Every year on my birthday, I set the table for three.<\/p>\n
One place for me. One for my daughter, Karen. And one for the man who had once been my husband, Robert, even though he hadn’t sat across from me at dinner in nearly two decades.<\/p>\n
I always told myself I was being foolish.<\/p>\n
Still, I put out three plates.<\/p>\n
I cooked Karen’s favorite meal, baked the lemon cake she had loved since childhood, and placed a small vase of daisies in the middle of the table. When the clock reached seven, I would sit and wait.<\/p>\n
No phone call.<\/p>\n
No birthday card.<\/p>\n
No message from the daughter I hadn’t seen since the year my marriage ended.<\/p>\n
I had spent eighteen years believing Karen hated me.<\/p>\n
She had been twenty-two when I divorced her father. Old enough to understand what divorce meant, I thought, but perhaps not old enough to understand why I could no longer live in a marriage that had slowly emptied me of myself.<\/p>\n
Robert and I had argued for years. We disagreed about money, about his long absences, and about the way he could turn even a simple question into a reason to criticize me.<\/p>\n
I tried counseling. I tried keeping quiet. I tried convincing myself that staying together was better for Karen.<\/p>\n
But one evening, after another argument that left me sitting alone in the kitchen until midnight, I realized I could not spend the rest of my life teaching my daughter that a woman had to disappear inside her marriage to keep her family intact.<\/p>\n
So I left.<\/p>\n
Karen took it differently than I had hoped.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou’re breaking up our family,\u201d she told me during one of our final conversations.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know this hurts,\u201d I said, crying. \u201cBut your father and I can’t keep living like this.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou could try harder.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI have, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, Mom. You’re giving up.\u201d<\/p>\n
Those were the last words she said to me in person.<\/p>\n
At first, I thought she needed time.<\/p>\n
I sent letters. I mailed birthday cards. I called the family landline until Robert eventually told me Karen didn’t want to speak to me.<\/p>\n
I wrote again, asking him to give her my new address when I moved into a smaller apartment.<\/p>\n
He said he would.<\/p>\n
Months passed. Then years.<\/p>\n
I changed jobs, changed apartments, and tried to rebuild a life that no longer revolved around being someone’s wife or someone’s mother.<\/p>\n
But I never stopped hoping.<\/p>\n
Every birthday, I set the table for three.<\/p>\n
And every birthday, I cleared away two untouched plates.<\/p>\n
By my sixtieth birthday, even my closest friend, Margaret, had stopped asking whether Karen might come.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can’t keep hurting yourself this way,\u201d she told me gently.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThen why do you do it?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the empty chair.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause if I stop setting her place, it feels like I’m finally accepting that she’s gone.\u201d<\/p>\n
Margaret took my hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe isn’t gone, Eleanor. She’s alive somewhere. You just don’t know where she is.\u201d<\/p>\n
That night, after everyone had gone home, I put the leftover cake in the refrigerator and cried over the kitchen sink.<\/p>\n
I had no idea that the answer was sitting less than an hour away.<\/p>\n
This year, on the morning before my sixty-third birthday, I woke up with a decision I could no longer postpone.<\/p>\n
I was going to Robert’s house.<\/p>\n
I hadn’t seen him in nearly ten years. We exchanged brief messages when necessary, usually about old paperwork or family matters. Every time I asked about Karen, he gave me the same answer.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe has her own life, Eleanor. You need to respect that.\u201d<\/p>\n
I had tried to respect it.<\/p>\n
But I couldn’t keep living with questions that had no answers.<\/p>\n
I drove to the small brick house where Robert had lived since our divorce. The front garden was overgrown, and the paint around the door was peeling.<\/p>\n
When he opened it, I almost didn’t recognize him.<\/p>\n
His hair had turned completely gray. His shirt hung loosely around his shoulders, and there were deep shadows beneath his eyes.<\/p>\n
He looked exhausted.<\/p>\n
\u201cEleanor?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere’s Karen?\u201d<\/p>\n
His expression changed so quickly that I felt a chill move through me.<\/p>\n
He stared at me as if I had asked him something impossible.<\/p>\n
Then his eyes filled with tears.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh God,\u201d he whispered. \u201cDon’t you know?\u201d<\/p>\n
My heart began pounding.<\/p>\n
\u201cKnow what?\u201d<\/p>\n
He stepped aside, letting me into the house.<\/p>\n
On the living room table sat a stack of unopened envelopes, several framed photographs, and a vase of flowers that had dried long ago.<\/p>\n
Robert lowered himself onto the sofa.<\/p>\n
\u201cKaren never stopped looking for you,\u201d he said. \u201cShe just never knew where to find you.\u201d<\/p>\n
For a moment, I couldn’t understand the words.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat do you mean? I sent her letters. I called. I left messages.\u201d<\/p>\n
Robert covered his face with both hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou know?\u201d<\/p>\n
He began to cry.<\/p>\n
And for the first time in eighteen years, I saw something in my former husband’s face that frightened me more than anger ever had.<\/p>\n
Regret.<\/p>\n
\u201cEleanor,\u201d he said, \u201cthere’s something I should have told you a long time ago.\u201d<\/p>\n
I sat down opposite him.<\/p>\n
\u201cThen tell me now.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked toward the photographs on the table.<\/p>\n
\u201cKaren moved away three years after you left. She got married, had a little girl, and tried to start her own life. But she never stopped asking me about you.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt my throat tighten.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe had a daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n
Robert nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cHer name is Sophie. She’s sixteen now.\u201d<\/p>\n
Sixteen.<\/p>\n
I had missed every birthday. Every first day of school. Every scraped knee, every lost tooth, every Christmas morning.<\/p>\n
I pressed my hand against my mouth.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy didn’t you tell me?\u201d<\/p>\n
Robert’s shoulders shook.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I was angry. And because I made a terrible mistake that became harder to admit with every passing year.\u201d<\/p>\n
He stood, walked to a cabinet, and returned with a battered cardboard box.<\/p>\n
Inside were letters.<\/p>\n
Dozens of them.<\/p>\n
Some were addressed to me. Others had my name written in Karen’s handwriting, along with an old address I hadn’t lived at for years.<\/p>\n
I picked up the first envelope.<\/p>\n
It was dated eighteen years earlier.<\/p>\n
The letter inside was short.<\/p>\n
Mom,<\/p>\n
Dad says you need space and don’t want me contacting you. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t understand why you left, but I miss you. If you ever want to talk, please tell me where to find you.<\/p>\n
Love, Karen.<\/p>\n
I read it twice.<\/p>\n
Then I opened another.<\/p>\n
Mom,<\/p>\n
I got married today. I wish you could have been there. I don’t know if you even know I’m getting married. I keep thinking that maybe one day we’ll sit together and talk about everything.<\/p>\n
I still love you.<\/p>\n
I couldn’t breathe.<\/p>\n
There were letters from birthdays, holidays, and ordinary Tuesdays. Letters in which Karen asked whether I was well, told me about her job, and described the little girl she had named Sophie.<\/p>\n
Some contained photographs.<\/p>\n
A young woman in a wedding dress.<\/p>\n
A newborn wrapped in a pink blanket.<\/p>\n
A toddler sitting in a garden.<\/p>\n
My granddaughter.<\/p>\n
Robert sat beside me, his face wet with tears.<\/p>\n
\u201cI kept them,\u201d he said. \u201cI couldn’t throw them away.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy didn’t you send them?\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked down.<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause I told Karen you didn’t want to hear from her.\u201d<\/p>\n
The room seemed to tilt.<\/p>\n
I stood so quickly that the letters slid onto the floor.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou told her WHAT?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI was angry, Eleanor. I thought you’d abandoned us. I convinced myself that if she stopped trying to reach you, she’d stop hurting.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou had no right!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou let me believe my daughter hated me!\u201d<\/p>\n
His face crumpled.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit the wall. I wanted to gather every letter and run out the door before I heard another word.<\/p>\n
Instead, I picked up one of Karen’s photographs.<\/p>\n
She was holding a baby, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail, her face glowing with the exhausted happiness of a new mother.<\/p>\n
She looked like me.<\/p>\n
The same eyes. The same crooked smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow did she try to find me?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
Robert wiped his face.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe contacted your old apartment building. She asked Margaret for your address, but Margaret didn’t have it at the time. She searched online when that became possible. She even came back here once, years ago, hoping I’d tell her where you were.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd what did you say?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI told her you had moved overseas.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stared at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou told her I had left the country?\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause by then I had been lying for so long that I was afraid of what would happen if I told the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the letters again.<\/p>\n
Eighteen years.<\/p>\n
Eighteen years of birthdays with an empty chair.<\/p>\n
Eighteen years of believing my daughter had chosen to erase me from her life.<\/p>\n
And all that time, she had been trying to find me.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere is she now?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n
Robert reached into the box and pulled out a newer envelope.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis arrived two weeks ago. She sent it here because she didn’t know where else to go.\u201d<\/p>\n
The envelope was addressed to him.<\/p>\n
Inside was a letter and a phone number.<\/p>\n
Dad,<\/p>\n
I’m tired of searching for Mom without knowing whether she’s alive, whether she wants to see me, or whether you’ve been telling me the truth.<\/p>\n
I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to know.<\/p>\n
If you know where she is, please give her my number. If you don’t, at least tell me honestly.<\/p>\n
I’m not asking you to choose sides. I’m asking you to stop making that choice for me.<\/p>\n
Karen.<\/p>\n
I sat down again.<\/p>\n
For eighteen years, I had wondered what I had done wrong.<\/p>\n
Now I knew that Karen had been carrying the same question.<\/p>\n
Robert placed his hands together.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don’t expect you to forgive me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at him.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood. Because I don’t know if I can.\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cBut I need to know something,\u201d I continued. \u201cDid you ever tell her that I was a bad mother? That I didn’t want her?\u201d<\/p>\n
He hesitated.<\/p>\n
That hesitation told me enough.<\/p>\n
\u201cI told her you were selfish,\u201d he admitted. \u201cI said you had chosen your own happiness over your family. I thought if she understood why I was hurt, she’d stop asking questions.\u201d<\/p>\n
I stood and walked to the window.<\/p>\n
Outside, a neighbor was carrying groceries from a car. Somewhere down the street, a child laughed.<\/p>\n
Ordinary life continuing, while my own had been trapped inside a story that was never true.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou didn’t just keep us apart,\u201d I said. \u201cYou took eighteen years from both of us.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I replied, turning toward him. \u201cI don’t think you do.\u201d<\/p>\n
He had no answer.<\/p>\n
I took Karen’s letter and copied the phone number into my own notebook.<\/p>\n
Then I called.<\/p>\n
My fingers trembled so badly that I nearly pressed the wrong button.<\/p>\n
The phone rang once.<\/p>\n
Twice.<\/p>\n
A woman answered.<\/p>\n
\u201cHello?\u201d<\/p>\n
I couldn’t speak.<\/p>\n
\u201cHello? Who is this?\u201d<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cKaren?\u201d<\/p>\n
Silence.<\/p>\n
Then, very softly, she said, \u201cMom?\u201d<\/p>\n
I broke.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, sweetheart. It’s me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I heard a sharp breath on the other end.<\/p>\n
For several seconds, neither of us could say anything.<\/p>\n
Then Karen began to cry.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere have you been?\u201d<\/p>\n
The question broke my heart because I had asked myself the same thing for eighteen years.<\/p>\n
\u201cI’ve been here,\u201d I whispered. \u201cI’ve been trying to find you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d she said through her tears. \u201cDad said you didn’t want me. He said you were happier without us.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI never said that. Not once.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe told me you didn’t answer my letters.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI never received them.\u201d<\/p>\n
Her breathing became uneven.<\/p>\n
\u201cI sent you so many.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI know, darling. I found them today.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was a long silence.<\/p>\n
Then she asked the question I had been waiting nearly two decades to hear.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you still love me?\u201d<\/p>\n
I pressed my hand against my chest.<\/p>\n
\u201cOh, Karen. I’ve loved you every day of my life.\u201d<\/p>\n
She began sobbing so hard that I could barely understand her.<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought you forgot me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNever.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought I wasn’t enough for you to stay.\u201d<\/p>\n
I closed my eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou were never the reason I left. Your father and I had problems that belonged to us. I should never have let you believe you were responsible for them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan we meet?\u201d she whispered.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhenever you’re ready.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cTomorrow?\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at the calendar on the kitchen wall.<\/p>\n
Tomorrow was my birthday.<\/p>\n
For the first time in eighteen years, the date no longer felt like a reminder of everything I’d lost.<\/p>\n
It felt like a door opening.<\/p>\n
\u201cTomorrow,\u201d I said. \u201cPlease come tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n
We agreed to meet at a small caf\u00e9 halfway between our towns.<\/p>\n
That night, I didn’t cook a large meal. I couldn’t.<\/p>\n
Instead, I sat at my kitchen table and looked at the two empty chairs.<\/p>\n
For the first time, I understood that setting three places had never been foolish.<\/p>\n
It had been my way of keeping hope alive.<\/p>\n
But I also understood that hope alone hadn’t been enough. Someone had to speak the truth, and someone had to be willing to listen.<\/p>\n
The next morning, I arrived at the caf\u00e9 forty minutes early.<\/p>\n
I chose a table beside the window and ordered tea I barely touched.<\/p>\n
At exactly eleven, the door opened.<\/p>\n
A woman stepped inside, scanning the room.<\/p>\n
She had dark hair threaded with silver, tired eyes, and a familiar way of holding her shoulders when she was nervous.<\/p>\n
Karen.<\/p>\n
For one impossible second, I saw the little girl who used to run down the hallway in her pajamas on Christmas morning.<\/p>\n
Then she saw me.<\/p>\n
She stopped.<\/p>\n
I stood.<\/p>\n
Neither of us moved.<\/p>\n
Finally, she crossed the room.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom?\u201d<\/p>\n
I reached for her.<\/p>\n
She fell into my arms, and we held each other while years of grief spilled out between us.<\/p>\n
\u201cI looked for you,\u201d she sobbed.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI thought you didn’t want me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI wanted you every single day.\u201d<\/p>\n
We stayed that way for a long time.<\/p>\n
When we finally sat down, Karen pulled a tissue from her purse and laughed through her tears.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou look exactly the same when you cry.\u201d<\/p>\n
I laughed too.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd you still wrinkle your nose when you’re trying not to.\u201d<\/p>\n
For the first time in eighteen years, we were sharing a memory instead of arguing over a wound.<\/p>\n
She told me about her husband, Daniel, and their daughter, Sophie. She showed me photographs on her phone: school pictures, birthday celebrations, family vacations, and a teenager rolling her eyes at the camera.<\/p>\n
I looked at every photograph as if it were a treasure.<\/p>\n
Then Karen became quiet.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere’s something else you need to know.\u201d<\/p>\n
I waited.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhen Sophie was little, I used to tell her about you. I told her you liked lemon cake and daisies. I told her you used to sing while washing dishes.\u201d<\/p>\n
I smiled through my tears.<\/p>\n
\u201cI still do.\u201d<\/p>\n
Karen laughed softly.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know. I remember hearing you from my bedroom.\u201d<\/p>\n
Then she reached into her purse and pulled out a small envelope.<\/p>\n
Inside was a photograph of her as a little girl, sitting on my lap at the kitchen table.<\/p>\n
On the back, in my handwriting, were the words:<\/p>\n
My favorite birthday gift will always be you.<\/p>\n
Karen traced the sentence with her finger.<\/p>\n
\u201cI kept looking at this whenever I thought you didn’t want me.\u201d<\/p>\n
I took her hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cI am so sorry you spent years believing that.\u201d<\/p>\n
She shook her head.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe were both lied to, Mom. I don’t want to spend the rest of our lives blaming ourselves for something we didn’t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked at her, astonished by the grace in her words.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don’t know how to make up for eighteen years,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cNeither do I.\u201d<\/p>\n
She squeezed my hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe we don’t have to make up for every day. Maybe we just have to start with today.\u201d<\/p>\n
So we did.<\/p>\n
We spent hours talking. We didn’t solve everything in one afternoon. We discussed the letters, the lies, the anger, and the years that neither of us could recover.<\/p>\n
Karen wasn’t ready to forgive her father. I wasn’t ready either.<\/p>\n
But we agreed that neither of us would let his choices dictate the rest of our lives.<\/p>\n
Over the following months, we rebuilt our relationship carefully.<\/p>\n
Karen visited on Sundays. Sometimes she brought Sophie, who was shy at first but soon discovered that I kept lemon cake in the freezer and always had daisies on the table.<\/p>\n
The first time Sophie called me Grandma, I had to turn away so they wouldn’t see me cry.<\/p>\n
I learned about her school, her friends, and her dreams. I watched her grow more comfortable around me, one conversation at a time.<\/p>\n
Karen and I also sought counseling together. We needed help sorting through the grief and anger without allowing them to become new walls between us.<\/p>\n
As for Robert, I told him I was not ready to forgive him.<\/p>\n
He wrote letters acknowledging what he had done. He eventually admitted to Karen that he had intercepted her messages and lied about my whereabouts. She chose to decide for herself whether and when to have contact with him.<\/p>\n
I did not ask her to punish him for me.<\/p>\n
I had already lost too many years to someone else’s choices. I wasn’t going to tell my daughter whom she was allowed to love.<\/p>\n
But I also refused to pretend his actions were harmless.<\/p>\n
The consequences of his deception belonged to him.<\/p>\n
The future belonged to us.<\/p>\n
On my sixty-fourth birthday, I set the table for three again.<\/p>\n
This time, the third chair wasn’t waiting for someone who might never come.<\/p>\n
Karen sat beside me. Sophie sat across from us, stealing a piece of lemon cake before dinner was finished.<\/p>\n
Daniel brought flowers, and we laughed when Sophie admitted she’d almost forgotten my birthday because she’d been studying for a history test.<\/p>\n
After dinner, Karen helped me clear the plates.<\/p>\n
She paused beside the sink, just as I had done so many times when she was little.<\/p>\n
\u201cMom?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, sweetheart?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan we do this every year?\u201d<\/p>\n
I turned toward her.<\/p>\n
\u201cSet the table?\u201d<\/p>\n
She smiled.<\/p>\n
\u201cNot just the table. All of it. Birthdays. Sundays. Ordinary days. I want to know you again.\u201d<\/p>\n
I put down the dish towel and hugged her.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes,\u201d I whispered. \u201cAs many years as we have.\u201d<\/p>\n
Later that evening, after Karen and her family had gone home, I stood in the kitchen looking at the table.<\/p>\n
Three plates had been used.<\/p>\n
Three glasses needed washing.<\/p>\n
Three chairs had held people who loved one another.<\/p>\n
For eighteen years, I had thought the empty chair was proof that my daughter had abandoned me.<\/p>\n
Now I understood that an empty chair could mean something else entirely.<\/p>\n
Sometimes, it means someone has been kept away.<\/p>\n
Sometimes, it means the truth has been hidden.<\/p>\n
And sometimes, if you are lucky enough to discover the truth before hope runs out, an empty chair is simply a place waiting for someone to come home.<\/p>\n
I still set the table for three on my birthday.<\/p>\n
But I no longer do it because I am afraid my daughter will forget me.<\/p>\n
I do it because she found her way back.<\/p>\n
And this time, no one will be allowed to tell either of us that the other doesn’t want to be there.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My Daughter Never Stopped Looking for Me\u2014Then My Ex-Husband Revealed the Secret That Kept Us Apart for 18 Years Every year on my birthday, I set the table for three. … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":223872,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[10],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-223874","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-honglay"],"brizy_media":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/223874","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=223874"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/223874\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":223875,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/223874\/revisions\/223875"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/223872"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=223874"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=223874"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/honglay168.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=223874"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}