\n I did not tell the movers to leave, which I could have done and which they would have obeyed inside four seconds.<\/p>\n I did not argue when my sister took the master bedroom, which is the room he died in eleven days earlier and which still had a chair by the window.<\/p>\n I did not answer when my father started giving orders, and I said nothing when my mother called me a burden in the house I had lived in since I was five.<\/p>\n I just let them talk.<\/p>\n I let them assume. I let them give instructions about rooms. I let my sister go upstairs and decide about paint.<\/p>\n I let them lay out exactly who they were, at full volume, in front of twenty people, for eleven minutes and forty seconds.<\/p>\n It is the hardest thing I have ever done and it looked, from the outside, like a girl in a flannel shirt standing still.<\/p>\n And then there was a soft click from the hallway.<\/p>\n Not loud. A door latch. The sort of sound that house makes about forty times a day.<\/p>\n But everybody in that hall had been listening to the same voice for about eleven minutes, and a small sound in a quiet moment moves a room faster than a shout.<\/p>\n Everybody stopped.<\/p>\n The study door opened the rest of the way.<\/p>\n My mother turned towards it.<\/p>\n And I watched her face do four separate things in about two seconds, and the last of them was the only honest expression I have ever seen on it.<\/p>\n The bin bags came out of her hands. Both of them, at once. She did not drop them deliberately; her hands simply stopped working.<\/p>\n A notary.<\/p>\n A woman of about fifty-five in a navy coat, with a case, standing just inside the door of a study belonging to a dead man.<\/p>\n And behind her, a second person: a videographer from a law firm in town, with a tripod, and a camera that had been running.<\/p>\n They had been in that room since seven o’clock that morning.<\/p>\n They let themselves in with a key from the solicitor’s office. I did not know they were there.<\/p>\n That is the part that still goes through me: for about ninety minutes before any of it started, there were two strangers sitting quietly in my grandfather’s study, waiting, because he had told them to.<\/p>\n He booked them eleven days before he died.<\/p>\n Paid in advance, from his own account, four hundred and eleven dollars, with a note on the invoice in his own handwriting.<\/p>\n The note says: they will come the morning after. Be there from seven. Do not come out until the front door opens.<\/em><\/p>\n He did not know which morning. He knew it would be the one after.<\/p>\n That study has a second door onto the hall, and that door was standing open the whole time.<\/p>\n Every word said in that front hall was recorded.<\/p>\n Audio and video. Time-stamped. By two professionals with no connection to anybody in that family, who had been instructed to do nothing, say nothing, and not come out.<\/p>\n Eleven minutes and about forty seconds of it, from the moment the front door opened.<\/p>\n I have never watched it.<\/p>\n The lawyer has, twice. He said one thing about it to me, in an office, in the November.<\/p>\n He said: there’s no ambiguity on it at all.<\/p>\n And then, after a moment: your grandfather was a very careful man.<\/p>\n But the will is not the twist.<\/p>\n I want to be clear about that, because everybody assumes it is, and because the version where a will is read aloud and somebody gasps is not what happened and is not how any of this works.<\/p>\n There was a will. It is dull and it is four pages and I have read it twice.<\/p>\n It leaves me some money \u2014 eleven thousand dollars, which is everything he had \u2014 and his tools, and a specific list of four objects that mean nothing to anybody else.<\/p>\n It mentions my father once, in a clause about personal effects, in a sentence with no feeling in it at all.<\/p>\n Because that house had not been his since 2021.<\/p>\n He sold it. To me.<\/p>\n For one dollar. Properly, notarised, recorded with the county, filed three years ago.<\/p>\n While I was in my second year at university, home for a weekend, and did not know what I was signing.<\/p>\n One dollar. He made me hand it to him across the table, in coins, because the consideration has to actually pass. I thought it was a joke and I laughed.<\/p>\n I remember signing something at a kitchen table.<\/p>\n I remember him saying paperwork<\/em>, and me saying okay<\/em>, and the whole thing taking about four minutes between the kettle going on and the kettle boiling.<\/p>\n There was a woman there. I thought she was from the council. She was a notary and she had driven eleven miles and he had paid her out of his pension.<\/p>\n I did not ask one question. I signed where he pointed, the way you do when a seventy-seven-year-old man says paperwork, and then I asked whether we had any biscuits.<\/p>\n Which means what twenty-three people in that hall had just watched was not an inheritance dispute.<\/p>\n It was three strangers directing movers to carry furniture out of somebody else’s house.<\/p>\n While telling the owner of that house to pack her things into a bin bag.<\/p>\n In front of two neighbours, a great-aunt, a woman from the church, and two men who were being paid by the hour and who had already carried a chest of drawers halfway down a staircase.<\/p>\n And he did not do it for revenge.<\/p>\n I want that in here because the version people prefer is the revenge one, and it is wrong, and he would have hated it.<\/p>\n He did it because he knew his own son.<\/p>\n He knew that if he simply left a will, I would be in court for three or four years. And I would lose.<\/p>\n Not on the law. On the law I would win in about eleven minutes.<\/p>\n I would lose because I was twenty-two, with no money, in my final year, with no family left to sit in a gallery.<\/p>\n And they had a solicitor, and the patience of people who have nothing emotional invested in the outcome.<\/p>\n That is how those things are decided. Not on the merits. Never on the merits.<\/p>\n On who can still be doing it in four years, and who runs out of money, and who has somebody at home to tell them it is worth carrying on with.<\/p>\n He knew all of that. I do not know how \u2014 he left school at fifteen and worked in a yard \u2014 but he knew it precisely.<\/p>\n So he moved the entire fight to in front of his own death.<\/p>\n He paid for it himself, with his own hands, while he was still alive to arrange it \u2014 because he understood that the only moment he would ever have any power in this was while he was still here.<\/p>\n That is not revenge.<\/p>\n That is a man doing the last piece of practical work available to him, from a bed, at seventy-nine, with about eleven days left.<\/p>\n Revenge would have been telling them. Revenge would have been a letter, or a phone call, or the pleasure of watching his son’s face when he found out.<\/p>\n He did not get any of that. He died six days before it happened. He knew he would.<\/p>\n He built the whole of it for a morning he was never going to see, in a house he was never going to walk through again, for one person.<\/p>\n That is not a man settling a score. A man settling a score needs to be in the room.<\/p>\n And there was a second envelope in that room.<\/p>\n With my father’s name on it.<\/p>\n Inside was a copy of his own birth certificate \u2014 my father’s, from 1963 \u2014 and one line, in my grandfather’s handwriting:<\/p>\n You were left at somebody’s house too. I came and got you. I’m sorry I never taught you that part.<\/em><\/p>\n I did not know.<\/p>\n Nobody in that family knew. Including, I am fairly sure, my mother, who has been married to him for twenty-nine years.<\/p>\n He was left at a neighbour’s house in the spring of 1963, at four months old, and my grandfather and grandmother went and got him eleven weeks later from a town they had to borrow a car to reach.<\/p>\n Eleven weeks. That is how long my father was somebody else’s problem, and he has spent sixty years not knowing that the man he was dismantling that morning is the man who came for him.<\/p>\n My father read it standing in a hallway with twenty people watching and he did not say one word.<\/p>\n He went outside.<\/p>\n He sat in the truck for about forty minutes with the door open and his feet on the gravel, holding a piece of paper, in front of two neighbours who had the decency to go inside.<\/p>\n Nobody followed him. My mother stayed in the hall and said four or five things to the notary that did not help her at all. And then he came back in and told the movers to stop, which is the only decent thing that man has done in my presence in seventeen years and I am recording it because it happened.<\/p>\n Now my part, and there is no honest version of this without it.<\/p>\n In seventeen years I never once asked him why he did not take them to court.<\/p>\n Why he never made them pay anything. Why he never wrote me a letter to read when I was twelve. Why, in twelve thousand evenings, he never once said your father is a coward<\/em>, which would have been true.<\/p>\n I did not ask because I was frightened of the answer.<\/p>\n I was frightened that if I asked, he would tell me something that made me see them as people \u2014 something about 1963, as it turns out \u2014 and then I would have to decide whether to forgive them.<\/p>\n And as long as I did not know, I did not have to decide.<\/p>\n Seventeen years of not asking one question, so that I could keep them simple.<\/p>\n That is what I was protecting. Not myself. The simplicity.<\/p>\n Two people who left a five-year-old and never came back is a thing a person can carry for seventeen years with no trouble at all. It requires nothing of you.<\/p>\n A man who was abandoned at four months old and never found out, and who then did it again to his own child \u2014 that requires something, and I did not want to find out what.<\/p>\n And it goes further, and this is the one that took me until about the spring.<\/p>\n Seventeen years of letting one man handle all of it.<\/p>\n I was twenty-two and I had never once asked him about money. Or the house. Or what happens afterwards.<\/p>\n Not when he had the first operation in 2022, and I drove him, and sat in a car park for five hours.<\/p>\n Not when the diagnosis came in the June, and he told me in the garden, and I cried and he patted my back and then we went in and had lunch.<\/p>\n Eleven months of knowing it was terminal, and not once did I say: what happens to the house, what happens to you, what have you got.<\/p>\n I called that trust. I have called it that to four separate people.<\/p>\n What it actually was is that I let a seventy-nine-year-old man carry the entire thing alone, so that I would never have to look at the number.<\/p>\n Because looking at the number means knowing what it cost him.<\/p>\n A pension, split two ways, for seventeen years, by a man who did not buy himself a new coat after 2011 and who told me the old one was better made.<\/p>\n School shoes. A laptop in 2019. Four hundred dollars for a trip to Washington when I was fifteen that I now understand he did not have.<\/p>\n He never once mentioned any of it, in seventeen years, including during arguments, which is a restraint I did not notice until I was about twenty.<\/p>\n And once you know that, you owe it. And you cannot ever pay it, because he will not take it, because he is him.<\/p>\n So I did not look. For four years, as an adult, with a job, I did not look.<\/p>\n He did the paperwork in 2021 entirely on his own.<\/p>\n He found the solicitor. He worked out the one-dollar mechanism, which is not obvious and which I have since been told is the sort of thing people get wrong. He drove himself eleven miles to an office.<\/p>\n He was seventy-seven years old. And then he drove home, and made dinner, and said nothing about any of it for three years.<\/p>\n It has been eleven months since that morning.<\/p>\n They did not fight it. Not one letter from a solicitor, in eleven months. There is nothing to fight; the recording exists and the deed is three years old and the lawyer explained all of it in about nine minutes.<\/p>\n I did not throw them out that morning. I have been asked why about forty times.<\/p>\n I let them unload the truck first.<\/p>\n Three hours, in the drive, in the cold, putting everything back.<\/p>\n Because a loaded truck has to be emptied somewhere, and because I was not going to pay for it, and because the movers were owed their money and it was not their fault.<\/p>\n I made them tea. All four of them, including my father, who took the cup and said thank you and did not once look at me.<\/p>\n That is the strangest ninety seconds of my life and I would do it again.<\/p>\n My mother did not speak to me again that day.<\/p>\n Not one word, for three hours, in a drive, eleven feet from me.<\/p>\n She has written twice since. Both letters are about what the recording might be used for and neither contains an apology, and I have read both and answered neither.<\/p>\n Linnea messaged me in the February.<\/p>\n Four lines. The first one is an apology and it is a real one, and I have read it enough times to be sure of that.<\/p>\n The last one is a question about the house.<\/p>\n I have decided that is simply who she is at twenty-six, and that it may not be who she is at thirty-six, and that I can wait ten years to find out because I have a house and she does not.<\/p>\n My father rang in the April.<\/p>\n Eleven minutes, about nothing at all. He asked whether the boiler was still playing up, which means he remembers that boiler, which means he lived in that house once as a boy.<\/p>\n He has rung four times since. Always about the house. Never about his father, and never about 1963, and I have not raised either.<\/p>\n I have not forgiven him.<\/p>\n He has not asked me to, which I give him some credit for, because the asking would have been for his benefit and he appears to know that.<\/p>\n We talk about the boiler. Eleven minutes at a time, four times a year.<\/p>\n That may be the whole of it for the rest of our lives and I have decided that is an acceptable outcome.<\/p>\n That is where we are and I am not going to pretend it is more.<\/p>\n I live in that house.<\/p>\n I am rebuilding the porch badly. The neighbours are being extremely polite about it and one of them keeps appearing with the right tool at the right moment and then leaving.<\/p>\n I have his shed. I am not good in it yet. I have made two things and both of them are wrong in the same way, which apparently is how it starts.<\/p>\n The quilt is on my bed.<\/p>\n The pipe smell is going, slowly, out of the hall first and then the study. I have mixed feelings about that and I have not aired the study once in eleven months, which I am aware is not rational.<\/p>\n His coat is on the hook by the door. It is going to stay there.<\/p>\n And there was one more line in the letter he left me, which I have not quoted to anybody until now.<\/p>\n He wrote: don’t keep them out on the doorstep.<\/p>\n And then: people are only really themselves once they think they’ve already won.<\/p>\n That is the sentence. That is the whole of what that man understood about human beings, written in biro, by somebody who left school at fifteen.<\/p>\n He did not need them to be caught doing something hidden. There was nothing hidden; they were not sneaking. He needed them to be caught doing exactly what they intended to do, openly, confidently, in front of witnesses, in the belief that there was nobody left who could stop it.<\/p>\n You cannot get that out of people by confronting them. You can only get it by opening the door.<\/p>\n Here is the only thing I have.<\/p>\n Everybody wants this to be about a study door opening and a notary standing behind it.<\/p>\n It was.<\/p>\n It took about four seconds. It is the best thing I have ever watched and I have no complicated feelings about it whatsoever, and I will not be developing any.<\/p>\n But the work was not done that morning. The work was done in 2021, by a man of seventy-seven, on his own, in a kitchen, with a daughter who did not ask what she was signing.<\/p>\n He did it quietly, because I would have argued.<\/p>\n I would have said no, that’s yours<\/em>, and don’t be silly<\/em>, and you need it<\/em> \u2014 all of which are things I have said to that man about smaller amounts about forty times.<\/p>\n And arguing would have meant discussing what he had spent. On me. Over seventeen years.<\/p>\n He was not protecting the house from them. He was protecting that conversation from me.<\/p>\n If somebody has been carrying you \u2014<\/p>\n ask them what it cost. Out loud, at a table, while they can still tell you \u2014 and while you can still watch their face while they do.<\/p>\n Not so that you can pay it back. You cannot, and they will not let you, and that is not what the question is for.<\/p>\n Ask because the not-asking is not gratitude.<\/p>\n It feels like gratitude. It feels like respect, and like not making a fuss, and like letting somebody keep their dignity about money.<\/p>\n It is not.<\/p>\n It is an arrangement.<\/p>\n They do the carrying. You get to keep feeling light. Both of you call it love, and both of you mean it.<\/p>\n And only one of you is doing the arithmetic, alone, at a kitchen table, in 2021, with a notary who has driven eleven miles.<\/p>\n I had seventeen years with that man.<\/p>\n Twelve thousand evenings. About six thousand dinners. Eleven parents’ evenings and one graduation he came to in a suit from 1994.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" PART 1 It happened the morning after we buried him. Seventeen years after my parents dropped me at that house…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":621,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-620","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/620","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=620"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/620\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":622,"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/620\/revisions\/622"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/621"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=620"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=620"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/recipecrush.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=620"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}PART 2<\/h2>\n
PART 3<\/h2>\n
PART 4<\/h2>\n
PART 5<\/h2>\n