And I didn\u2019t ask either.<\/p>\n
Until I was sent to Cancun for work.<\/p>\n
The idea was to review a plot of land for a new resort near the Hotel Zone, meet with engineers, take action, sign some documents and return to Mexico City in two days. I arrived tired, settled in a hotel facing the sea and that night I went for a walk to clear my head.<\/p>\n
Cancun has a strange way of fooling you. The music comes out of the bars as if no one had any problems. Tourists take pictures smiling under neon lights. The moist air sticks to the shirt. The sea roars nearby, but people walk as if everything in life could be solved with a cold beer and a beautiful view.<\/p>\n
I walked into a small bar, nothing elegant, of those where the light is low and one comes in just to sit for a while. I ordered a beer.<\/p>\n
And when I looked up, I saw her.<\/p>\n
Elena was at the bar.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t know how to explain it, but even though I was on my back, I recognized her instantly. The way to accommodate the hair behind the ear. The way to hold the glass without drinking. That serious stance I always had when I was thinking too much.<\/p>\n
I felt a dry blow to my chest.<\/p>\n
When she turned and saw me, she opened her eyes with the same surprise as me.<\/p>\n
\u201cCarlos?<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t know how long we\u2019re staring at each other, but it felt weird. As if three years had suddenly shrugged and cupred again between the two of us.<\/p>\n
We ended up sitting at the same table.<\/p>\n
At first we spoke carefully, like two people who know each other too much and at the same time no longer know each other. She asked me about my work. I asked him about his. We laughed at an old trip to Puebla, an absurd fight for a dog we never adopted, things that would have hurt us more in another time.<\/p>\n
The worst thing was to realize that with her I could still talk easy.<\/p>\n
Like before.<\/p>\n
Around midnight, Elena said she knew the hotel where I was staying. Then he suggested that we walk a little along the beach.<\/p>\n
And I, who had spent years convincing me that I had already overcome her, accepted it as an idiot.<\/p>\n
The beach was almost empty. The sea sounded strong, though not as loud as everything I brought around inside. We walked barefoot on the sand, talking about nonsense, memories, how bad we had done so many things.<\/p>\n
There was a moment when Elena was silent and only looked at me.<\/p>\n
That was enough.<\/p>\n
That night he went back to the hotel with me.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t think too much. I wanted to believe that it was a strange farewell, a shared weakness, something that would be buried in Cancun. We don\u2019t even talk about tomorrow. There were no promises. There were no questions.<\/p>\n
It just happened.<\/p>\n
But at dawn, everything changed.<\/p>\n
I woke up late, with the sun coming in through the white curtains. Elena was already standing by the window, wearing one of my shirts. For a second I felt something dangerous: peace. That kind of peace that makes you forget why a story broke.<\/p>\n
Until I got out of bed.<\/p>\n
And I saw the sheet.<\/p>\n
There was a red spot.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t big. But it was there. Clara. Impossible to ignore.<\/p>\n
I was frozen.<\/p>\n
Elena turned around, saw my face and, for a second, I would swear she was also scared. He walked quickly to the bed, pulled the sheet and said too quickly:<\/p>\n
It\u2019s nothing, Carlos. Don\u2019t ask questions. You better get to bathe, you got a job.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t someone\u2019s answer that was quiet.<\/p>\n
It was someone\u2019s answer hiding something.<\/p>\n
PART 2<\/p>\n
![\"\"](\"https:\/\/zexoads.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/05\/task_01kmcvj85geq0anec7ygjd600n_1774253076_img_0-169.png\")
<\/p>\n
I shouldn\u2019t have let her go alone.<\/p>\n
That was the first thing I thought when I saw her pick up her clothes with fast, almost clumsy movements, avoiding looking me in the eyes. The red spot was still there, small but impossible, as a written endpoint before I could understand the story.<\/p>\n
\u201cElena,\u201d I said. Wait.<\/p>\n
She buttoned my shirt up, like that could cover everything.<\/p>\n
Don\u2019t start, Carlos.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n
He let out a dry laugh.<\/p>\n
Nothing happened.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou don\u2019t bleed like that because you do.<\/p>\n
As soon as I said that, I saw his face harden. Not shameful. Scary.<\/p>\n
He leaned over the bed, pulled the sheet and made it a ball in his arms.<\/p>\n
Don\u2019t ask things you don\u2019t want to know.<\/p>\n
That phrase left me cold.<\/p>\n
What does that mean?<\/p>\n
Elena didn\u2019t respond right away. He went to the bathroom, opened the door and left the sheet inside, as if he wanted to hide not only the stain, but the whole night. Then he came out with the dress in his hand.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt means this was stupid and that you have a meeting in two hours. Dress up. Forget it. I\u2019m going to do the same.<\/p>\n
I knew her enough to know that when she spoke like that it was because she was about to break or run away.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m not going to let you leave like this.<\/p>\n
She smiled, but without humor.<\/p>\n
\u201cCarlos, you\u2019ve been letting me go for three years.<\/p>\n
That shut my mouth.<\/p>\n
He turned his back on me. I no longer looked like the woman who had slept by my side a few hours earlier. In less than five minutes we had gone from sharing a bed to being two strangers with too much history on top.<\/p>\n
Before he left, he stopped at the door.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t turn.<\/p>\n
\u201cIf you remember me after today\u2026 do yourself the favor of remembering me like last night. Not like this morning.<\/p>\n
And he\u2019s gone.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t follow her.<\/p>\n
For weeks I hated myself for that.<\/p>\n
I continued with the trip, with the joints, with the resort plans, with the engineers, with the numbers and signatures. But since that morning something stuck in my body.<\/p>\n
I wrote to her that same afternoon:<\/p>\n
Are you okay?<\/p>\n
It took hours to answer.<\/p>\n
Yes. Don\u2019t look for me.<\/p>\n
That was it.<\/p>\n
Two days later I returned to Mexico City. I wanted to convince myself that the stain could have a simple explanation. That maybe Elena was sick. That maybe I just felt ashamed. That maybe I was exaggerating because the guilt of having slept with my ex-wife was looking for an excuse to keep thinking about her.<\/p>\n
I tried to be normal.<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
I wrote to him again a week later.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n
Intent\u00e9 llamarla.<\/p>\n
He sent me to mailbox.<\/p>\n
A mutual friend told me that Elena had asked for a few days off at the hotel and that no one knew where she was. That worried me more than I wanted to admit.<\/p>\n
Or maybe that\u2019s what I repeated not to accept that I kept caring.<\/p>\n
Until a month passed.<\/p>\n
It was Tuesday. It was raining in Mexico City and I was stuck over Peripheral, answering audios of work, when a call from an unknown number of Quintana Roo came in.<\/p>\n
I answered without thinking.<\/p>\n
\u201cWell?<\/p>\n
A woman\u2019s voice sounded tense, professional.<\/p>\n
Mr. Carlos Medina?<\/p>\n
I felt something swirling in my stomach.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, he speaks.<\/p>\n
We call him from the General Hospital of Cancun. Mrs. Elena R\u00edos left him registered as an emergency contact.<\/p>\n
For a second I didn\u2019t understand what I had just heard.<\/p>\n
Emergency contact.<\/p>\n
Me.<\/p>\n
After three years.<\/p>\n
After just one night.<\/p>\n
After telling me not to look for her.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat happened?\u201d I asked, and my own voice sounded to me.<\/p>\n
The woman briefly paused, from those pauses of someone trying to say something without dropping everything on the phone.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe lady was admitted this morning with severe bleeding and loss of consciousness. Among his belongings he had his name noted. We need to locate a trusted family member or person.<\/p>\n
Traffic has disappeared.<\/p>\n
The rain is gone.<\/p>\n
Everything became a buzz around a single word.<\/p>\n
Bleeding.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m going there.<\/p>\n
I hung up, got the car in the first exit I could and drove to the airport as if there was still something that could be reached on time.<\/p>\n
During the flight I didn\u2019t think about work, or divorce, or the shame of having slept with it again.<\/p>\n
I thought about the sheet.<\/p>\n
On her face when she saw her.<\/p>\n
In the exact fear that crossed his eyes before hiding it.<\/p>\n
And for the first time I allowed myself to name what I had hitherto avoided thinking.<\/p>\n
That blood hadn\u2019t been an accident.<\/p>\n
I arrived at the hospital in Cancun at dusk. The building smelled of chlorine, overheated coffee and moisture. At admission I was looked at funny when I said his name, but a young nurse took me to a small waiting room, where a doctor on duty explained enough to leave me worse.<\/p>\n
Elena had arrived fainted.<\/p>\n
I had lost a lot of blood.<\/p>\n
They had stabilized her.<\/p>\n
She was still sedated.<\/p>\n
But there was something else.<\/p>\n
The doctor said it looking at a folder, not me.<\/p>\n
We found signs of a previous procedure. One made outside of a suitable hospital setting. There are signs of infection and an internal injury that had been complicated for several days.<\/p>\n
It took me a few seconds to understand.<\/p>\n
And when I understood, I felt the body emptying.<\/p>\n
What procedure?<\/p>\n
The doctor looked up.<\/p>\n
Interruption of pregnancy.<\/p>\n
I stood still.<\/p>\n
Not because he was completely surprised.<\/p>\n
But because a part of me already knew since that morning and had not had the courage to think it completely.<\/p>\n
\u201cWas I pregnant?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
The doctor nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cA few weeks, apparently. I don\u2019t know if you were aware.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t answer.<\/p>\n
Not because I didn\u2019t want to.<\/p>\n
Because I couldn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
The doctor kept talking. Something about a clandestine clinic. Something about being late. Something about luck, if you can call luck to survive like that.<\/p>\n
I could only see the hotel window.<\/p>\n
The sheet.<\/p>\n
The way Elena told me it was better to remember her like the night before.<\/p>\n
Not like that morning.<\/p>\n
The nurse let me stop by to see her almost an hour later.<\/p>\n
Elena was so pale that it looked made of wet wax. He had a path on his arm, his hair crushed against the pillow and his lips ajar. I\u2019ve never seen her so fragile. Not even when we signed the divorce and left the courthouse without turning his head.<\/p>\n
I sat down by the bed.<\/p>\n
I took his hand.<\/p>\n
It was lukewarm, but without strength.<\/p>\n
\u201cLook at me,\u201d I whispered, though she was still asleep. Look at me because this time I\u2019m not leaving you alone.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t know how much happened before I opened my eyes. Maybe minutes. Maybe more.<\/p>\n
The first thing he did was try to take his hand back.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t let go.<\/p>\n
He turned his face a little and saw me.<\/p>\n
In his pupils appeared first the surprise.<\/p>\n
Then the fear.<\/p>\n
And in the end worse: resignation.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou shouldn\u2019t have come,\u201d he murmured.<\/p>\n
\u201cOf course I had to come.<\/p>\n
He closed his eyes.<\/p>\n
They called you.<\/p>\n
You left me as a contact.<\/p>\n
A tear slipped into his temple.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t think you really would come.<\/p>\n
That broke something inside me.<\/p>\n
\u2014\u00bfC\u00f3mo no iba a venir, Elena?<\/p>\n
Ella guard\u00f3 silencio un momento. Luego le temblaron los labios.<\/p>\n
\u2014Porque una vez no te import\u00f3 irte.<\/p>\n
Esa frase me dej\u00f3 helado.<\/p>\n
No por injusta.<\/p>\n
But for all that I was hiding.<\/p>\n
I got a little closer.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n
Elena opened her eyes again and for a few seconds only looked at me, as if she were deciding if the truth could still do more harm than silence.<\/p>\n
\u2014No fue la primera vez \u2014dijo al fin.<\/p>\n
Sent\u00ed que el aire se volv\u00eda pesado.<\/p>\n
\u2014\u00bfQu\u00e9 cosa?<\/p>\n
\u2014Lo del hotel. No fue la primera vez que qued\u00e9 embarazada de ti.<\/p>\n
Tuve que sujetarme de la silla para no caerme.<\/p>\n
\u2014Elena\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2014Cuando todav\u00eda est\u00e1bamos casados. Un a\u00f1o antes del divorcio. \u00bfTe acuerdas de aquella semana en Oaxaca, cuando fuimos dizque para arreglar lo nuestro? Volv\u00ed embarazada. Quer\u00eda dec\u00edrtelo. Te juro que quer\u00eda. Pero la ma\u00f1ana en que iba a hablar contigo, t\u00fa llegaste diciendo que te hab\u00edan ofrecido dirigir una obra en Monterrey, que deb\u00edamos posponer cualquier plan de tener hijos, que no estabas listo para cambiar toda tu vida.<\/p>\n
Cada palabra me hund\u00eda m\u00e1s.<\/p>\n
Record\u00e9 aquella ma\u00f1ana.<\/p>\n
Mi prisa.<\/p>\n
Mi ego\u00edsmo.<\/p>\n
Mi miedo a ser padre.<\/p>\n
Mi alivio cobarde cuando ella no discuti\u00f3.<\/p>\n
\u2014Lo perd\u00ed a las once semanas \u2014continu\u00f3, con la voz rota\u2014. Me desangr\u00e9 en el ba\u00f1o del departamento. T\u00fa estabas en una cena con inversionistas y no contestaste. Al d\u00eda siguiente me dijiste que yo exageraba, que parec\u00eda una mala racha hormonal. No te lo cont\u00e9. Pens\u00e9 que si reaccionabas as\u00ed sin saberlo, no iba a soportar ver tu cara sabi\u00e9ndolo.<\/p>\n
No supe qu\u00e9 hacer con mis manos, con mi rostro, con mi verg\u00fcenza.<\/p>\n
\u2014Dios m\u00edo\u2026<\/p>\n
\u2014Despu\u00e9s vino el divorcio. El silencio. La distancia. Y esa noche en Canc\u00fan\u2026 \u2014trag\u00f3 saliva\u2014 yo sab\u00eda que no deb\u00eda pasar. Pero pas\u00f3. Y cuando vi la sangre, lo supe. Supe que estaba embarazada otra vez. O que lo hab\u00eda estado. No s\u00e9. Solo sent\u00ed el mismo terror. El mismo vac\u00edo.<\/p>\n
\u2014\u00bfPor qu\u00e9 no me dijiste nada?<\/p>\n
Elena solt\u00f3 una risa peque\u00f1a, rota.<\/p>\n
\u2014\u00bfPara qu\u00e9? \u00bfPara que esta vez me miraras con culpa en vez de indiferencia?<\/p>\n
No tuve c\u00f3mo defenderme.<\/p>\n
Porque era verdad.<\/p>\n
O al menos lo hab\u00eda sido durante demasiado tiempo.<\/p>\n
\u2014La cl\u00ednica \u2014dijo despu\u00e9s, bajando la voz\u2014 fue un error. Ten\u00eda miedo. Empec\u00e9 a sangrar m\u00e1s. Una compa\u00f1era me llev\u00f3 con una mujer que seg\u00fan \u201clo resolv\u00eda r\u00e1pido\u201d. Yo no sab\u00eda\u2026 no sab\u00eda que iba a terminar as\u00ed.<\/p>\n
Le apret\u00e9 la mano con cuidado.<\/p>\n
Todav\u00eda no ped\u00ed perd\u00f3n.<\/p>\n
Eso habr\u00eda sido demasiado f\u00e1cil.<\/p>\n
Solo me qued\u00e9 ah\u00ed para que no siguiera diciendo todo eso sola.<\/p>\n
\u2014No vas a volver a pasar por algo as\u00ed sin m\u00ed \u2014dije.<\/p>\n
Ella me mir\u00f3 con una tristeza que no se parec\u00eda al amor, pero tampoco a la ausencia.<\/p>\n
\u2014Ya pas\u00e9, Carlos.<\/p>\n
Y esa frase fue peor que cualquier reproche.<\/p>\n
Me qued\u00e9 con ella tres d\u00edas en el hospital. Dorm\u00ed en una silla de pl\u00e1stico. Habl\u00e9 con m\u00e9dicos. Pagu\u00e9 lo que hizo falta. Cancel\u00e9 juntas. Mand\u00e9 media constructora al demonio. Cada vez que despertaba, Elena parec\u00eda dividida entre agradecerme y odiarme por llegar tarde otra vez.<\/p>\n
Tal vez hac\u00eda las dos cosas.<\/p>\n
La \u00faltima noche, cuando ya pod\u00eda sentarse sola y la fiebre hab\u00eda bajado, me pidi\u00f3 que abriera el caj\u00f3n de la mesa junto a su cama.<\/p>\n
Dentro hab\u00eda un sobre peque\u00f1o.<\/p>\n
Mi nombre estaba escrito al frente.<\/p>\n
I opened it with clumsy hands.<\/p>\n
Inside was the pregnancy test.<\/p>\n
Positiva.<\/p>\n
Y una nota escrita antes de que todo se complicara.<\/p>\n
No s\u00e9 qu\u00e9 vas a pensar cuando leas esto. Tampoco s\u00e9 qu\u00e9 quiero de ti. Solo s\u00e9 que cuando te vi en ese bar, por primera vez en a\u00f1os, sent\u00ed que todav\u00eda hab\u00eda una parte de nosotros que no se hab\u00eda muerto del todo. Me da miedo ilusionarme. Me da m\u00e1s miedo volver a hacer esto sola.<\/p>\n
No pude seguir leyendo.<\/p>\n
Ten\u00eda la vista completamente nublada.<\/p>\n
Elena gir\u00f3 la cara hacia la ventana.<\/p>\n
\u2014Lo escrib\u00ed antes de empezar a sangrar. Iba a decidir despu\u00e9s si te lo daba o lo romp\u00eda.<\/p>\n
Me sent\u00e9 junto a ella, con el papel temblando entre los dedos.<\/p>\n
\u2014No fue un error \u2014murmur\u00e9.<\/p>\n
Ella cerr\u00f3 los ojos.<\/p>\n
\u2014No.<\/p>\n
Y esa era la verdad m\u00e1s dura de todas.<\/p>\n
No hab\u00eda sido un tropiezo de dos exesposos borrachos de nostalgia.<\/p>\n
Hab\u00eda sido otra oportunidad.<\/p>\n
Peque\u00f1a.<\/p>\n
Fr\u00e1gil.<\/p>\n
Inesperada.<\/p>\n
Y la hab\u00edamos perdido envueltos en miedo, silencio y demasiadas cosas que dejamos pudrir cuando todav\u00eda pod\u00edan decirse a tiempo.<\/p>\n
Esa noche llor\u00e9 frente a ella por primera vez desde que la conoc\u00eda.<\/p>\n
No para recuperarla.<\/p>\n
No porque creyera que el dolor pod\u00eda arreglarlo todo.<\/p>\n
Llor\u00e9 porque por fin entend\u00ed que algunas historias no se rompen el d\u00eda del divorcio, ni en una habitaci\u00f3n de hotel, ni con una llamada desde un hospital.<\/p>\n
Se rompen mucho antes.<\/p>\n
En las veces que uno no pregunta.<\/p>\n
En las veces que el otro no responde.<\/p>\n
En los momentos en que alguien sangra solo al otro lado de una puerta y el otro sigue creyendo que todav\u00eda habr\u00e1 tiempo ma\u00f1ana.<\/p>\n
Cuando Elena sali\u00f3 del hospital, no regres\u00f3 conmigo a la Ciudad de M\u00e9xico.<\/p>\n
Y yo tampoco se lo ped\u00ed.<\/p>\n
La acompa\u00f1\u00e9 hasta su departamento en Canc\u00fan, un lugar peque\u00f1o con vista a una calle tranquila, macetas en el balc\u00f3n y una hamaca que parec\u00eda no haber sido usada en meses. Dej\u00e9 sus medicinas sobre la mesa, llen\u00e9 el refrigerador con caldo, fruta, agua y pan dulce, y antes de irme le entregu\u00e9 una libreta nueva.<\/p>\n
\u2014\u00bfY esto? \u2014pregunt\u00f3.<\/p>\n
\u2014Para que escribas lo que no quieras decirme.<\/p>\n
Elena sostuvo la libreta entre las manos.<\/p>\n
\u2014\u00bfY t\u00fa?<\/p>\n
I took another one out of my backpack.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m going to write down what I should have said years ago.<\/p>\n
He didn\u2019t smile.<\/p>\n
But he didn\u2019t let go either.<\/p>\n
It was weeks before we could talk without hurting each other with every sentence. I started therapy in Mexico City. She too, in Cancun. Not to come back. Not to pretend that a tragedy had magically made us better people.<\/p>\n
But to stop running away.<\/p>\n
One Sunday, months later, we met in Oaxaca. Not in the same hotel as before, but in a small cafe near Santo Domingo, where the air smelled like pot coffee, fresh bread and wet earth.<\/p>\n
Elena came in with a simple blue dress and loose hair.<\/p>\n
I had a folder with work papers, but I didn\u2019t open it.<\/p>\n
For the first time in years, none were in a hurry.<\/p>\n
We talked about what hurt.<\/p>\n
We talked about what we had lost.<\/p>\n
We also talked about what was still left, even if it was little and we didn\u2019t know what to do with it.<\/p>\n
When we left, we walked down a cobbled street. We don\u2019t hold our hands. Not yet.<\/p>\n
But when we got to the corner, Elena stopped and looked at me.<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t know if I can love you like I used to, Carlos.<\/p>\n
I nodded.<\/p>\n
It hurt.<\/p>\n
But it didn\u2019t destroy me.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don\u2019t want you to love me like you used to,\u201d I said. We didn\u2019t know how to take care of each other before.<\/p>\n
She looked down.<\/p>\n
Then, for the first time since that morning in Cancun, he gave me a small smile.<\/p>\n
Tired.<\/p>\n
Sad.<\/p>\n
But alive.<\/p>\n
Then let\u2019s start by not lying.<\/p>\n
And that time, I didn\u2019t promise to save her.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t promise to make up for time.<\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t promise to erase anything.<\/p>\n
I only walked beside him, slowly, under an Oaxacan afternoon that did not forgive us the past, but neither did the door completely close us.<\/p>\n
Because sometimes the nice ending is not to be the same again.<\/p>\n
Sometimes the nice end is that, after so much silence, two people will finally learn to stay when the truth hurts.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I still have a hard time counting this without my throat closing. I haven\u2019t seen Elena in almost three years,…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":508,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-507","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/507","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=507"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/507\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":509,"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/507\/revisions\/509"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/508"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=507"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=507"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/flavorlab.delicedcook.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=507"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}