The heavy corrugated metal door of Storage Unit 412 creaked loudly as my older brother, Mark, hauled it upward into the ceiling tracks. A thick cloud of stagnant, warm dust rolled out into the concrete hallway, carrying the familiar smell of aged cardboard, damp wool, and forgotten years.<\/p>\n
Mark leaned against the doorframe, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his forearm. He had turned forty three weeks ago, a milestone that had somehow triggered a sudden, urgent desire to simplify his life. Top on his priority list was eliminating the monthly $120 fee he had been auto-paying to Oakridge Self-Storage since September 2011<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n “Twelve years, Laura,” Mark muttered, shaking his head as he looked inside the packed ten-by-twenty space<\/span>. “Over seventeen thousand dollars spent just to keep a couch from college, four boxes of law school textbooks, and a broken treadmill<\/span>. I could have bought a new car with what I wasted on this room.”<\/span><\/p>\n “Well, you’re doing it now,” I said, stepping past him into the dim space, pulling a pair of heavy work gloves onto my hands. “Let’s start with the easy stuff. My pickup is parked right outside the loading bay.”<\/p>\n For the first two hours, the task was entirely mundane. We hauled out sagging cardboard boxes filled with outdated tax returns, mismatched patio chairs, and yellowed legal pads from his early associate days at the law firm. We stacked rolled-up area rugs against the corrugated side walls, making our way deeper into the narrow space.<\/p>\n By late afternoon, we reached the very back corner of the unit. The halogen overhead light on the hallway ceiling barely reached this far, casting long, eerie shadows across the concrete floor.<\/p>\n Mark reached down to pull away two heavy, dust-caked wool carpets that had been standing upright against the back wall<\/span>. As they fell forward with a dull thud, something metallic scraped harshly against the concrete floor.<\/span><\/p>\n I pointed my flashlight beam toward the corner. Nestled tightly in the recess where the metal walls met was a heavy industrial steel tool chest, roughly four feet long and painted a dull, faded green. It was locked shut with a thick, tarnished brass padlock that looked heavy enough to secure a bank vault<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n Mark froze, his hand still resting on one of the wool carpets<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n “What’s that?” I asked, stepping closer to inspect the chest. “Did you keep heavy machinery in here?”<\/p>\n Mark didn’t answer right away. He crouched down, shining his phone light over the dull steel lid. His expression shifted from mild curiosity to intense, unsettled confusion<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n “Laura… I didn’t put this here,” he said softly, his voice echoing slightly in the hollow room<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n “What do you mean you didn’t put it here?” I laughed nervously. “It’s your unit. You’ve been the only one paying the bill since 2011<\/span>.”<\/span><\/p>\n “I swear to you, I’ve never seen this chest in my life,” Mark insisted, looking up at me with dead-serious eyes<\/span>. “I came back here maybe twice between 2014 and 2018. The key was on my master keychain, but I never gave anyone else access.”<\/span><\/p>\n I looked down at the brass padlock. It was clean\u2014completely free of the dust that covered every other surface in the back of the room. Someone had been to this chest relatively recently.<\/p>\n “Hold on,” I said. “I’ll get the bolt cutters from my truck.”<\/p>\n I walked quickly out to my Ford F-150, grabbed the thirty-inch heavy-duty bolt cutters from beneath the back seat, and hurried back through the dimly lit hallway of the storage facility.<\/p>\n When I returned, Mark was standing over the chest, holding his phone camera up to scan the padlock, searching for a brand name or serial number.<\/p>\n “Step back,” I said, placing the hardened steel jaws of the cutters over the shackle of the brass lock.<\/p>\n Mark leaned in, putting his hands over mine to add weight. With a sharp, metallic snap, the heavy shackle sheared in two, dropping onto the concrete with a loud clang<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n Mark paused for a beat, his hand resting on the latch. For a second, neither of us moved. The quiet hum of the facility’s ventilation system was the only sound in the room.<\/p>\n He lifted the heavy steel lid.<\/p>\n There were no wrenches, socket sets, or power tools inside<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n Instead, the chest was filled almost to the brim with meticulous, perfectly organized stacks of paper<\/span>. They were bound in tight rubber bands, arranged in chronological order inside plastic document sleeves.<\/span><\/p>\n I reached down and picked up the top bundle. My breath caught in my throat.<\/p>\n They were official bank deposit slips\u2014hundreds of them<\/span>. I flipped through the bundle. First National of Ohio, Chase Branch in Indiana, Fifth Third in Pennsylvania<\/span>. Every single slip showed cash deposits ranging from $2,500 to $9,000, all stamped between the years 2014 and 2019<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n “Mark…” I whispered, calculating the figures stamped on the carbon copies. “There are dozens of bundles here.”<\/p>\n “Totaling over four hundred and eighty thousand dollars,” Mark muttered, his fingers tracing a handwritten tally sheet clipped to the side of the metal divider<\/span>. “Four hundred eighty-two thousand, six hundred dollars. All cash. All deposited across three different state lines.”<\/span><\/p>\n My mind scrambled to make sense of what we were looking at. Cash deposits under ten thousand dollars were structured to avoid federal reporting thresholds\u2014a practice known in accounting as “smurfing.”<\/p>\n “Is this yours?” I asked, my voice rising slightly as fear gripped my stomach. “Mark, were you involved in something legal or illegal at the firm? Tell me the truth!”<\/p>\n “Are you insane?!” Mark snapped, grabbing his hair in pure panic. “I was a junior probate attorney in 2014! I made sixty grand a year! I didn’t have four hundred thousand dollars in cash lying around, and I certainly didn’t drive to Indiana to deposit it!”<\/p>\n “Then how did this get into your locked storage unit?!”<\/p>\n Before Mark could answer, my eyes caught a small piece of paper attached to the very top deposit slip<\/span>. It was a bright yellow sticky note, slightly faded around the adhesive edge<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n Written on it in precise, elegant, slanted cursive were six simple words:<\/p>\n For Mark and Laura. Forgive me.<\/i><\/p>\n I felt the blood drain completely from my face. My knees grew weak, and I had to lean against the corrugated wall to steady myself.<\/p>\n I knew that handwriting better than my own.<\/p>\n It belonged to our mother, Helen, who had passed away from pancreatic cancer in the summer of 2020<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n Mark saw the color leave my face and snatched the yellow note from my hand<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n His eyes scanned the six handwritten words, and his jaw dropped. He dropped the note as if it had burned his skin, staring at it where it fluttered onto the top of the deposit slips.<\/p>\n “Mom?” Mark whispered, his voice trembling violently. “No… no, that’s impossible. Mom was a middle school librarian. She made forty-two thousand dollars a year. She lived in a small two-bedroom ranch house on Maple Street. When she died, her entire estate was worth less than fifty thousand dollars after her medical bills were settled.”<\/p>\n “Look at the handwriting, Mark,” I said, picking the note back up. “Look at the way she crosses her ‘t’s with that little upward loop. Look at the capital ‘F.’ That is Mom’s handwriting<\/span>. There is zero doubt.”<\/span><\/p>\n We stood in the dim, dusty unit for a long time, surrounded by old furniture, completely paralyzed by the revelation.<\/p>\n Our mother, Helen Miller, had been the quietest, most unassuming woman in our home town. She knitted sweaters for homeless shelters, baked pies for the church bazaar, and drove a 2008 Honda Civic until the day she entered hospice care. Our father had walked out on us in 1998 when Mark was fourteen and I was twelve, leaving Mom to raise us on her own with zero child support. We had grown up frugal out of sheer necessity. We wore hand-me-downs, ate generic brand groceries, and relied on academic scholarships to get through college.<\/p>\n Yet here, in a steel box hidden behind rolled carpets in Mark’s storage unit, was paper evidence of nearly half a million dollars in cash handled by our mother between 2014 and 2019<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n “How did she even get in here?” I asked, looking around the unit.<\/p>\n Mark swallowed hard, pulling out his keyring. “In 2013, when Mom helped me clean out my first apartment, I gave her a spare key to my storage unit so she could drop off some old family photo albums. I… I forgot I ever gave it to her. She must have kept it on her spare key ring.”<\/p>\n “She was coming here while you were at work,” I realized. “She was bringing these slips here, stacking them in this box, and locking it.”<\/p>\n Mark crouched down again, his hands trembling as he began pulling out the bundles of slips<\/span>. Beneath the third layer of banking records lay something else: a thick, black leather-bound journal, tied shut with a faded blue ribbon, along with three key envelopes from a regional safe deposit facility in Pennsylvania.<\/span><\/p>\n Mark reached for the journal, his thumb hovering over the blue ribbon.<\/p>\n “Laura,” he said quietly, looking up at me with eyes full of fear. “If we open this… whatever is inside might change how we remember her forever.”<\/p>\n “She left it for us, Mark,” I said softly, sitting down on an overturned crate beside him. “She wrote our names on the note<\/span>. She wanted us to find it.”<\/span><\/p>\n Mark untied the blue ribbon. The black leather cover flapped open, revealing pages filled with our mother’s tight, neat handwriting.<\/p>\n The first entry was dated October 14, 2013:<\/p>\n If Mark and Laura are reading this, it means I am no longer here, and my quiet life has finally come to its rest. I know you must be terrified. I know you must think I was involved in something dark. Please, my sweet children, do not judge your mother until you read every page of this book.<\/i><\/p>\n I sat closer to Mark, reading over his shoulder as he slowly turned the pages.<\/p>\n The journal told a story that sounded entirely alien to the woman we thought we knew.<\/p>\n In the spring of 1997, a year before our father left us, our mother had discovered a secret. Our father, Richard Miller, had not simply been a failing independent real estate broker as he claimed. He had been acting as a straw buyer and money manager for a predatory commercial land development syndicate operating across the Midwest.<\/p>\n When Richard realized federal investigators were closing in on the syndicate’s fraudulent land acquisitions, he panicked. Rather than face charges or testify, he gathered all the off-the-books cash reserves he had hidden in home safes, abandoned his family, and fled the country under a stolen identity.<\/p>\n Our mother had been left completely broke, facing immediate foreclosure on our house, while raising two young children alone.<\/p>\n “I remember that winter,” Mark muttered, his voice cracking. “I remember coming home from school and seeing Mom crying at the kitchen table with stacks of final notice bills.”<\/p>\n “Read the next entry,” I urged softly.<\/p>\n The journal continued:<\/p>\n In November 2013, fifteen years after Richard vanished, I received a phone call at the library from an attorney in Philadelphia. Richard had died of liver failure in a small town in Costa Rica. Because he had never legally divorced me, and because his offshore accounts had remained untouched in complex private trusts, his attorney was legally obligated to execute his final written trust instructions.<\/i><\/p>\n Richard had left behind a ledger detailing a secondary slush fund\u2014cash stored in six private safe deposit boxes across three states. He had left it to me in his will, a final pathetic attempt to buy forgiveness for abandoning his children.<\/i><\/p>\n When I saw the sheer amount of money, I felt sick. It was dirty money, built on deceit and abandoned family duties. I wanted to destroy it. I wanted to report it to the authorities. But then I looked at my children.<\/i><\/p>\n Mark was drowning in law school debt. Laura was working two jobs just to afford her accounting certification. I was terrified that if I turned the money over to the government or brought it into our lives suddenly, the IRS would audit us, ruin your reputations, and drag your names through the mud because of your father’s past.<\/i><\/p>\n Mark turned the page, his knuckles white against the paper.<\/p>\n Our mother had spent six years\u2014from 2014 until her cancer diagnosis in late 2019\u2014secretly traveling across state lines on weekends<\/span>. She would tell us she was going to regional librarian conferences, weekend craft fairs, or visiting old college friends in Ohio and Pennsylvania.<\/span><\/p>\n In reality, she was taking bus routes to small-town banks, retrieving small cash amounts from the safe deposit boxes, and systematically converting the physical bills into official bank cashier checks and registered deposit receipts, ensuring every single dollar was accounted for, cleared through legal banking channels, and scrubbed of any legal liability<\/span>.<\/span><\/p>\n She had hired a private tax attorney under a corporate retainer to pay all applicable federal back taxes anonymously under a voluntary disclosure program, using part of the money to ensure that every single remaining dollar in the steel chest was 100% legal, clean, and safe for us to inherit without tax penalties or criminal liability.<\/p>\n I deposited the cleared funds into three separate escrow accounts under a non-reporting blind trust,<\/i> she wrote in an entry dated August 2018. Every deposit slip in this chest represents a piece of your father’s debt to you, finally paid back and legally cleaned. I kept every record so that if anyone ever questioned where this money came from, you would have the complete paper trail proving it is legitimate.<\/i><\/p>\n Mark stared at the journal, tears finally streaming freely down his face.<\/p>\n “She did all of this…” he whispered, his chest heaving. “She rode greyhound buses to three states, dealing with lawyers and tax auditors in secret, while working forty hours a week at the library… just so we wouldn’t be burdened by Dad’s past.”<\/p>\n “Look at the last page,” I said, pointing to an entry dated May 12, 2020\u2014just two weeks before she entered the hospice facility.<\/p>\n The handwriting on the final page was shaky, showing the physical toll of her illness:<\/p>\n My dearest Mark and Laura,<\/i><\/p>\n I am so tired now, but my work is finished. The four hundred and eighty thousand dollars in this chest is clean, cleared, and legally yours. The safe deposit box keys in this box belong to First Commonwealth Bank in Pittsburgh. Inside Box 402, you will find the original trust documents naming you both as equal beneficiaries.<\/i><\/p>\n I never spent a single penny of this money on myself. I did not want his money. I only wanted my children to have the security they were robbed of when they were little.<\/i><\/p>\n Mark, pay off your law practice loans. Laura, buy the house you’ve always dreamed of. Do not feel guilty. This is not his gift to you. This was my final fight for you.<\/i><\/p>\n All my love, Mom.<\/i><\/p>\n We sat in the dark storage unit for nearly an hour, holding the journal between us as the heavy emotional truth washed over us.<\/p>\n The image of our quiet, modest mother\u2014the woman who drove a rusted Honda and clipped grocery coupons\u2014taking on a dangerous, complex, six-year legal journey to clean a crooked father’s abandoned cash was almost impossible to fathom. She had carried this immense burden completely alone, never dropping a single hint, never asking for credit, and enduring the late stages of her illness knowing her children would eventually find the truth.<\/p>\n “What do we do now?” Mark asked softly, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.<\/p>\n “We follow her instructions,” I said firmly. “We call the tax attorney listed in the journal on Monday morning, verify the escrow trust documents in Pittsburgh, and close this chapter the way she wanted us to.”<\/p>\n On Monday, Mark and I drove together in my truck to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We met with Arthur Vance, the elderly estate and tax attorney our mother had secretly retained in 2014.<\/p>\n Sitting in a quiet, mahogany-paneled office overlooking the river, Mr. Vance smiled warmly when he saw the black leather journal in Mark’s hands.<\/p>\n “I have been waiting for this call for six years, Mr. Miller,” the attorney said gently, setting down his glasses. “Your mother was one of the most remarkably courageous women I have ever represented in my forty years of practicing law.”<\/p>\n “She really paid all the federal back taxes?” Mark asked, opening his briefcase to show the bank deposit slips.<\/p>\n “To the last penny,” Mr. Vance confirmed, pulling out a thick white legal binder from his safe. “When Helen came to my office in 2014, she was terrified that your father’s past crimes would destroy your legal career, Mark, and ruin Laura’s accounting reputation. She insisted on doing everything strictly by the book. We utilized the IRS Voluntary Disclosure Practice. We paid all back taxes, penalties, and interest owed on your father’s abandoned assets using a portion of the original funds.”<\/p>\n He pushed the legal binder across the desk toward us.<\/p>\n “Every single dollar represented by those deposit slips in your storage unit is entirely legal, tax-paid, and officially registered in an irrevocable family trust in your names,” Mr. Vance said. “You are free to disburse the funds whenever you wish.”<\/p>\n The formal liquidation and transfer of the trust funds took nearly six weeks to complete.<\/p>\n During that time, Mark and I spent almost every evening together. The discovery in the storage unit hadn’t just given us financial security; it had completely transformed our relationship with our past and with each other. For years, we had carried a quiet, unspoken bitterness about our father’s abandonment and the financial hardship that had defined our youth.<\/p>\n Now, every time we thought about our childhood, we didn’t see the absence of a father who left. We saw the towering, invincible love of a mother who had fought tooth and nail in the shadows to protect us.<\/p>\n In late August, the funds were officially transferred into our respective bank accounts: $241,300 each.<\/p>\n Mark used his share to pay off his remaining law school debt and purchase a partnership stake in a reputable family law firm in town, allowing him to leave the high-stress corporate firm he had hated for a decade.<\/p>\n I used my share to put a sixty percent down payment on a beautiful, three-bedroom craftsman home with a large garden and an old oak tree in the backyard\u2014a home that looked almost identical to the house our mother had fought so hard to keep when we were little.<\/p>\n By early autumn 2026, Mark’s storage unit was finally completely cleared out.<\/p>\n On the final day of the lease, Mark and I stood inside the empty ten-by-twenty room. The old couch had been donated, the law textbooks recycled, and the rolled-up carpets disposed of.<\/p>\n All that remained standing in the middle of the empty concrete floor was the heavy green metal tool chest, its broken brass padlock sitting on top of the lid.<\/p>\n Mark looked down at the chest, a soft, thoughtful expression on his face.<\/p>\n “What are we going to do with the chest?” I asked.<\/p>\n Mark crouched down and lifted the heavy steel lid one last time, looking at the empty interior where the deposit slips had rested for so many years.<\/p>\n “We’re keeping it,” Mark said softly.<\/p>\n “Where are you going to put it?” I asked.<\/p>\n “In the front hallway of my new office,” Mark replied, looking up at me with a proud smile. “I’m going to have a small brass plate engraved and mounted right on the center of the lid.”<\/p>\n “What’s it going to say?”<\/p>\n ” The Helen Miller Estate: Built on Courage, Kept in Love.<\/i> “<\/p>\n I felt a lump form in my throat, and I stepped over to hug my brother tightly.<\/p>\n A month later, on a crisp, sunny Saturday afternoon, Mark and I drove out to Oakridge Cemetery on the outskirts of town.<\/p>\n The leaves on the maple trees surrounding the cemetery were turning brilliant shades of red, amber, and gold, falling gently across the quiet manicured lawns.<\/p>\n We walked together down the stone path to our mother’s headstone. It was a simple granite marker, sitting beside a small stone bench we had installed the year after she passed away.<\/p>\n Mark carried a bouquet of fresh yellow roses\u2014her favorite flowers\u2014and set them gently at the base of the stone.<\/p>\n We sat down together on the stone bench, listening to the soft autumn breeze rustling through the trees above us.<\/p>\n “Hi, Mom,” I said softly, touching the cold granite surface. “We found the chest.”<\/p>\n Mark laughed softly, wiping a stray tear from his cheek. “We found the deposit slips, Mom. We found the journal. And we met with Mr. Vance in Pittsburgh.”<\/p>\n For a long time, we sat in peaceful silence, letting the warm sunlight wash over us.<\/p>\n “I used to think Mom was quiet because she was defeated by life,” Mark said quietly, looking out over the cemetery. “I used to feel so sorry for her when we were kids. I thought she was just surviving.”<\/p>\n “She wasn’t surviving, Mark,” I said, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “She was a warrior. She just fought her battles where no one could see her.”<\/p>\n As we sat by her grave, Mark pulled a small white envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to me.<\/p>\n “What’s this?” I asked.<\/p>\n “Open it,” he said.<\/p>\n I opened the envelope. Inside was a cashier’s check made out to the Oakridge Public Library for twenty-five thousand dollars, drawn from our joint trust account, along with a formal proposal letter signed by both of us.<\/p>\n “We’re establishing the Helen Miller Children’s Literacy Fund,” Mark explained, his voice rich with emotion. “It will fund summer reading programs, buy new books, and provide college scholarships for low-income kids in town every year. We’re presenting it to the library board on Monday.”<\/p>\n Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at the check.<\/p>\n “She would have loved that so much, Mark,” I whispered. “It’s perfect.”<\/p>\n We spent another hour at the cemetery, sharing memories of our childhood\u2014not the painful memories of hardship, but the warm, beautiful moments. We remembered her baking bread on snow days, reading us stories late into the night, and making us feel safe even when the world outside our house was uncertain.<\/p>\n When the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long golden light across the gravestones, Mark and I stood up from the bench.<\/p>\n I reached down and touched the granite marker one last time.<\/p>\n “Thank you, Mom,” I whispered into the quiet autumn air. “For everything.”<\/p>\n We walked back to my pickup truck side by side. As Mark closed the passenger door, he turned to look back at the cemetery one last time before getting in.<\/p>\n There was no longer any mystery hanging over us. The fear, the confusion, and the lingering shadow of our father’s abandonment had been completely replaced by an overwhelming sense of gratitude and peace.<\/p>\n Six months later, in the spring of 2027, I held a housewarming dinner at my new home.<\/p>\n The evening was warm and gentle. The French doors leading out to the back patio were open, letting in the sweet scent of blooming lilac bushes from the garden.<\/p>\n Friends and family filled the living room, their laughter and conversation echoing through the bright, spacious halls. Mark stood near the fireplace, holding a glass of iced tea, chatting warmly with several of his law firm partners.<\/p>\n In the entryway, resting on a polished wooden console table beneath a framed photograph of our mother, sat the yellow sticky note from the storage unit, now safely preserved inside a small, elegant glass frame.<\/p>\n For Mark and Laura. Forgive me.<\/i><\/p>\n I walked over to the console table and looked at the framed note.<\/p>\n A close friend from my accounting firm walked up beside me, holding a plate of appetizers. She looked at the framed sticky note, frowning slightly in gentle curiosity.<\/p>\n “That’s an unusual thing to frame, Laura,” she remarked with a warm smile. “What’s the story behind it?”<\/p>\n I looked at the delicate cursive handwriting, feeling a deep, abiding warmth fill my chest.<\/p>\n “It’s a reminder,” I said softly, looking over at my brother, who smiled back at me from across the room.<\/p>\n “A reminder of what?” she asked.<\/p>\n “That real love doesn’t make a lot of noise,” I replied, my voice steady and serene. “Sometimes, the people who love you most are fighting giant battles for you in complete silence… just to make sure you have a peaceful life.”<\/p>\n My friend smiled softly, nodding in understanding, though she couldn’t possibly know the full depth of what those words meant.<\/p>\n Later that night, after the last guests had left and the house grew quiet, I stood on my back porch under the starlit sky. The breeze rustled through the leaves of the old oak tree in the yard.<\/p>\n I pulled my phone from my pocket, opened my photo gallery, and looked at a picture Mark and I had taken together in front of our mother’s memorial bench at the cemetery.<\/p>\n We were smiling\u2014not with the tragic weight of an unsolved past, but with the bright, unwavering strength of two children who finally knew exactly how precious, how fiercely protected, and how deeply loved they had always been.<\/p>\n I slipped the phone back into my pocket, took a deep breath of the cool night air, and walked inside, closing the door behind me on a home built firmly on the foundation of a mother’s eternal love.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Part 1 The heavy corrugated metal door of Storage Unit 412 creaked loudly as my older brother, Mark, hauled it upward into the ceiling tracks. A thick cloud of stagnant, warm … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":199,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[188,192,187,193,189,194,191,190,186,177],"class_list":["post-387","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-all-story","tag-bank-deposit-slips","tag-cleared-estate-assets","tag-family-trust-discovery","tag-financial-secrets-uncovered","tag-irs-voluntary-disclosure","tag-legal-trust-inheritance","tag-money-mystery-story","tag-secret-legacy","tag-storage-unit-secret","tag-unclaimed-inheritance"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/387","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=387"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/387\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":388,"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/387\/revisions\/388"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/199"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=387"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=387"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/nathantales.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=387"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}Part 2<\/h2>\n
Part 3<\/h2>\n
Part 4<\/h2>\n
Part 5<\/h2>\n
Part 6<\/h2>\n
Part 7<\/h2>\n
Part 8<\/h2>\n
Part 9<\/h2>\n
Part 10<\/h2>\n