{"id":3254,"date":"2026-06-04T16:28:12","date_gmt":"2026-06-04T16:28:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/?p=3254"},"modified":"2026-06-04T16:28:12","modified_gmt":"2026-06-04T16:28:12","slug":"my-brother-took-my-dad-with-dementia-to-the-bank-every-payday-to-drain-his-pension-yesterday-i-waited-for-him-in-line-with-the-branch-manager-and-two-police-officers-hugo-pushed-the-wheelchair-as-i","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/?p=3254","title":{"rendered":"My brother took my dad with dementia to the bank every payday to drain his pension. Yesterday, I waited for him in line with the branch manager and two police officers. Hugo pushed the wheelchair as if he were carrying a sack of potatoes, not our father. My dad smiled blankly, his sweater on backwards. In my bag, I held the document that could destroy Hugo."},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
<\/div>\n<\/header>\n
\n

\u201cThis transaction is suspended due to potential financial abuse against an elderly dependent.\u201d
\nThe manager\u2019s voice rang out clear and firm, like a church bell.
\nThe entire line turned around.
\nHugo opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The teller stood frozen behind the glass, the cash still in hand. My dad smiled blankly, looking up at the ceiling lights as if they were stars in a train station.
\n\u201cAbuse?\u201d Hugo finally managed. \u201cAre you crazy? He\u2019s my father.\u201d
\n\u201cExactly,\u201d I replied.
\nHe looked at me with hatred.
\nNot surprise.
\nHatred.
\nAs if I were the one stealing from him.
\n\u201cClaudia, don\u2019t start your drama here.\u201d
\nI pulled the folder from my bag and placed it flat on the counter. The very first page had his name written in black marker:\u00a0HUGO MARTINEZ RIVERA<\/i>. Below it were bank statements, dates, withdrawals, and my dad\u2019s crooked signatures.
\nThe medical evaluation was in there, too.
\nAdvanced vascular dementia.
\n<\/i>Incapacity to make complex financial decisions.<\/i><\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

And the official court order recognizing me as the legal conservator responsible for his care and administration.
\nThe manager took the sheet and showed it to the teller.
\n\u201cThe account is flagged and protected as of this moment. No withdrawals will be processed without the authorization of the registered conservator.\u201d
\nHugo let out a nervous laugh. \u201cConservator? You? Who do you think you are, Claudia?\u201d
\n\u201cThe one who changes his diapers while you change your sneakers.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

A murmur rippled through the line. An elderly woman with a cane looked down at her queue ticket. A man wearing a cowboy hat clenched his jaw. In these payday lines, everyone understands one basic truth: an old man\u2019s pension isn\u2019t a prize; it\u2019s his oxygen.<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Hugo tried to step closer to my dad. \u201cDad, tell them you gave me permission.\u201d<\/p>\n

My dad looked at him with clouded eyes. \u201cHas the train arrived yet?\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Hugo grew desperate. \u201cNo, Dad! Tell them you authorized me!\u201d<\/p>\n

The police officer on the right took a step forward. \u201cLower your voice, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

Hugo raised his hands. \u201cI\u2019m not doing anything. I just came to help him make a withdrawal.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

\u201cA full withdrawal,\u201d the teller noted, still pale. \u201cThat is what he requested.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hugo spun toward him. \u201cShut up!\u201d<\/p>\n

That was where he lost. Not because of the shout, but because of the raw panic leaking out from behind it.<\/p>\n

The manager looked at me. \u201cMrs. Claudia, do you wish to proceed with a formal report?\u201d<\/p>\n

Hugo scoffed. \u201cA report? Against your own brother? Are you really that rotten inside?\u201d<\/p>\n

It hurt. Of course it hurt.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

That man was the little boy who used to fall asleep on my lap while Mom made hot corn porridge. He was the teenager our dad used to take to the old rail yards on Sundays to show him the vintage locomotives, proudly telling him that our town had a heart made of iron and steam.<\/p>\n

But the man standing in front of me didn\u2019t smell like family anymore. He smelled like a lie.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d I said. \u201cProceed.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hugo\u2019s expression shifted instantly. \u201cClaudia, wait.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know what kind of trouble I\u2019m in.\u201d<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

\u201cI do know. You\u2019re deep inside Dad\u2019s pension.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was temporary!\u201d<\/p>\n

The crowd murmured again. My dad started getting restless in his chair. He began tugging at his poorly buttoned sweater, confused by the overlapping voices. I leaned down and adjusted his collar.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s okay, Dad. We\u2019re leaving soon.\u201d<\/p>\n

He took my hand. \u201cAre we going to the station?\u201d<\/p>\n

My chest tightened. \u201cYes. But let\u2019s fix this first.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hugo seized that exact second. He reached into my dad\u2019s pocket and yanked out the debit card.<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

The movement was fast, dirty, and practiced.<\/p>\n

The officer intercepted him before he could reach the door. \u201cHand it over.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s my father\u2019s!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you are not authorized to have it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hugo resisted. The wheelchair rolled back. My dad got frightened and let out a small, broken cry\u2014the kind of cry that doesn\u2019t sound like an adult, but a child lost in a crowded market.<\/p>\n

That was the exact moment my patience evaporated. I planted myself directly in front of Hugo.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot one more time will you use him as a wallet.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou stripped me of everything,\u201d he spat.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. You drained him dry.\u201d<\/p>\n

The manager requested the window be closed and escorted us into a side office. The officers stayed close to Hugo. My dad came with me, his hand resting on my skirt, whispering softly that the train was running late.<\/p>\n

The office smelled of central air, burnt coffee, and fresh printer paper. On the wall hung an informational poster about government financial aid for seniors and another warning customers never to share their card or PIN. It enraged me to see it displayed so clearly, while my dad couldn\u2019t even remember what a PIN was.<\/p>\n

The manager closed the door. \u201cMrs. Claudia, while reviewing the transaction history, we found something else.\u201d<\/p>\n

I felt my stomach drop. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

He placed a printout in front of me. They weren\u2019t over-the-counter withdrawals. They were electronic transfers. Small at first, then larger, going into an account under the name\u00a0\u201cHugo Martinez Services.\u201d<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cThis started nine months ago,\u201d the manager explained. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t just every payday. There were also charges for mobile apps, retail payments, and two attempts to apply for a loan using Mr. Julian\u2019s personal information.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared at Hugo. He wasn\u2019t shouting anymore. Now, he was sweating.<\/p>\n

\u201cA loan?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

The manager nodded. \u201cOne was automatically rejected due to the applicant\u2019s age. The other was held for fraud review.\u201d<\/p>\n

My ears began to buzz. My dad, who some days couldn\u2019t even choose between soup or rice, was apparently applying for lines of credit.<\/p>\n

Hugo cut in: \u201cI was going to pay it back.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWith what?\u201d I demanded. \u201cWith Dad\u2019s oxygen money?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t understand. They were pressuring me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho?\u201d<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t answer. The officer stared him down. \u201cSir, it would be highly in your best interest to speak with the proper authorities.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hugo dropped heavily into a chair. For the first time, he looked tired. Not remorseful. Just exhausted from being caught.<\/p>\n

\u201cI owed money,\u201d he muttered. \u201cSome loans. High interest. Bad people.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDad owed things too,\u201d I told him. \u201cDiapers. Medicine. Food. But you didn\u2019t care about that.\u201d<\/p>\n

He lifted his face. \u201cYou always have to play the martyr, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

That phrase hit me like a slap to the face. Not because of the word itself, but because of how easily it rolled off his tongue. I worked before the sun even rose, smelling of fresh bread, pastries, and flour, only to run home and lift a seventy-nine-year-old man who sometimes didn\u2019t even know my name. And Hugo still believed I was putting on an act.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not a martyr,\u201d I replied. \u201cI\u2019m a witness.\u201d<\/p>\n

I flipped to another section of the folder. The photos were all there.<\/p>\n

My dad with a stained sweater on the day Hugo took him out without telling me.<\/p>\n

My dad asleep in the bank chair, his mouth open and his savings book clutched in his hand.<\/p>\n

A security camera screenshot the manager had previously authorized me to view: Hugo guiding my dad\u2019s hand to sign a document.<\/p>\n

And the final page. The worst one.<\/p>\n

A letter. Supposedly signed by Mr. Julian Martinez.<\/p>\n

It claimed that I, Claudia, had abandoned him, that Hugo was his sole primary caregiver, and that he wished for my brother to manage all of his financial assets.<\/p>\n

The signature was a horrible imitation. It was shaky, but not from Parkinson\u2019s or age. It was shaky from deception.<\/p>\n

\u201cYour brother presented this two weeks ago,\u201d the manager said. \u201cHe requested to initiate the process to change the authorized representative on the account.\u201d<\/p>\n

I felt the blood freeze in my veins. Hugo wasn\u2019t just draining the pension anymore. He wanted to legally strip me of my dad. Or worse, he wanted to strip me of the right to protect him.<\/p>\n

I stood up. \u201cYou wrote this?\u201d<\/p>\n

Hugo stared at the floor. \u201cA lawyer helped me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA lawyer, or some courthouse scammer outside the bank?\u201d<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t answer. My dad shifted in his chair.<\/p>\n

\u201cHugo,\u201d he suddenly said.<\/p>\n

We all spun around. He hadn\u2019t spoken his name that clearly in weeks.<\/p>\n

Hugo lifted his face, a spark of hope in his eyes. \u201cYeah, Dad. It\u2019s me.\u201d<\/p>\n

My dad stared at him for a long time. I don\u2019t know if he truly understood what was happening. I don\u2019t know if he returned for a split second from that dark abyss where dementia was slowly pulling him under. But his eyes welled with tears.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t sell my train,\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n

The silence in the room became unbearable.<\/p>\n

Hugo blinked. \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

My dad drifted away again. \u201cMy train\u2026 my lunchbox\u2026 we\u2019re almost there\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

I wept. Not loudly; I couldn\u2019t. But I cried because I understood exactly what he was trying to say. For my dad, his pension was that last train still running through his fading memory. His hard work. His early mornings. His hands stained black with grease. His entire life converted into a small direct deposit every couple of months.<\/p>\n

And Hugo was stealing it from him, boxcar by boxcar.<\/p>\n

The police requested that we accompany them to the local precinct. Hugo tried to negotiate at the door.<\/p>\n

\u201cClaudia, please. Give me a chance to fix this. We\u2019re family. We\u2019re siblings.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou were a son, too.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll pay it back.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen? When Dad doesn\u2019t need to eat anymore?\u201d<\/p>\n

He grabbed my arm. Hard. \u201cDon\u2019t do this.\u201d<\/p>\n

The officer instantly grabbed his wrist. \u201cRelease the lady.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hugo let go. His eyes were bloodshot. Now, he truly looked like he was about to cry. But I had already learned to distinguish tears of fear from tears of guilt. His tears were only afraid of the consequences.<\/p>\n

We exited through the main doors of the bank. The line parted to let us through. Some people looked on with pity; others with anger. An elderly woman touched my arm as I passed and whispered, \u201cDon\u2019t back down, sweetheart.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t back down.<\/p>\n

Outside, the midday sun beat down on the pavement. Buses drove past completely packed, a street vendor sold cold drinks on the corner, and the scent of warm bread wafted from a nearby bakery. The city kept moving as if nothing had happened, but for me, everything had changed.<\/p>\n

I helped my dad into the taxi with the officer\u2019s assistance. He looked out at the busy avenue.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s here,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s here, Dad?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe train.\u201d<\/p>\n

I smoothed the blanket over his lap. \u201cYes, Dad. It\u2019s here.\u201d<\/p>\n

At the police station, everything moved at a snail\u2019s pace, as it always does. Plastic chairs, a buzzing fan, terrible coffee, and people waiting with folders clutched tightly against their chests. Hugo sat far away, escorted by an officer, making frantic secret phone calls until they confiscated his phone.<\/p>\n

I gave my statement. I listed dates, amounts, and charges. I explained the dementia. I showed the evaluation, the conservatorship, and the forged letter. Every word scraped against my throat. Because I wasn\u2019t reporting a stranger. I was reporting the baby boy my mother had asked me to look after when he was born. The brother who had once given me a flower he stole from a median on Mother\u2019s Day because we had no money.<\/p>\n

But then I would look over at my dad asleep in his chair, with his sweater on backwards and his hands tangled in the blanket, and I reminded myself that misplaced compassion can be its own form of abandonment.<\/p>\n

The authorities filed charges for elder financial abuse, grand larceny, forgery, and domestic fraud. They aren\u2019t pleasant words. They are cold words. But sometimes, cold steel is what you need to stop a hemorrhage.<\/p>\n

That afternoon, with the bank account officially secured and a new card requested under strict safeguards, I took my dad home.<\/p>\n

Lupita was waiting for us at the door. When she saw my face, she didn\u2019t ask questions. She just took the handles of the wheelchair and said, \u201cI made him some broth. And some Jell-O, because he woke up stubborn today.\u201d<\/p>\n

My dad smiled. \u201cIs there coffee?\u201d<\/p>\n

Lupita laughed. \u201cNot for you. But for Claudia, yes.\u201d<\/p>\n

The house was small, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood with dusty streets where neighbors knew everyone\u2019s business. There was a framed picture of Mom on the mantle and an old railroad calendar that my dad refused to let anyone throw away, even if he could no longer remember the year.<\/p>\n

We settled him into his favorite armchair. I took off his shoes and re-buttoned his sweater correctly. For the first time in months, I felt like his pension wasn\u2019t just money. It was a border. And I had finally closed the gates.<\/p>\n

Hugo called that night from an unknown number. I answered because I knew if I didn\u2019t, he would eventually show up at the house.<\/p>\n

\u201cClaudia,\u201d he said. \u201cI already talked to a lawyer. He says this can all go away if you tell them it was just a big misunderstanding.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt wasn\u2019t a misunderstanding.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re going to ruin me.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou used Dad\u2019s hand to sign those papers, Hugo.\u201d<\/p>\n

Silence fell over the line. Then, he whispered, \u201cThey were going to kill me.\u201d<\/p>\n

I closed my eyes. There it was\u2014the trap. Someone else\u2019s fear begging me to sacrifice my father all over again.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen report those people to the police.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd I can\u2019t save you by stealing from Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re my sister.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd he is our father.\u201d<\/p>\n

His breathing turned heavy. \u201cYou never loved me as much as you loved him.\u201d<\/p>\n

I almost laughed. Out of sadness. Out of pure exhaustion.<\/p>\n

\u201cHugo, Dad forgot my name and I still take care of him. You remembered his, and you used it to drag him to the bank.\u201d<\/p>\n

I hung up. I didn\u2019t block the number; I saved it. The calls were evidence, too.<\/p>\n

The following days were a blur of paperwork, bank visits, medical appointments, and check-ins from a social worker. They taught me how to formally record every single expense for my dad, how to keep accounts completely separate, and how to file receipts for diapers, oxygen, medication, food, and nursing care. I learned to manage his money as if it were sacred.<\/p>\n

Because it was.<\/p>\n

Hugo never set foot near the house again. He sent text messages instead. First furious ones, then begging ones, followed by accusations that I just wanted to keep everything for myself.<\/p>\n

Everything.<\/i><\/p>\n

What a joke. Everything consisted of an old television, a worn-out armchair, prescription bottles with state insurance labels, a pension that barely stretched far enough, and a father who sometimes woke up at three in the morning asking about a train that no longer ran.<\/p>\n

A week later, the bank manager called me. They had successfully recovered a portion of the last withdrawal because the teller had withheld the cash. They also blocked the pending loan application. The representative change was permanently canceled, and the forged letter was officially annexed to the case file.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou did the right thing coming in,\u201d he told me.<\/p>\n

I looked over at my dad, who was dozing with his mouth slightly open in front of a documentary about old trains.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t come in time,\u201d I replied. \u201cI came when I could.\u201d<\/p>\n

That night, I trimmed my dad\u2019s fingernails. He looked at me suddenly with a rare, crystalline clarity.<\/p>\n

\u201cClaudia.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stopped moving. \u201cYes, Dad?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t let Hugo board the train alone.\u201d<\/p>\n

I felt my chest tighten. I didn\u2019t know if he was talking about the train in his memory or real life.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t carry him if he\u2019s pushing everyone else off the platform, Dad.\u201d<\/p>\n

My dad closed his eyes. \u201cThen leave him behind.\u201d<\/p>\n

I cried in silence. My father was slipping away piece by piece, but somewhere deep within the corners of his broken mind, he still knew who was hurting him.<\/p>\n

A month later, Hugo was officially arraigned. He didn\u2019t show up with a tan or brand-new sneakers. He arrived thin, with dark circles under his eyes, wearing a faded shirt. He saw me in the corridor, and for the first time, he didn\u2019t call me dramatic.<\/p>\n

\u201cDoes Dad ever ask for me?\u201d<\/p>\n

I thought about lying. Then I chose not to.<\/p>\n

\u201cSometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n

His eyes welled with tears. \u201cWhat does he say?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked down at the legal folder clutched in my hands.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe says not to sell his train.\u201d<\/p>\n

Hugo lowered his head. I don\u2019t know if that phrase saved him or broke him entirely. It wasn\u2019t my place to decide.<\/p>\n

The investigation proceeded. Part of the money might never be recovered, but some of it would. Hugo would have to answer for it, pay back what he could, and explain the unexplainable. I didn\u2019t celebrate. Nobody celebrates pressing charges against their own brother. But you can\u2019t take care of a father with your eyes wide shut, either.<\/p>\n

The following Sunday, I took my dad to the local railway museum. Lupita helped me. We bundled him up warmly, put his favorite cap on, and got him into a taxi. When we arrived, the air smelled of fresh grass, warm pavement, and food from the nearby stalls. The massive vintage train cars sat there on the tracks, silent and still, like sleeping giants.<\/p>\n

My dad stared at the iron tracks. For a brief moment, his face transformed. It wasn\u2019t a full recovery of his memory, but it was a definitive spark.<\/p>\n

\u201cI used to work out here,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

I took his hand. \u201cYes, Dad. You did.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI used to bring a lunchbox.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWith beans and chili peppers.\u201d<\/p>\n

He smiled. \u201cYour mother used to pack me so much food.\u201d<\/p>\n

We stood there for a long time in front of the old locomotives, watching children run around and families take photographs. None of them knew that the man in that wheelchair had spent half his life among iron rails, deafening noise, and heavy grease, earning every single dollar that his own son later tried to steal from him.<\/p>\n

But I knew it. And as long as I could, I was going to remember it for the both of us.<\/p>\n

On the drive back home, my dad fell fast asleep in the back of the cab. The city drifted past the window: local diners, grocery stores, open bakeries, and streets where people kept living their lives even while a family was breaking apart.<\/p>\n

I adjusted his sweater. This time, it was completely right-side out.<\/p>\n

When we arrived, Lupita opened the door, welcoming us with the scent of freshly brewed coffee. My dad\u2019s pension account was no longer sitting at zero. His card was no longer in Hugo\u2019s hands. His signature would never again be used as a master key to rob him.<\/p>\n

And I, though I was still profoundly tired, though I would have to wake up at four the next morning to get to the bakery, felt something I hadn\u2019t felt in months.<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t joy.<\/p>\n

It was peace.<\/p>\n

Small, hard-earned, and justified.<\/p>\n

I looked down at my sleeping father and whispered to him:<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t go to the bank with just anyone anymore, Dad. I\u2019m driving the train now.\u201d<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t wake up. But a faint, soft smile brushed his lips. As if, from some distant, forgotten platform in his memory, he had finally heard that someone had closed the door before they could steal his very last car.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cThis transaction is suspended due to potential financial abuse against an elderly dependent.\u201d The manager\u2019s voice rang out clear and firm, like a church bell. The entire line turned around. … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18],"class_list":["post-3254","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-story","tag-aita","tag-diamond-ring","tag-diamonds","tag-engagement","tag-engagement-ring","tag-fiance","tag-fiancee","tag-lab-grown-diamonds","tag-photo","tag-picture","tag-reddit","tag-relationships","tag-top","tag-wedding"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3254","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=3254"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3254\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3255,"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3254\/revisions\/3255"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=3254"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=3254"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/echostoryus.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=3254"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}