{"id":1267,"date":"2026-05-23T19:59:24","date_gmt":"2026-05-23T19:59:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/risingstoryusa.com\/?p=1267"},"modified":"2026-05-23T19:59:25","modified_gmt":"2026-05-23T19:59:25","slug":"at-christmas-dinner-my-mom-screamed-at-my-wheelchair-bound-grandpa-youre-useless-get-out-dad-hit-me-for-defending-him-and-threw-us-into-the-cold-minutes-later-g","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/risingstoryusa.com\/?p=1267","title":{"rendered":"At Christmas dinner, my mom screamed at my wheelchair-bound grandpa, \u201cYou\u2019re useless\u2014get out!\u201d Dad hit me for defending him and threw us into the cold. Minutes later, Grandpa stood up and said\u2026 they begged on their knees."},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Christmas has always been a season of ghosts for the Derell<\/strong> family, but that year, the shadows didn\u2019t just haunt the halls; they took up seats at the table. My name is Rowan Derell<\/strong>, and this is the chronicle of how my family tried to bury their foundation while it was still breathing\u2014and how the man they deemed a relic orchestrated their spectacular downfall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The snow had been descending since the stroke of noon, the kind of heavy, silent flakes that draped the world in an deceptive velvet. From the towering, triple-paned windows of the Derell Estate<\/strong>, the landscape looked like a postcard of tranquility. Inside, however, the air was thick with the suffocating scent of expensive pine and the metallic tang of unspoken hatred.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The dining hall was a cathedral of gold, silver, and glass. My mother, Lorraine<\/strong>, called it \u201ctradition,\u201d though I\u2019d spent twenty-eight years wondering whose tradition it actually was. Every silver fork was aligned with surgical precision; every damask napkin was folded into a crisp, arrogant peak. My father, Gavin<\/strong>, sat at the head of the table, his posture as rigid as the iron fist with which he ruled the family business. He wore a navy suit tailored so sharply it seemed capable of drawing blood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the far end, positioned near the window as if he were merely a piece of outdated furniture, sat my grandfather, Ephraim<\/strong>. The man who had carved a vineyard out of the Colorado dirt, the man who had built the fortune that fueled every decadent glass of champagne in the room, was now confined to a wheelchair that looked far too small for his lingering pride.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No one looked at him. To the rest of the family, Ephraim<\/strong> was already a ghost\u2014a decaying obstacle to the full control Gavin<\/strong> and Lorraine<\/strong> so desperately craved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTo family,\u201d my mother chirped, her voice slicing through the heavy silence like a razor. She raised her crystal flute, her diamonds catching the firelight. \u201cTo a legacy that continues to ascend.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The table echoed the sentiment, the clink of glass sounding like the locking of a cage. But Ephraim\u2019s<\/strong> hands were failing him. As he reached for his wine, his fingers\u2014gnarled by decades of honest labor\u2014betrayed him. The glass tipped, sending a river of dark crimson across the pristine white tablecloth. It looked like a fresh wound.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re useless,\u201d my mother hissed, her social mask slipping to reveal the venom beneath. \u201cAbsolutely useless. You can\u2019t even hold a glass anymore without making a mess of my house.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The words were more violent than any physical blow. Ephraim\u2019s<\/strong> shoulders slumped, his eyes fixed on the red stain as if he were watching his own life bleed out. My sister, Clara<\/strong>, looked at her plate. The guests, curated for their influence rather than their intimacy, pretended the air hadn\u2019t just turned to ice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I felt a roar begin in the pit of my stomach. \u201cDon\u2019t talk to him like that,\u201d I said, my voice low but vibrating with a decade of suppressed rage.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The table went dead. My father\u2019s gaze shifted to me, his eyes two chips of frozen flint. \u201cYou will not embarrass your mother in this home, Rowan,\u201d he warned, his voice a steady, terrifying rumble.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis isn\u2019t her home, Dad,\u201d I replied, standing so abruptly my chair shrieked against the marble. \u201cIt\u2019s his. Everything you\u2019re wearing, everything you\u2019re eating\u2014it belongs to the man you\u2019re treating like garbage.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gavin\u2019s fist slammed onto the table, the force of it rattling the china. He rose, looming over me like a thundercloud. \u201cYou think you\u2019ve grown a spine, boy? Then use it to walk out. Take that useless old man and get out of my sight. Neither of you belongs here anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t hesitate. I walked to the end of the table and placed my hands on the cold metal handles of Ephraim\u2019s<\/strong> chair. I could feel him trembling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTake him and leave,\u201d my mother spat, her face contorted. \u201cThrow the trash out where it belongs.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I wheeled my grandfather toward the grand oak doors, the laughter behind us resumed\u2014hollow, jagged, and terrifyingly fast. They were already erasing us. But as the heavy doors slammed shut, sealing us out in the biting Colorado frost, I felt the first tick of a clock they didn\u2019t know was running.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked down at Ephraim, expecting tears. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver watch, its surface worn smooth by time. \u201cThe clock doesn\u2019t lie, Rowan,\u201d he whispered, his voice suddenly sharp. \u201cAnd their time just ran out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

The drive to the old vineyard house was a descent into a world my parents had long forgotten. The heater in my old truck groaned against the sub-zero temperatures, and the wind howled through the skeletal vines like a chorus of the damned.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The vineyard house was small, built of rugged stone and ancient oak, standing in defiant contrast to the glass-and-steel monstrosity on the hill. It smelled of dried herbs, earth, and the honest labor of a century. We sat in the kitchen, the only light coming from a single flickering candle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou shouldn\u2019t have done it, Rowan,\u201d Ephraim<\/strong> said, sipping tea I\u2019d brewed with shaking hands. \u201cThey\u2019ll destroy you now. They have the money, the lawyers, the name.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey have a stolen name,\u201d I countered, my jaw still throbbing from the blow my father had landed just before we left the estate. He had struck me across the face in the foyer\u2014a final, primal mark of his \u201cpresidential\u201d authority.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ephraim looked at me, and for a moment, the frailty vanished. His eyes were like polished agates. \u201cTomorrow, we go to the cellar. There is a truth there that even the devil would shiver to see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t sleep. I sat on the old corduroy sofa, listening to the house breathe, watching the silver pocket watch tick away the seconds. In the quiet, I realized that my family hadn\u2019t just been distant; they had been predatory. For years, I had been the \u201csoft\u201d one, the son who cared more about the soil than the stocks. I was the heir they tolerated only because they hadn\u2019t figured out how to legally incinerate me yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next morning, the sun broke over the snow in a blinding, cruel white. Ephraim<\/strong> led me\u2014or rather, directed me as I carried him\u2014down the narrow, creaking stairs into the heart of the vineyard\u2019s cellar. It was a labyrinth of oak casks and dust, the temperature hovering just above freezing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the very back, behind a rack of vintage 1974 Cabernet<\/strong>, was an ironbound chest. Ephraim<\/strong> produced a brass key from around his neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey think I\u2019m senile,\u201d he muttered as the lock clicked. \u201cThey think they simplified the estate with their \u2018routine\u2019 paperwork. Gavin and Lorraine\u2026 they didn\u2019t just want the money. They wanted the history.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pulled out a folder, its edges yellowed and curled. Inside was the original will of the Derell Trust<\/strong>. My name was scrawled in black ink as the sole beneficiary of the vineyard and the primary estate. But beneath it was a second document\u2014a \u201ccodicil\u201d dated three years ago. It effectively stripped me of everything, transferring all assets to Gavin<\/strong> and Lorraine<\/strong> in the event of Ephraim\u2019s<\/strong> \u201cincapacity.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t sign this,\u201d Ephraim<\/strong> said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. \u201cNot willingly. They told me it was a tax form. They drugged my tea, Rowan. They sat me at my desk when I couldn\u2019t even see the lines, and they guided my hand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The air in the cellar seemed to vanish. My own parents hadn\u2019t just been cruel; they were criminals. They had committed the ultimate fraud against their own blood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut they made one mistake,\u201d Ephraim<\/strong> continued, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. \u201cThey forgot that I kept the recordings. I may be in a chair, but I built the security system in that mansion long before Gavin<\/strong> knew how to wire a lightbulb.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He handed me a small USB drive, its metal casing cold as ice. \u201cThe clock doesn\u2019t lie, Rowan. But men do. It\u2019s time we let the clock speak.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I gripped the drive, the weight of the war we were about to start settled in my chest. I knew Gavin would fight back with every resource he had. But I didn\u2019t know that by nightfall, I\u2019d be facing a firing squad of police lights in my own driveway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

The retaliation was swifter than a mountain lion\u2019s pounce. By Monday morning, the world had turned upside down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was at the old kitchen table, the USB drive plugged into my laptop, watching footage that made my blood curdle. There was Lorraine<\/strong>, laughing as she practiced my grandfather\u2019s signature. There was Gavin<\/strong>, talking to a lawyer about \u201cspeeding up the process\u201d of Ephraim\u2019s<\/strong> decline.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then came the sirens.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked out the window to see three patrol cars and an unmarked sedan screaming up the vineyard\u2019s gravel path. Reporters followed closely behind like vultures scenting a kill. I was arrested on my own porch, the cold metal of the handcuffs biting into my wrists.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRowan Derell<\/strong>,\u201d the officer barked, \u201cyou\u2019re under investigation for financial fraud and elder abuse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The headlines were instantaneous and devastating. Greedy Grandson Exploits Ailing Patriarch. Derell Heir Arrested in Hostile Takeover Attempt. Gavin<\/strong> had played his hand perfectly. He had used his influence with the local press to rewrite the narrative. To the world, I was the villain who had kidnapped a senile old man to force him to sign a new will.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I spent twelve hours in a gray interrogation room, the fluorescent lights buzzing like hornets. My father\u2019s lawyer, Malcolm Keane<\/strong>, a man with a smile like a shark, visited me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGive it up, Rowan,\u201d Keane whispered, leaning over the table. \u201cSign the confession. We\u2019ll make sure the charges are light. You\u2019ll spend a few years in a minimum-security facility, and when you get out, your parents might even give you a small allowance. But if you fight? We will bury you so deep you\u2019ll forget what the sun looks like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked at him, the ticking of Ephraim\u2019s<\/strong> watch in my pocket the only thing keeping me grounded. \u201cTell my father that the truth is a patient hunter. And I\u2019m not the one who\u2019s cornered.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When they finally released me on bail\u2014paid for by a secret account Ephraim<\/strong> had kept hidden for forty years\u2014I returned to the vineyard house to find it ransacked. They had searched for the documents. They had searched for the truth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But they had missed the USB. Ephraim<\/strong> had hidden it in the one place my mother would never look: inside a dusty jar of preserved peaches in the back of the pantry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey think they\u2019ve won,\u201d Ephraim<\/strong> said as I helped him clean up the shattered glass in the living room. \u201cThey\u2019ve turned the city against you. They\u2019ve suspended your law license. They\u2019ve taken your name.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet them,\u201d I said, a cold, hard resolve settling in my bones. \u201cA lie has to run fast, Grandpa. The truth just has to arrive on time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We spent the night in the shadows, encrypting the files, sending copies to the Board of Trustees<\/strong> and a whistle-blower at the Colorado Bar Association<\/strong>. But I knew we needed a stage. I needed to let them think they were winning until the very second the floor dropped out from under them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The opportunity came sooner than expected. Gavin announced a \u201cLegacy Gala\u201d for the following evening\u2014a public celebration of the company\u2019s transition to his sole leadership. It was to be held at the cathedral, a place of sanctuary turned into a theater for a liar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

The Cathedral of Saint Jude<\/strong> was packed. Every influential name in the state was there, draped in furs and diamonds, sipping champagne while a string quartet played somber, elegant hymns. It was supposed to be a gala, but with the way Gavin<\/strong> was acting, it felt like a coronation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stood in the shadows of the narthex, my breath hitching in my chest. I wore a suit I\u2019d bought with the last of my cash, my face still bruised, my hands steady only by sheer force of will. Ephraim<\/strong> was beside me, draped in a heavy wool blanket, his wheelchair tucked into an alcove.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReady?\u201d I whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been ready for ten years, Rowan,\u201d he replied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The lights dimmed, and the family lawyer, Malcolm Keane<\/strong>, stepped to the podium. Behind him, a massive screen displayed a montage of Gavin\u2019s<\/strong> \u201cachievements.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe are here to celebrate a man of vision,\u201d Keane proclaimed. \u201cA man who has carried the Derell<\/strong> legacy through the storm of his father\u2019s tragic decline and his son\u2019s unfortunate\u2026 betrayals.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The crowd murmured, eyes darting around as if looking for me. Then, Gavin<\/strong> stepped into the spotlight. He looked magnificent. He looked invincible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy father, Ephraim, taught me that legacy is built on strength,\u201d Gavin<\/strong> began, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. \u201cAnd sometimes, strength means making the hard choices. It means protecting what we built from those who would exploit it for their own greed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He paused, a practiced look of sorrow crossing his face. \u201cRowan is my son. I love him. But I cannot allow his instability to destroy what three generations have created.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was the perfect performance. The audience was enthralled. Lorraine<\/strong> sat in the front row, dabbing at her dry eyes with a lace handkerchief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBefore we conclude,\u201d Gavin<\/strong> said, \u201cI have a final message for my father, who is unfortunately too unwell to be with us tonight. A message of the future.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He signaled the technician to play a pre-recorded video. But the screen didn\u2019t show the polished PR clip Gavin<\/strong> had prepared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instead, the cathedral was filled with the grainy, high-definition footage from the mansion\u2019s study.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The room went silent\u2014a silence so profound it felt like the world had stopped spinning. There, on the forty-foot screen, was Gavin<\/strong>, leaning over a slumped, semi-conscious Ephraim<\/strong>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust sign it, old man,\u201d Gavin\u2019s voice boomed through the cathedral\u2019s state-of-the-art sound system. \u201cYou\u2019re finished. No one cares about your vineyard. No one cares about your \u2018honesty.\u2019 By the time Rowan figures out he\u2019s broke, I\u2019ll have already sold the valley to the developers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then came Lorraine\u2019s<\/strong> voice, sharp and mocking: \u201cDon\u2019t worry, Ephraim. We\u2019ll find you a very nice home. One with very thick walls so we don\u2019t have to hear you complaining about the \u2018roots\u2019 anymore.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The video showed Gavin<\/strong> guiding Ephraim\u2019s<\/strong> limp hand across the document, a look of pure, predatory triumph on his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cathedral erupted. Gasps, shouts, the sound of crystal glasses shattering on the stone floor. Gavin<\/strong> turned to the screen, his face draining of color until he looked like a corpse. Lorraine<\/strong> stood, her purse falling to the ground, her mouth hanging open in a silent scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I stepped out from the shadows and into the center aisle.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe clock doesn\u2019t lie, Dad,\u201d I shouted, my voice cutting through the chaos. \u201cBut the dead roots are a lot stronger than you thought.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Gavin looked at me, and for the first time in my life, I saw true terror in his eyes. He tried to speak, but the words died in his throat as the doors at the back of the cathedral swung open, revealing the District Attorney and a phalanx of uniformed officers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n\n\n\n

The aftermath was a whirlwind of fire and ice. Gavin<\/strong> and Lorraine<\/strong> were arrested on the altar of the cathedral, the irony of the setting lost on no one. The \u201cLegacy Gala\u201d ended with the \u201cpillars of the community\u201d being led away in zip-ties, their furs dragged across the wet pavement.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The legal battle that followed was brief. With the video evidence, the forged will was voided within forty-eight hours. The Board of Trustees<\/strong>, terrified of being implicated in the scandal, moved to reinstate Ephraim<\/strong> as the Chairman Emeritus and appointed me as the sole managing partner of the estate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But the victory felt hollow. I sat in the grand study of the mansion a week later, the gold-leafed walls feeling more like a tomb than a home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Clara<\/strong> visited me that afternoon. She looked like she hadn\u2019t slept in days. \u201cThey\u2019re going to prison, Rowan. Dad\u2026 he\u2019s not handling it well. He\u2019s blaming everyone. He\u2019s even blaming you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t do this, Clara,\u201d I said, looking out at the vineyard. \u201cThey did. They built their kingdom on a foundation of lies and expected the earth not to shift.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe left a message for you,\u201d she said, handing me a small, crumpled envelope. \u201cThe lawyer found it in the vault. He wrote it right after the gala, before they took him to the holding cell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I waited until she left to open it. The handwriting was jagged, desperate.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rowan, I spent my life trying to prove I wasn\u2019t the \u2018weak\u2019 man your grandfather was. I thought kindness was a flaw in the bloodline. But standing on that stage, watching you\u2026 I realized that you\u2019re the only one who actually inherited his strength. I hope the vineyard burns. I hope you choke on the legacy you fought so hard for. You were never my son. You were just his shadow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t burn the letter. I folded it and put it in the ironbound chest in the cellar. I wanted to remember that a man could be so consumed by pride that he would choose to hate his son rather than admit he was wrong.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ephraim<\/strong> moved back into the mansion, but he chose to stay in the small servant\u2019s quarters on the first floor. \u201cThe big rooms are for the ghosts,\u201d he told me. \u201cI like to be close to the kitchen. I like to hear the house breathe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We spent the spring in the vineyard. We pruned back the dead wood, the vines bleeding clear sap\u2014the \u201ctears of the vine\u201d\u2014before the first green shoots appeared. The scandal eventually faded from the front pages, replaced by a new narrative: The Second Harvest of Rowan Derell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But there was one final secret. On the anniversary of the Christmas exile, I found Ephraim<\/strong> sitting on the porch, staring at the silver watch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know, Rowan,\u201d he said, the wind ruffling his white hair. \u201cGavin was right about one thing. Legacy is built on strength. But he didn\u2019t realize that the strongest thing in the world isn\u2019t a fist. It\u2019s the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He handed me the watch. I noticed for the first time that there was a hidden compartment in the back. I flicked it open with my thumbnail. Inside was a tiny photograph of a woman I didn\u2019t recognize\u2014a young, vibrant woman with my eyes and Ephraim\u2019s<\/strong> smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWho is she?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour grandmother,\u201d he whispered. \u201cThe woman who told me that if you plant a lie, you\u2019ll harvest a storm. I kept her close all those years Gavin<\/strong> was trying to bury me. She was the clock, Rowan. She was the one who kept the time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked up at the mansion on the hill. It didn\u2019t look like a golden cage anymore. It just looked like a house. A house that finally belonged to the people who knew the value of the dirt beneath it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u2014\u2014\u2014<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

It has been five years since the night the Derells<\/strong> fell. Gavin<\/strong> died in prison three months ago; his heart simply stopped, as if it had finally run out of reasons to beat. Lorraine<\/strong> lives in a small apartment in Florida, her diamonds sold to pay for the legal fees she still owes. I haven\u2019t spoken to her since the day of the sentencing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve transformed the Derell Foundation<\/strong>. We don\u2019t fund ice sculptures and gala dinners anymore. We fund agricultural scholarships and legal aid for the elderly\u2014people who have been pushed to the far end of the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The vineyard is thriving. We released a new vintage last year called The Silent Sentinel<\/strong>. It\u2019s a bold, earthy red that tastes of Colorado soil and resilience. It\u2019s the best thing we\u2019ve ever produced.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ephraim<\/strong> passed away peacefully this spring, right as the first buds were appearing on the vines. He died in his sleep, the silver watch clutched in his hand. I buried him in the heart of the valley, beneath the oldest vine in the vineyard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The watch now sits on my desk. It still ticks, a steady, rhythmic pulse that reminds me of where I came from and what it cost to stay whole.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sat at the head of the dining table last night. The hall was full of people\u2014real friends, workers from the vineyard, Clara<\/strong> and her new baby. We didn\u2019t use the gold-rimmed china. We used the heavy ceramic plates Ephraim<\/strong> had used in the vineyard house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The laughter wasn\u2019t hollow. The air wasn\u2019t thick with secrets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I raised my glass\u2014a simple tumbler of water\u2014and looked at the empty chair at the far end of the table.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTo family,\u201d I said. \u201cThe kind you choose. The kind that stands when the world tells them to sit down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As the table echoed the toast, I felt the watch in my pocket click. It wasn\u2019t a warning. It was a confirmation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The clock doesn\u2019t lie. And for the first time in the history of the Derell<\/strong> name, the time we\u2019re living in is finally, beautifully, our own.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Christmas has always been a season of ghosts for the Derell family, but that year, the shadows didn\u2019t just haunt the halls; they took up seats at the table. My name is Rowan … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1268,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1267","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-latest-story"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t