{"id":4,"date":"2026-11-02T09:10:00","date_gmt":"2026-11-02T09:10:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/?p=4"},"modified":"2026-11-02T09:10:00","modified_gmt":"2026-11-02T09:10:00","slug":"expectations-philsugar","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/?p=4","title":{"rendered":"Expectations | PhilSugar"},"content":{"rendered":"

I think it\u2019s funny the way I can pick out a sound, even when there\u2019s a lot of noise and it\u2019s not a big sound, just because I\u2019m waiting to hear it. I bet the others haven\u2019t heard it. They don\u2019t recognize the sound, the quiet creak of a floorboard in the apartment upstairs. They carry on talking, as though nothing has happened. They chat and laugh and drink my wine and eat the food I cooked for them, without anyone saying thank you or this is delicious. Presumably they think they\u2019re doing me a favor by visiting.
\nStatistically, most women meet their eventual partners at work. But our work revolves around five- and six-year-old children. And with their parents\u2014either couples or single mothers. Karin and Pim hooked up when they were scouts. Janneke and Stefan met on holiday in Australia. They must have told the story a hundred times. Two Dutch people meeting in Australia\u2014it had to happen. They can\u2019t get over it. And now they\u2019re talking about their New Year\u2019s resolutions. Lift the seat, says Karin to Pim. Do you not do that? asks Janneke, making a face. She says she trained Stefan to pee sitting down. Karin says men have different notions of hygiene. What about women who chuck their used tampons in the wastepaper basket? asks Pim. That\u2019s the way they always talk. Not a pleasant or sensible word all evening.
\nIs there coffee? Stefan asks, as if I were the waitress. No, I say. At first, they don\u2019t even hear. I have to say it again, loud and clear. I\u2019m tired. I\u2019d like you to go now, please. They just laugh and say, well we\u2019ll just have to have our coffee somewhere else. As they file out, Janneke asks me if I\u2019m all right. She makes a sympathetic face, as if I were one of the kids that has fallen down and scraped a knee. You would think she was on the verge of tears herself, but she\u2019s not even listening when I reply, yes I\u2019m fine, I just want to be alone. I don\u2019t think they will stop off anywhere on the way home. I don\u2019t think they\u2019ll talk about me. There\u2019s nothing to say, and that suits me.
\nI go back quietly into the living room and listen. There\u2019s a long silence, and then I hear the creak again. It sounds like someone creeping around on tiptoe, trying not to make a noise. I follow the footsteps from the door to the window and then back to the middle of the room. A chair or some piece of furniture is pushed, and then there\u2019s another sound I can\u2019t identify. It sounds as though something had fallen down, something heavy but soft.
\nI\u2019ve never met Mrs. de Groot; I only know her name from the doorbell. Even so, I have a feeling I know her better than anyone else in the world. I\u2019ve heard her radio and her vacuum and the dinnerware, so loud it\u2019s as though someone was washing up in my kitchen. I\u2019ve heard her get up at night and shuffle around, heard her run a bath, flush the toilet, open a window. Sometimes water dripped onto my sugar daddy first date<\/a> balcony when she watered her flowers, but when I leaned out and looked up, I couldn\u2019t see anyone there. I don\u2019t think she\u2019s ever left her apartment. I liked the sounds. They gave me the sense of living with a sort of ghost, a benign presence watching over me. Then a couple of weeks ago, everything went quiet. I\u2019ve heard nothing since. And now the creaking again.
\nMy first thought is: it\u2019s a break-in. While I\u2019m undressing and going to the bathroom, I wonder whether I should call the police or the super. I\u2019m in my nightgown when I decide to go up there myself. I\u2019m surprisingly fearless. But then I\u2019m not really afraid of anything ever. You\u2019ve got to learn that, as a single woman. I pull on my robe and slip into some shoes. It\u2019s 11:00 p.m.
\nI have to ring twice, and then I can see the light come on through the peephole and a young man, much younger than me, opens the door and says in a very friendly voice: Good evening. I\u2019m thinking it was a mistake to go upstairs, and why do I always have to get involved in other people\u2019s affairs, instead of looking after my own? But then you keep reading about people dying, and their bodies left to rot in their apartments for weeks without anyone noticing. The boy is wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt with \u201cIron Maiden\u201d on it, which I think is the name of a rock band. He isn\u2019t wearing any shoes, and his socks are holey.
\nI imagine him grabbing me and throwing me down on the floor. Then he sits on my belly and holds my arms in a painful grip while he jams something in my mouth to keep me from screaming.
\nI tell him I live downstairs, and that I heard footsteps. And because Mrs. de Groot has clearly moved out, I thought it might be a break-in. The boy laughs and says it\u2019s brave of me to come up and look all by myself. If it were him, he\u2019d have called the police. What made me think a woman lived there? He has a point. All it says on the bell is \u201cP. de Groot.\u201d For some reason I was convinced that it had to be a woman, Manila sugar dating<\/a> an elderly woman living by herself. I tell him I\u2019ve never seen anyone, just heard the noises. He asks if women sound any different than men. At first, I think he\u2019s making fun of me, but then he seems to mean it as a serious question. I don\u2019t know, I say. He looks at me with this rather boyish look, a mixture of timid and curious. I apologize, and say I\u2019ve just gotten out of bed. I have no idea why I\u2019m lying. He has this way of making me say things I don\u2019t want to say from the very first moment. We look at each other in silence, and I think I ought to be going. Then he asks if I\u2019d like a coffee with him. I say yes right away, even though I never drink coffee at night, and I\u2019m in my robe. I follow him inside. When he locks the door, it occurs to me in a flash that he might be a burglar after all, and has asked me in to silence me. He is quite pale and slim, but he\u2019s about a head taller than me, and has muscly arms. I imagine him grabbing me and throwing me down on the floor. Then he sits on my belly and holds my arms in a painful grip while he jams something in my mouth to keep me from screaming. But instead, he goes to the kitchen, fills a pan with water, and turns on the stove. Then he flings open, it seems, every one of the kitchen cupboards. Coffee pot, coffee, filters, he mutters to himself as if it was a spell he\u2019d learned by heart\u2014sugar, sweetener, milk. When he can\u2019t find the coffee, I suggest getting some from my place. No, he says, so firmly that it makes me jump. He thinks for a moment.
\n\u2014 We could always have tea instead.
\nThe apartment looks exactly the way I imagined it would as an old woman\u2019s apartment. A TV magazine on the coffee table, knitting on the sofa, crocheted rugs and coasters, various knickknacks and
\npasse-partouts
\nwith pictures of ugly looking people in old-fashioned clothes. We sit down, me on the sofa and him on a great big armchair. On the armrest is a little box with a couple of buttons. He presses one of them, and a footrest slowly comes up from the bottom of the chair. With a switch, he tilts back and then forward again. For a while he\u2019s busy pressing the buttons, like a kid showing off a new toy. We haven\u2019t introduced ourselves, he suddenly says, and he jumps up and thrusts out his hand. I\u2019m Daphne, I say, and he laughs again, and says, I see. Oh. Patrick. Funny we\u2019ve never met before. The whole time he\u2019s holding my hand in his. He asks me if I live alone. He asks about my life, my job, my family. He asks me so many questions, I don\u2019t get a chance to ask him anything back. I\u2019m not used to people being interested in me. I expect I tell him way too much. I talk about my childhood and my little brother who died four years ago in a motorcycle accident, and my parents and my job in the kindergarten. It\u2019s not exactly thrilling, but he listens carefully. He has shining eyes, like the children when I tell them a story.
\nWe finish the tea, and Patrick gets up and opens a sideboard. He finds a dusty bottle of Grand Marnier that\u2019s almost full. He sets a couple of small glasses on the table, fills them, and raises one.
\n\u2014 Here\u2019s to unexpected visitors.
\nI empty my glass, even though I don\u2019t really like liqueur. He makes a face when he drinks as well, as though he\u2019s not used to it. I had company earlier, I say, a couple of colleagues from work and their husbands. We always get together on the first Friday of the month. I don\u2019t know why I\u2019m telling him this. There\u2019s nothing more to say about it. He says January is his favorite month. His birthday is in January, in a couple of weeks\u2019 time. He likes the cold.
\n\u2014 Which is your favorite month?
\n\u2014 I\u2019ve never thought about it. I know I hate November.
\nHe has a favorite month, a favorite season, a favorite flower, a favorite animal, a favorite novel, and so on. That\u2019s all he has to say for himself. I think he has nothing else. He\u2019s just like my kids at kindergarten. When I ask them what they did on their vacation, they say: played. He really is like a child, cheerful and helpless and sometimes a bit shy. He seems to be perpetually surprised. And he laughs a lot. He asks me if I like children. Sure, I reply, it\u2019s my job.
\n\u2014 That doesn\u2019t have to mean anything. You can be a sugar dating photo verification<\/a> butcher and still love animals.
\n\u2014 But I do like them. That\u2019s why I work in a kindergarten.
\nHe looks alarmed and apologizes, as though he\u2019s said something terrible. high quality sugar dating members<\/a> He pours us another. None for me, I say, but then I drink it anyway.
\n\u2014 I guess I shouldn\u2019t be so nosy.
\n\u2014 No, I guess you shouldn\u2019t.
\nI\u2019m quite drunk at this point. I\u2019m thinking he could do anything to me, and then straightaway I\u2019m ashamed of the thought. He\u2019s so young I could be his mother. I\u2019d like to run my hand through his hair, press myself against him, and protect him in some way.
\nI must sound just like an old kindergarten biddy, but the fact is I\u2019m already hooked on his curiosity, his questioning look that gives significance to the most banal things. Sometimes he doesn\u2019t say anything for a long time, and just looks at me and smiles. When he asks me if I have a boyfriend, I get cross. I\u2019ve heard the question too many times. Anyway, it\u2019s none of his business. Just because I don\u2019t live with a man doesn\u2019t mean\u2026 He looks at me with big, staring eyes. I don\u2019t know what to say, and my uncertainty makes me even angrier.
\n\u2014 Now you\u2019re angry with me.
\n\u2014 No I\u2019m not.
\nAnd so it goes on. We drink and talk about everything under the sun and about me, only not about him. I find him provocative, but I don\u2019t think he means to be. He\u2019s staring at my legs until I see that my robe has fallen open, and he can see my thighs. I must get my legs waxed again. But who really cares. I pull the robe together, and Patrick stares at me as if I\u2019d caught him doing something forbidden. I\u2019m quite drunk at this point. I\u2019m thinking he could do anything to me, and then straightaway I\u2019m ashamed of the thought. He\u2019s so young I could be his mother. sugar dating account verification<\/a> I\u2019d like to run my hand through his hair, press myself against him, and protect him in some way. I want him to hug me the way the kids do, I want him to lay his head in my lap and go to sleep in my arms. He yawns, and I look at my watch. It\u2019s 3:00 a.m.
\n\u2014 I really better go.
\n\u2014 It\u2019s Saturday tomorrow.
\n\u2014 Even so.
\nThen he sits beside me on the sofa. He asks if he can give me a goodnight kiss, and before I can say anything, he\u2019s taken my hand and kissed it. I\u2019m so astonished, I pull it away. He jumps up and crosses to the window, as if he were afraid I was going to punish him.
\n\u2014 I\u2019m sorry.
\n\u2014 You don\u2019t have to be.
\nThen he says something peculiar. I respect you, he says. After that neither of us says anything for a long time. Finally he says, look, it\u2019s raining. Now the snow\u2019s going to melt. I say I don\u2019t like snow, and all at once I\u2019m not sure if I mean that or not. I don\u2019t like snow because the kids come bundled up in lots of clothes, so it takes you half an hour to get them changed, and they dirty the place with their shoes. But when I was a kid, I used to love snow. There were lots of things I used to love then. It feels to me like I\u2019ve spent the whole evening moaning and griping. He talked about things he liked; I talked about things I didn\u2019t like. He must think I\u2019m a negative person, an embittered old maid. Maybe that is what I am. At least in the city, I say. I don\u2019t like it because they go and grit the streets, and then everything\u2026 I picture us going for a sleigh ride. Patrick\u2019s sitting behind me, and his inner thighs are pressing against me, making me warm. He\u2019s snuggled his face into my hair, and I can feel his breath on my neck. He whispers in my ear. Completely out of the blue, he says what a wonderful woman I am, and he\u2019s so happy he\u2019s met me. Well, I certainly didn\u2019t see that coming.
\n\u2014 Can I see you tomorrow?
\n\u2014 I always visit my parents on Saturday.
\nI say he can come to supper on Sunday if he\u2019d like that. It doesn\u2019t matter to me whether I cook for one or two. I like cooking, I manage to add. There\u2019s something at least that I like to do. When we say goodnight, he kisses my hand again.
\nI can\u2019t sleep. I listen to him walking around upstairs and washing up and going to the bathroom. He is kind and attentive and terribly polite, but he\u2019s a little bit scary too when he smiles. It\u2019s too bad we always distrust people when they\u2019re nice.
\nIn the morning I wake up with a splitting headache and a bitter taste in my mouth. Over breakfast I\u2019ve already started looking through my cookbooks for ideas. I said I would make something really simple, but now I feel like impressing him. There\u2019s not much in the way of interesting vegetables in the stores this time of year. Most of them have come a long way and don\u2019t taste of much. Green beans from Kenya, I mean come on. I\u2019d rather buy frozen. That night I get in a stupid argument with my father.
\nOn Sunday, I spend the whole afternoon in the kitchen, preparing dinner. I can\u2019t hear anything upstairs. Maybe Patrick\u2019s gone out. But punctually at 6:00 p.m. the bell rings. He\u2019s bought me an enormous bunch of flowers, and he kisses my hand again. I hope that\u2019s not his thing he does with everyone. I don\u2019t own a vase big enough, and I have to put the flowers in a plastic bucket in the bathtub to start off with. I don\u2019t get flowers often\u2014never, really\u2014and I don\u2019t buy them myself either. Lots of them are supplied from the Third World, and the men who pick them get sterile because of the spray they put on them. Now I\u2019m being negative again, instead of thanking him for the lovely flowers.
\nOver dinner, he keeps on telling me how delicious everything is, until I can\u2019t stand to hear him say it anymore. Although, it has to be said, dinner is good. Cooking is one thing I can do. You can cook, too, he says. I must be perfect. I almost laugh in his face. I can\u2019t bring myself to take his compliments seriously. It always sounds as though he\u2019s parroting something he heard some grown-ups say. I really do seem to impress him; I can\u2019t imagine why. Each time I open my mouth to speak, he stops eating and stares at me with big round eyes. And it seems he remembers everything I say to him. Already he knows so much about me, and I don\u2019t know the first thing about him.
\nWhen we\u2019re sitting on the sofa later, he clumsily knocks over his glass. I almost give him a smack, the way I do with the little ones when they do something naughty.
\nWhen we\u2019re sitting on the sofa later, he clumsily knocks over his glass. I almost give him a smack, the way I do with the little ones when they do something naughty. Luckily, I manage to restrain myself at the last moment. I go to the kitchen for salt and mineral water. I picture laying Patrick over my knee, pulling his pants down, and smacking his naughty bottom.
\nOf course I can\u2019t remove the stain. I\u2019ll never get rid of it. What a stupid idea anyway, buying a white sofa. But I liked it, I like my white sofa. I bought it after my brother died, and somehow it has something to do with him. Patrick is standing next to me vaguely, watching me scrub away at the stain. He apologizes profusely and says he\u2019ll buy me a new sofa cover. But I\u2019m still annoyed and shortly after I say I need to go to bed, tomorrow is Monday. He gets up. In the doorway he shoots me a tragic glance, and apologizes one more time. Never mind, I say, what\u2019s done is done. We don\u2019t arrange to meet. He doesn\u2019t say anything, and I\u2019m still a bit pissed at him.
\nI wonder if he can hear me as clearly as I can hear him. When I\u2019m taking a shower, I suddenly feel naked. When I go to the toilet, I lock the door and sometimes don\u2019t flush, so that he doesn\u2019t hear. I need to drink plenty of water for my kidneys; I seem to spend half my life peeing. In fact I\u2019m only just starting to realize how much noise I make. That I keep my street shoes on in the apartment, turn up the radio when vacuuming, and sometimes scold or sing to myself. I\u2019d better stop all that right away. I buy a pair of soft-soled slippers. When I drop a glass and it shatters, I listen for minutes for some sound from upstairs. But nothing\u2014silence.
\nI can\u2019t stand it that he\u2019s so near, doing god knows what, and listening to me. I start to go out a lot. Then I sit in a cafe or go for a walk, even though it\u2019s gotten cold again and I need to be careful not to catch something. Last year I had a bladder infection that simply refused to go away. I had to take antibiotics, and was off work for days. Afterward, Janneke and Karin made snide remarks. A bladder infection. To them, that could mean only one thing.
\nThree days later, Patrick rings the bell, right after I\u2019ve gotten home from work. He must have been waiting for me. He\u2019s got a new sofa cover, and a gift-wrapped box. He helps me cover the sofa. Our hands touch. Inside the box is a fish kettle. Just because that time I made dinner, I said I wished I owned a fish kettle. Now he goes and buys me one. They\u2019re not cheap.
\n\u2014 You\u2019re sugar daddy support Philippines<\/a> crazy. You didn\u2019t have to do that.
\n\u2014 Because of the trouble I put you to.
\nHe smiles. We kiss for the first time. It just happens, I couldn\u2019t say who started it. There\u2019s something greedy about his kisses, he drapes his lips over mine, and shuts them and opens them and shuts them as though to gobble me up. The whole time he holds me firmly in his arms, and I feel how strong he is. I can hardly move. When I tell him he\u2019s crushing me, he lets go right away and apologizes. He does like an apology. He seems embarrassed about having kissed me. I imagine him undressing me and sleeping with me on the newly slip-covered sofa. Sperm stains are tricky, by the way. Why do I keep thinking of all this nonsense? He\u2019s just looking at me.
\nNow he\u2019s upstairs again. I keep having to think of him though. I don\u2019t know anything about him, not if the things in the apartment are his, not if he lives there, or is only staying for a while. I don\u2019t know his middle initial, or his age, or what his job is. He seems not to be short of money for generous presents. I imagine what Janneke and Karin would say if they saw us together: Oh, she\u2019s lost it now. Or: She\u2019s beyond good and evil anyway. Or: She must be paying him, he\u2019s exploiting her. And all the time I feel: I\u2019m exploiting him.
\nFrom now on we see each other every two or three days. Sometimes he comes down, sometimes I go up to him. We always know when the other is home. Sometimes we talk on the phone for hours. Then after a while I\u2019m not sure if I\u2019m hearing his voice through the phone or through the ceiling.
\nHe needs time, I think. But I don\u2019t have the time. Of course I don\u2019t say so. I\u2019ve gotten to be careful about what I say and don\u2019t say. I keep an eye on him. I listen.
\nWhen we eat dinner together, we drink a lot, but he doesn\u2019t seem to get drunk. We chat like old friends. We only kiss goodbye. It\u2019s almost become a habit. I started the French kissing. I started stroking him. Then he does too, but only with his fingertips, my hips and the small of my back where I feel pain sometimes. When I put his hand on my breast, he leaves it there for a moment inertly and then takes it off again. He needs time, I think. But I don\u2019t have the time. Of course I don\u2019t say so. I\u2019ve gotten to be careful about what I say and don\u2019t say. I keep an eye on him. I listen.
\nSome nights he doesn\u2019t come home. I don\u2019t sleep on those nights, and stay sugar arrangement terms<\/a> up and listen and in the morning I\u2019m dog-tired. I hate myself for it, but I can\u2019t help it. The next time we see each other, he tells me straight out where he was, with his parents or some friends or other that he hasn\u2019t mentioned to me before. He must sense my distrust.
\nAt work, Janneke asks me how I\u2019m doing, and whether I\u2019m sick again. She says I\u2019m looking tired. I\u2019m not sleeping properly, that\u2019s all I say. I\u2019ve lost weight. What can I do if I don\u2019t have any appetite? Janneke says she wants to leave Stefan; that was one of her New Year\u2019s resolutions she hadn\u2019t yet told him about. We talk about her problems. Everyone comes to cry on my shoulder, but when I give them good advice, they don\u2019t take it, they just say things aren\u2019t that simple. Karin is in a bad mood, she doesn\u2019t know why. She\u2019s unbearable sometimes, even with the kids. Until one of them starts to cry. Then she cries too.
\nPatrick says he really likes me, and I\u2019m much too good for him. Then he kisses me again, but he keeps me at a distance. I\u2019ve already asked myself whether perhaps physically there isn\u2019t something wrong with him. He looks fit enough, but that can be deceptive. There are more men all the time who can\u2019t get it up, or who can\u2019t be bothered sugar daddy site comparison Philippines<\/a> with sex. The quality of sperm is falling off a cliff. That\u2019s to do with female hormones that leach into the groundwater.
\nI\u2019ve set myself a deadline. If he hasn\u2019t decided by the end of the month, then I\u2019m putting an end to it. But now what do I mean by decided? I\u2019m not exactly sure what I\u2019m expecting from him. That he rips my clothes off and jumps me on the sofa? Certainly not. But that he opens himself to me. Entrusts himself. It\u2019s a matter of a few words.
\nWhen I get home the next day, I can hear \u201cHello\u201d by Lionel Ritchie booming down from the top floor, much louder than the music he usually plays. It was a CD I played for Patrick once. He must have bought himself a copy. He\u2019s been waiting for me to come home, and this is his way of welcoming me. I\u2019m expecting him to call, or come downstairs. I hear him leave his apartment. But he keeps going, and shortly after, the street door falls shut. It\u2019s after midnight when he gets back. I hear his footfall, the slow steps, the creaking of the floorboards. For a second, I think he\u2019s not alone, but that can\u2019t be. Then sugar dating search filters<\/a> silence. Silence is the worst. I can\u2019t sleep. I haven\u2019t slept for days. I have the most ridiculous imaginings, horrible things that I feel ashamed to entertain.
\nOn his birthday, he makes me dinner. He\u2019s gone to unbelievable trouble\u2014he\u2019s even decorated the table with chocolate ladybirds. I manage to get a stain on my blouse, and take it off to wash it out properly. Patrick has followed me into the kitchen, we\u2019re talking, he\u2019s looking at me. But he acts as though there\u2019s nothing the matter. I could strip naked in front of sugar dating bank transfer scam<\/a> him, he wouldn\u2019t even notice. That can\u2019t be normal. I wonder what his game is. I go downstairs and put on a clean blouse. While I\u2019m downstairs, I hear him go to the toilet, and flush twice. Ideally, I wouldn\u2019t go back upstairs. We\u2019re in closer touch when we\u2019re apart, when we only hear each other.
\nWe drank a lot of wine with dinner, a whole bottle. When we kissed goodbye, he suddenly started whispering it\u2019s not fair, and he stopped. Now I\u2019m lying in my bed, and I can\u2019t sleep. He\u2019s directly above me, just a few yards away. I spread my legs and imagine him on top of me, doing it to me. He\u2019s pinning my arms, the way he does when he kisses me. He\u2019s grabbing my hair, pulling it, slapping my face. I throw my legs around him. He\u2019s kissing me hungrily. We\u2019re sweating. There\u2019s silence, all I can hear is him breathing, his breath in my loosened hair. I stretch out my arms to him. Come, I whisper to him, come! Come! He\u2019s so close, I can almost feel him.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I think it\u2019s funny the way I can pick out a sound, even when there\u2019s a lot of noise and it\u2019s not a big sound, just because I\u2019m waiting to hear it. I bet the others haven\u2019t heard it. They … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=4"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10,"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4\/revisions\/10"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=4"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=4"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/philisugarblog.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=4"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}