My sister called me cheap on a Tuesday morning, and by Christmas, I had learned the difference between being generous and being used.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My name is Andrew Carter. I am thirty-four years old and work as an emergency physician at a hospital in Columbus, Ohio. I work nights. I drink terrible coffee from a pot that has been sitting on the burner too long. I keep a clean pair of scrubs in my trunk because life does not call ahead before it falls apart. I am the older brother by three years, the quiet son, the one who answers the phone at two in the morning and says, \u201cI\u2019m on my way,\u201d even when I have just finished a twelve-hour shift and smell faintly of hospital disinfectant.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If you grew up in my house, you would know we all had roles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mine was reliable. My sister Melissa was the free spirit with expensive taste. Our mother called it charm. Our father called it a phase, though that phase has now lasted nineteen years and counting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were not rich. We were a regular American family in a split-level house outside Columbus with a leaning basketball hoop and a smoke alarm that chirped only when everyone was too tired to deal with it. My father retired early after a back injury. My mother stretched coupons until the paper tore. We bought store-brand cereal, fixed things with duct tape, and treated a trip to Red Lobster like a royal event.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up shifts in medical school and wired money home more than once. It did not feel like sacrifice then. It felt like gravity. Inevitable. Someone had to pay the light bill. That someone was always me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now I rent a small townhouse near the hospital, drive a seven-year-old sedan with a cracked taillight, and have a plant named Lucky that refuses to die, probably out of pity. My vacations are two-day windows between schedule swaps. My refrigerator contains eggs, leftover chili, and meal-prep containers with masking-tape labels. Patients know me as Doctor Carter. My coworkers call me Andrew. My family calls me whenever something goes wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The wish list arrived the week before Christmas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was charting at ten in the morning, trying to finish discharge paperwork before my next patient, when my phone buzzed repeatedly. Group text. My sister\u2019s kids, Tyler and Chloe, ages fourteen and eleven, had sent me a Christmas list. Not a simple list. A detailed inventory of wants that read like a manifesto.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A thirty-two-hundred-dollar drone with cinematic mode. A PS6. Two iPhones. Cash for future tattoos. Clothing in specific sizes. All sent with the casual certainty of people who believe asking and receiving are the same verb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I stared at the numbers. Then I set the phone down and went to check a blood pressure that would not stabilize.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two hours later, I texted back. \u201cIs this a joke?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Melissa answered for them. \u201cDon\u2019t be cheap. You\u2019re the rich uncle.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I read the sentence twice, then again. Rich uncle. As if I had not built my savings one shift at a time. As if the word rich was interchangeable with the word available.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two days later, I was at my parents\u2019 house dropping off soup and batteries because their smoke alarm had been chirping for a week and everyone had somehow decided to live with it. Melissa sat at the kitchen table, scrolling through her phone. She had a cranberry manicure, a cream sweater, and the expression of someone who believed the world was slightly late delivering what she deserved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She did not look up. \u201cDid you see the list?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a doctor,\u201d she said, as though this explained everything. \u201cIt\u2019s not like you can\u2019t afford it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father clinked his mug against the table and studied the placemat. My mother cut an apple very carefully, one thin slice at a time. All the small sounds felt loud. The knife against the cutting board. The refrigerator humming. The smoke alarm finally quiet above our heads because I had just changed the battery.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I did not argue. I did not explain billable hours, taxes, student loans, or why I still made my own lunches in bulk because convenience cost more than discipline. I just said, \u201cI saw it,\u201d and went to replace the second battery upstairs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That night at home, the sentence looped endlessly. Don\u2019t be cheap. You\u2019re the rich uncle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Here is what I need to tell you before Christmas morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was not born with a white coat. I earned it one slow, unglamorous shift at a time. My first semester of medical school, I worked as a tech on weekends and cleaned an office three nights a week. I learned to nap in elevators, study in pharmacy lines, and eat dinner from vending machines without calling it dinner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When I finally matched, I cried alone in a parking lot behind the hospital. Then I wiped my face, went inside, and worked because my shift started at six.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When my father\u2019s back went out, I sent three hundred dollars a month. When my mother\u2019s car needed a new transmission, I put it on my card and paid it off in six months. When Melissa\u2019s rent was five days late, I transferred eight hundred fifty dollars with a note that said, \u201cPay me when you can.\u201d She never did. I never reminded her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother would say, \u201cYou\u2019re a good brother,\u201d like it was a compliment and a request in the same sentence. My father would add, \u201cFamily looks out for each other,\u201d which is how guilt usually sounds when it has had years to practice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Melissa learned the rhythm. She would call and start with a story. A landlord who had it out for single moms. A teacher who singled out Tyler. A school trip fee due by tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Always urgent. I would be in the emergency department washing stress from my hands, and Melissa would be crying quietly into the phone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s just, you know how it is, Drew. You\u2019ve always been the strong one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Strong is a word people use when they mean useful.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The tally in my notes app read like a ledger I never meant to keep. Three hundred. Eight hundred fifty. One hundred twenty for cleats. Sixty-four for a field trip. Four hundred for a deposit. Two hundred for a birthday emergency. Eleven hundred for \u201cwe got behind.\u201d Seventy-five for a fundraiser. There were forty-seven entries over six years. The total made me lightheaded in a way caffeine could not fix.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But it was not just money. It was time. Melissa did not drive on the freeway because she said people merged like they were trying to prove a point. So I drove to soccer practice, pediatric appointments, school meetings, and one last-minute orthodontist visit because she had forgotten until eighteen minutes before the appointment. I left mid-shift twice. I used my lunch break to sit in a school office signing a form because my mother\u2019s handwriting stressed the secretary. I watched two school musicals where Tyler had three lines and my name was not in the program. I clapped anyway. I recorded Chloe singing \u201cJingle Bell Rock\u201d on a stage with bad lighting because Melissa\u2019s phone was full.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was fine with that. I just wanted them to be okay.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first time I said no was about a car. Melissa had traded in a perfectly fine sedan for a shiny SUV with a monthly payment that made me blink. Two months later, she called. \u201cThey\u2019re threatening to take it. I just need a bridge.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cHow much?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOnly eleven hundred.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI can\u2019t,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Silence. Then she said, \u201cWow. Okay. I see how it is.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two hours later, my mother called. \u201cSweetie, your sister is crying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m at work,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWe are all at work,\u201d she replied, and I could hear the script turning pages. \u201cYou know she relies on you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s part of the problem.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It did not stop. It just changed shape. Fewer direct requests for one-off payments. More assumptions that I would cover just this month. Just until the refund hit. Just until things settled down. Things never settled down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If I hesitated, I got the same line verbatim, copied and pasted by blood. \u201cDon\u2019t be petty. Family helps.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By December, I was tired in my bones. The kind of tired you cannot nap off. Melissa\u2019s wish list hit me on a night when a teenager had gone through a medical crisis and survived. I still had his mother\u2019s voice echoing in my ears when I read about cash for future tattoos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I typed, \u201cIs this a joke?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Melissa answered with the sentence that finally gave shape to my exhaustion. \u201cDon\u2019t be cheap. You\u2019re the rich uncle.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There is a quiet moment after an insult when you wonder if you imagined it. I did not. I put my phone away and went back to a room where a kid was breathing and I was grateful for that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The next day at lunch, I called Melissa. \u201cAbout the list,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not that deep,\u201d she said, bright and casual. \u201cYou always overthink.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI can\u2019t buy all that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou won\u2019t or you can\u2019t?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She said it like those were the only two settings I came with.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI won\u2019t,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She laughed. \u201cOkay, principled. Get whatever. Just don\u2019t make it weird.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We hung up. I stared at a sandwich I did not want and thought about every small yes that had turned into an expectation with a bow on top. I thought about the kids. None of this was their fault. They were repeating what they heard. Rich uncle. Cheap. Don\u2019t be weird.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote a plan the way doctors write plans. Clear steps. Time frames. Numbers. Expected outcomes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not revenge. Not a stunt. A boundary in writing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I booked three things that afternoon. A financial counselor for Melissa, prepaid for six sessions. A family therapist, first three sessions covered. And two days of movers with packing supplies in case she chose to downsize to the apartment she had been talking about since July.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I also bought grocery gift cards that required attendance at the budgeting sessions to activate. Yes, I was that specific. I am a man who writes orders for a living.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Christmas morning, I brought nothing you could plug into a wall. I brought twelve large boxes and a sealed envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We do brunch on Christmas at my parents\u2019 house. Pajamas, waffles, bacon, orange juice in good glasses, kids tearing paper like confetti cannons went off inside. A wreath hung on the front door. The driveway was dusted with light snow that had turned gray near the curb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I arrived in scrubs under a sweater, with a bruised thumb and an envelope in my coat pocket.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My plan was not to ruin the day. My plan was to stop the bleeding.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cUncle Andrew!\u201d Chloe shouted, running to me. I hugged her. She smelled like syrup and shampoo. Tyler looked up from beside the tree, trying to act older than he was and failing. Melissa stood by the tree, arms crossed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSo,\u201d she said, scanning behind me like I might be hiding a drone. Before I could answer, a truck pulled up outside. A big white truck with a company logo. The kind of truck you use when life needs boxes. Two movers came to the door with twelve large boxes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everyone froze like a sitcom paused for commercial.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is this?\u201d Melissa said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cDelivery for Melissa Carter,\u201d one mover said, friendly and efficient.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I handed Melissa the sealed envelope. She did not take it at first. I kept my hand out. She finally grabbed it, tore it open, and read.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her face went from confused to annoyed to something pale.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhat is this?\u201d she said again, but smaller.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s a plan,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She read out loud, voice flat at first. \u201cStep one, open the two smaller boxes inside. The grocery cards activate when the financial counselor marks attendance for session one.\u201d Her eyes flicked to me. I said nothing. She kept reading because the room was too quiet to stop.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cStep two, call the counselor, number listed, and book your first meeting this week. Step three, pack one box of donations with the kids. Choose toys and clothes they have outgrown. Step four, if you choose to downsize to the apartment you told me about in July, movers are scheduled for the fifth and sixth. Step five, family therapy intake, January 3rd, 10:00 a.m. It\u2019s paid. Show up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Her voice had changed by then. Less sharp. More cornered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere\u2019s also a budget,\u201d I said quietly. \u201cIt\u2019s yours, not mine. I\u2019m not adding my card to your phone plan this time. I\u2019m not paying your car note. I\u2019m not buying iPhones. I\u2019m not buying a drone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou think we\u2019re charity cases?\u201d she snapped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I shook my head. \u201cI think you\u2019re my sister and I love you. I also think I\u2019ve been acting like an ATM with a stethoscope.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The room went silent except for a cartoon nobody was watching. Tyler tore at the tape on one box and found grocery cards and a plain note. \u201cWe\u2019ll cook together this week. Menu on the back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He looked from the card to me, confused. \u201cWhere\u2019s the PS6?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThere isn\u2019t one,\u201d I said gently. \u201cNot today.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
His lip trembled. Chloe started crying first. Then Tyler did, in that embarrassed teenage way where anger tries to cover disappointment and neither works. Melissa went dead still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cWhy would you do this on Christmas?\u201d my mother whispered, like I had brought a storm inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBecause I don\u2019t want to keep teaching the kids that love equals things,\u201d I said. \u201cAnd I don\u2019t want to keep teaching Melissa that I will fix it if she ignores it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father stood. \u201cSon, this is too much.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI know,\u201d I said. \u201cThat\u2019s the point.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Melissa\u2019s jaw clenched. \u201cYou\u2019re punishing my kids to make a point to me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said, steady. \u201cI\u2019m refusing to buy them a lifestyle I can\u2019t ethically endorse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou\u2019re a doctor,\u201d she said, as if it were a trump card.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m a person,\u201d I said. \u201cA tired one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She grabbed the envelope again, flipping pages like the ending might change. There was a calendar, phone numbers, a simple budget with categories, a list of due dates, and a page labeled \u201cWhat I Can Help With\u201d and \u201cWhat I Will Not Fund.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The movers stood awkwardly by the door. \u201cMa\u2019am,\u201d one said, \u201cwe can leave these here, or we can load them back up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
No one moved. Chloe cried louder. Tyler stomped his foot. Melissa looked at me, searching for the version of me that would cave. I did not.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOpen the last box,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father did. Inside were three things. A list of low-cost sports programs in their area. Printouts of two part-time job postings Melissa had saved on her phone but never applied for. And a handwritten letter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She did not read it. I did. \u201cI love you. I am not your bank. I will not be shamed into buying things your budget cannot hold. I will help you learn the math. I will show up for counseling. I will cook dinner and drive to appointments you schedule. I will not carry this alone anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Melissa\u2019s face went white. My mother put her hand over her mouth. Tyler shouted that he hated me. I took the hit. I have taken worse in rooms that smelled like bleach and fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cSay you\u2019re sorry,\u201d my mother hissed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNo,\u201d I said calmly. \u201cI\u2019m done apologizing for boundaries.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My father pointed at the door. \u201cThen leave.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I picked up my coat. My voice was even. My hands were not shaking. \u201cI will,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m a phone call away for emergencies. Not for extras. Not for upgrades. Merry Christmas.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The first twenty-four hours felt like the end of a code. Quiet. Then noise. My phone stacked missed calls like plates in a sink. Fourteen from my mother. Nine from my father. Twenty-one from Melissa. Three from an unknown number that turned out to be my aunt because \u201cyour mother is beside herself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I silenced everything and took a shower long enough to fog the mirror twice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By noon, Melissa texted, \u201cYou made my kids cry on Christmas.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I typed. Deleted. Typed again. \u201cI refused to buy them things. That\u2019s different.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She replied with a photo of Chloe\u2019s puffy face. \u201cYou did this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put the phone in my locker and went to stitch a cut on a kid\u2019s forehead while his dad held his hand and whispered, \u201cYou\u2019re okay, buddy. You\u2019re okay.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Over the next week, the tone shifted. Fewer accusations. More logistics. Little texts like, \u201cDo you still have the number for the dentist that takes Saturday appointments?\u201d and \u201cWhat is the difference between data and Wi-Fi?\u201d I answered those. Clear. Simple. Practical. I did not send money.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On Wednesday of week two, a photo arrived from Melissa. Three labeled boxes stacked against a wall. \u201cKids picked toys to donate,\u201d she wrote, like it cost her a tooth. \u201cProud,\u201d I said again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI can come Saturday,\u201d she replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With Melissa, that was a truce flag.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Saturday morning, I loaded my car with grocery staples and loaded their donations at the center. Tyler clung to two action figures, then put one back without crying. Progress is sometimes one finger loosening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By week three, Melissa stopped calling after ten. She stopped with the all caps. One night near midnight, she texted, \u201cThe counselor said to call the phone company and cut extras. Can you stay on the line with me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019ll do it,\u201d she added before I could answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I leaned against my locker and stared at the message. It was almost an apology shaped like a question.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI can stay on for ten,\u201d I wrote. \u201cYou do the talking.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Melissa\u2019s voice shook at first. \u201cNo, remove that,\u201d she told the representative. \u201cNo, not pause it. Remove it.\u201d She removed two lines they never used. She saved fifty-four dollars a month.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On Friday, my father texted, \u201cYou coming by Sunday?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI can swing by after work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBring that soup you make.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was so normal I almost laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At dinner, the kids showed me a chart they had made to track chores and screen time. It was messy and perfect, with stars that leaned sideways and a line for \u201cphone fund\u201d drawn in purple marker. Melissa hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to smile or be mad.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI\u2019m proud,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She looked at me and finally spoke a sentence without a hook. \u201cI shouldn\u2019t have called you cheap.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOkay,\u201d I said. I did not make it a sermon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She glanced at the calendar pinned to the fridge. \u201cTherapy is Tuesday,\u201d she said, like she was telling me the weather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cGood,\u201d I said. \u201cI\u2019m off Wednesday. We can go over the budget.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
She rolled her eyes on reflex. Then she nodded.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I will not pretend it turned into a Christmas movie where everyone learns their lesson in ninety minutes. Real life is pettier, slower, and better because of it. We still have moments. Melissa still texts things that make me stare at the wall before I answer. The kids still want shiny things with faster chips. But the sentence \u201cDon\u2019t be cheap. You\u2019re the rich uncle\u201d has not appeared since that morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I deleted it from my head, but I kept the screenshot. Not to hold a grudge. To remind myself what I am done teaching.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two grocery cards got activated after counseling sessions. We made chili and a grocery list that did not include \u201crandom fridge things,\u201d which was Melissa\u2019s previous strategy. Tyler brought me a crudely drawn budget that said, \u201cPhone fund: eighteen slash four hundred.\u201d I matched eighteen on his birthday because he kept his side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
At the hospital, I am different too. I say, \u201cI\u2019m off now,\u201d and leave instead of staying two extra hours to fix someone else\u2019s schedule. I go to therapy. I buy better coffee. Lucky the plant got a new pot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
My mother still sighs sometimes and tells stories where she is the star and time is the villain. My father still acts like a referee, even when no one asked for one. But they stopped saying Moneybags. At New Year\u2019s dinner, Dad passed me the salt and said, \u201cAndrew,\u201d like it was a name and not a role.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Melissa apologized once more. The kind where your eyes stay on the floor because you mean it. \u201cI was wrong,\u201d she said. \u201cI thought you were judging me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI was tired,\u201d I said. \u201cI didn\u2019t tell you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We did not hug. We just stood in a kitchen where the smoke alarm did not chirp because I had already changed the battery, and she had written \u201cbatteries January\u201d on the calendar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A week later, she sent me a screenshot of her bank app. Paid on time. No exclamation points. Just a fact. I sent a thumbs-up. Then I typed, \u201cProud,\u201d and hit send.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
If you want a motto, here is mine. I will not finance someone else\u2019s denial. I will invest in their growth. I will not buy a thirty-two-hundred-dollar drone to fill a silence. I will sit in the silence with you until it tells the truth. I will not be the rich uncle. I will be the steady one. The one who shows up and says no when no is the only real help left.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I hear my name a lot at work. \u201cDoctor,\u201d in a hundred different voices. The best days are when I can walk into a room, look a worried parent in the eyes, and say, \u201cWe\u2019ve got a plan.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That is all I did at Christmas. I wrote a plan and put my name on the envelope. They cried. She went pale. But underneath the noise, something shifted. Something stopped breaking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I am not cheap. I am careful. I am not rich. I am responsible. I am not an ATM. I am Andrew. Brother. Uncle. Doctor. Person. And for the first time in a very long time, that is exactly enough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
THE END<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My sister called me cheap on a Tuesday morning, and by Christmas, I had learned the difference between being generous and being used. My name is Andrew Carter. I am … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":240,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-239","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-top-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/239","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=239"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/239\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":241,"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/239\/revisions\/241"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/240"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=239"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=239"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.aanstory.site\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=239"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}