I Discovered My Ex-Husband Was Cheating When He Suddenly Took Up Sweeping the Street—It Sounded Ridiculous, But That’s Exactly How It Happened

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 3

I realised that my ex-husband was cheating on me because he suddenly started sweeping the street.

It sounds ridiculous, but thats exactly how it happened. He was an electrician and worked from home. He had a workshop set up in the garage and spent his days tangled in wires and tools, serving customers. He was never a man for housework not for any particular reason, just because he didnt enjoy it. Whenever he had some free time, hed use it to relax watch the telly, share a pint with his mates, maybe fire up the barbecue. He was easy-going, not into wild parties, never aggressive, not the sort youd suspect of anything dodgy.

Our road was a quiet cul-de-sac off the High Street, wide and lined with old sycamore trees. There were always leaves about, plus dust and bits of mud. Sweeping was nearly a daily necessity. Id usually get it done myself, early in the morning while brewing the tea and doing the breakfast. Then one day, a new neighbour moved into the house next door. Nothing unusual in that the place was always being let out and the tenants switched pretty regularly.

A few months after she arrived, he suddenly started saying to me, No, dont worry, Ill sweep up today. At first, I thought it was rather sweet. I just used the extra time to get on with other things washing up, cleaning the bathroom, tidying the kitchen. I hardly paid any notice. There wasnt any reason to.

But then he started doing it every single day.

And always at exactly the same time seven oclock every morning. Not a minute earlier, not a minute later. What struck me was that hed never had a routine for anything, except his work. One morning, out of sheer curiosity, I glanced out the window.

Thats when I saw him.

He was standing in the driveway with the broom in his hand, not sweeping at all. He was chatting, smiling. Opposite him, the new neighbour. Coincidence, I thought. But the next day, it happened again. And the one after that. Every single morning, hed go outside and so would she. As though theyd planned it.

I started paying more attention. It wasnt just in the mornings. One Saturday, he said he was popping out for a pint with his friends. Fair enough. But as he left, I had a strange feeling, so I peered out the window. The neighbour stepped out at almost the same instant, calling out, Oh, evening, neighbour! Have a nice night. He replied, acting completely natural, and then she added, Funny that, Im heading that way too. Off they went together.

The next weekend, he said he was off for a game of footie which was unlike him; he rarely played. He left, and a few minutes later, there she was again, stepping out, chatting on her phone, heading in the same direction.

I had no proof. No texts, no photos, nothing. Just patterns. Times. Coincidences that werent coincidences anymore.

Eventually, I decided to confront him. I didnt ask, just said straight out, I know youre with the woman next door. He looked genuinely shocked. At first, he denied it, but I told him, I see you. Every day. Dont lie to me.

He went silent, looking at his feet, and finally said, Yes. I am. Im in love with her.

I screamed at him to get out of the house. There were no children involved, nothing to negotiate over. And, of course, the most ironic part was that he moved in directly next door, with her.

They didnt last long a couple of months at most. Then the two of them packed up and left. No one really knows what went on. They left the village and I never heard from either of them again. Neighbours gossiped, the family had a few words, but I didnt want to know any more.

“Button? Oh, I called her Holly. She was dashing about all morning here—clearly lost. Then she curled up at my feet, poor thing. So I popped her in the car to keep her from freezing,” the man smiled… “Tammy, how can you be so unlucky? I’ve always told you—Vince is no good for you!” her mother scolded. Tamara stood, head bowed. Though she was only thirty-seven, she felt like a schoolgirl who’d brought home a failing grade. She couldn’t help but feel bitterness and sorrow—for herself, her failed marriage, and her little daughter. Right before the most magical time of year, they’d been left without a father figure. “I’m leaving you,” Victor had mumbled that evening, carelessly. She barely understood what he meant at first. “Leaving for where?” Tammy asked automatically, as she set a steaming bowl of borscht in front of him. “Oh Tammy, you’re just not all there. You don’t get serious things! How have I even lived with you all these years?” Victor rolled his eyes melodramatically. Before she could clarify, he explained in detail: “I can’t do this anymore! And your yappy dog doesn’t help. The kid’s always ill, there’s no romance, Tammy. Look at yourself. What have you become?” he finished his tirade. Tamara tried to peer at her frightened reflection in the cupboard glass, but her vision blurred with tears. She remained standing alone in the kitchen. Victor hated tears. He eyed the borscht with longing, stepped away from the table, and began to pack his things… Little Button the dog, sensing trouble, worried at her owner’s feet, whining for comfort. “At least I’ll finally get to rest without that constant howling,” Victor declared, appearing in the doorway with his bag slung over his shoulder. “But Vince—what about Eva?” Tamara whispered, imagining how heartbroken their five-year-old would be, peacefully sleeping in her room. “Figure something out! You’re the mum,” he snapped, leaving the flat to Button’s mournful whines… Tamara spent the whole night in the kitchen, hugging Button, who gently licked her to console her. She seemed to understand something terrible had happened. Tamara didn’t know how to tell her mum for days. Mum kept ringing, asking how things were, but Tamara would claim all was fine and switch off her phone. “And have you found a new job yet? Because if that no-good Vince leaves, you’ll have nothing to live on,” her mum insisted on a visit. Tamara finally broke down and explained that employers weren’t replying, and Victor had left days ago. Her mother tutted and fussed—she’d always been wary of Victor’s intentions, since he’d never actually married her daughter after five years and a child. “What are you going to do now?” she asked, alarmed. “I’ll think of something… I’ll get a job as a nursery assistant where Eva goes,” Tamara replied bleakly. “You can’t survive on a nursery wage—not with a dog to feed, too,” her mother concluded. She wasn’t keen on animals, especially little fluffy Button, whom Tamara had rescued from the street. She was about to chide Tamara some more when she saw her daughter fighting back tears. “Come on now, don’t cry. I’ll help out. If need be, I’ll look after Eva,” her mother relented… A week passed. Tamara managed to find work and started going to the nursery with Eva, which delighted the girl. “Mummy! Can’t Button come as our helper? Grandma’s tired of walking her, and Button could help you wash the dishes and watch over us at nap time,” Eva grinned. Tamara laughed and hugged her, though her heart ached every time Eva repeated, “Mum, will Dad be back soon? Do you think he’ll make it for Christmas?” Tamara couldn’t bear to tell Eva the truth, inventing a story about a business trip. She tried to call Victor, but he was always “too busy:” “Tammy, let me enjoy my personal life—tell Eva I’m a super-spy on a top-secret mission, I won’t be back for ages. By the way, have you seen my Christmas tie?” She sat for ages, wondering how she’d face Christmas alone—or explain things to Eva. The encounter happened by pure chance. Grandma was taking Eva to the doctor—she was on the mend from a cold—when Victor suddenly appeared. “Daddy! Daddy, you’re back!” Eva squealed. Victor flinched, offered a pale smile, and muttered that he and Mummy wouldn’t be living together anymore, before hurrying away. “Maybe I’ll drop in sometime if I can,” he said as he left. Eva stood stone-faced, whispering, “Please don’t drop in on us anymore.” That evening her fever rose again, and a doctor was soon called. Eva refused to speak or eat, as if her recovery had stopped. “Could be stress-related,” the doctor murmured sympathetically when he heard what had happened. Tamara blamed herself. “I should have told Eva at once—she’s a clever girl, she’d have understood,” she said to her mother, who just shook her head. And then another shock—a few days later, Grandma took Button out for a walk, but without a lead. When she told Button off, the dog bolted in the opposite direction. “Suit yourself! Freeze outside if you must—see how you like it!” she huffed, rushing upstairs to Eva with her medicine. But when Eva learned Button was missing, she refused all food, telling her mother, “I’ll only eat when we find Button again.” “It’s your fault, Tam—she’s all spoiled and out of control. I warned you…” her mother began. “Maybe you should have watched Button instead of lecturing me!” Tamara snapped—unusually angry. Her mother left in offense, so Tamara was once again alone. That night, she wandered the estate searching for Button, returning home shivering and exhausted. Eva woke early: “Mum! I dreamed of a Christmas tree! We decorated it and found Button!” Tamara smiled sadly at the tiny artificial tree on the table. New Year’s Eve was almost here, and they’d done their best to prepare. But Eva was crestfallen—she insisted their tree must be big and real. “Then Button will come back too, like in my dream!” she sobbed. Buying a real tree wasn’t in Tamara’s budget. She phoned her mum for help, but was told, “You care more for that stray than your own mother! Think about that.” Tamara realised there’d be no help from Grandma. At least it was nearly the weekend. Eva, still unwell, stayed in bed. As the house was readied for New Year’s Eve, Eva wept, “There’s no tree, Mummy… And Button won’t come home, just like Daddy…” Tamara soothed her daughter, then asked her kindly neighbour to keep an eye on Eva, and dashed out into the snowy evening. Snowflakes whirled in the bitter air as laughing strangers brushed past. Tamara barely noticed, frantically searching for Button. “Where could you have run off to, little one?” she whispered again and again as she retraced her steps. She suddenly stopped at a small Christmas tree market. A stocky man in a sheepskin coat shuffled near the last few firs. Tamara hesitated. “Need a tree? Only a couple left, special discount,” he offered quickly, clearly eager to get home to his family—maybe his wife had set the table and the kids were peering from the window… A joyful couple scooped up the penultimate tree, leaving just one. “Are you taking it or not? I can help you carry it home,” the man said. Tamara looked despairingly into his eyes; she had no money on her, not enough even at home. She noticed some cast-off branches in the back of his truck. “Could I… have those branches? If you don’t need them?” she murmured. “Of course. Here, let me help,” he replied, passing her a bundle. Tamara, in relief, tried to explain, “My daughter’s poorly. She keeps wishing for a tree, our dog’s gone missing—everything’s just gone wrong, not at all like Christmas…” The man listened with compassion; he’d himself recently been left by his wife, and the holiday was looking empty. Just then, another customer arrived, “Is that tree for sale?” “It’s taken. Try the next stall,” the man replied. Turning to Tamara, he said, “Come on, I’ll help you get that tree home.” Tamara faltered, “But I told you—I have no money…” “I remember,” he said quietly. And then came the most magical moment—just what can only happen as Christmas draws in. He opened the truck—and there on the seat lay Button, fast asleep and bundled in a woolly jumper, slow to realise what was happening. “But—but how did you find Button?” Tamara cried, barely holding back tears. “Button? I’d been calling her Holly! She was out and about here all morning—lost, clearly. She cuddled up by my feet, so I popped her in the car, poor thing,” the man smiled. His name was Paul. He loved animals and got on famously with children. Soon, Tamara’s home felt warm and welcoming as never before. Perhaps it was the magic of Christmas, or perhaps fate had long planned this happy meeting—no one can say for sure. But we do know this: a new family found happiness, and sometimes, even today, the little dog gets called Holly.

03

“Well, Rusty, shall we go then…” muttered Val, tightening the makeshift lead made from an old bit of rope. He zipped his coat up to his chin and shivered. This February was miserably harsh—driving sleet, biting wind that cut clear through. Rusty—a scruffy, ginger mongrel with faded fur and one blind eye—had come into Val’s life a year ago. Val had just finished a night shift at the factory when he found him, battered and starving by the bins. The poor mutt’s left eye was clouded with a milky haze. A shout snapped his nerves taut. Val recognised the voice—it was Steve “Squint,” the local troublemaker not more than twenty-five, flanked by three teenage lads—his ‘crew.’ “We’re just walking,” Val answered curtly, not meeting their eyes. “Oi, mate, you pay taxes to walk that ugly mutt here?” one of the boys jeered. “Look at it—one eye and all, proper freak.” A stone whistled through the air, striking Rusty’s ribs. The dog whimpered and pressed against Val’s leg. “Sod off,” Val said quietly, but his voice had steel. “Oooh, look! Old Man Fix-It’s got a backbone!” Steve swaggered closer. “Remember whose patch this is. Dogs only walk here with my say-so.” Val tensed. Once, the Army had trained him to solve things quickly and hard. But that was thirty years ago, and now he was a worn-out, retired fitter who wanted a quiet life. “Come on, Rusty,” he turned for home. “Yeah, jog on!” Steve shouted after him. “Next time, I’ll finish your freak for good!” That night, Val couldn’t sleep, replaying the encounter over and over. The next day brought wet snow. Val put off the walk, but Rusty sat patiently by the door, staring with such loyalty that Val caved. “All right, all right. Just a quick one.” They kept away from the usual haunts, and Steve’s lot were nowhere to be seen—probably hiding from the foul weather. Val had almost relaxed when Rusty suddenly stopped by the old boiler house. One ear cocked, sniffing the air. “What’s up, old boy?” Rusty whined, tugging toward the derelict. From within came strange sounds—maybe cries, maybe moans. “Hello? Anyone there?” Val called out. No answer. Only the wind’s howl. Rusty pulled at the rope insistently, worry shining in his one good eye. “What is it?” Val crouched by the dog. “What have you found?” He heard it suddenly—a child’s voice: “Help me!” His heart hammered. He unclipped the lead and followed Rusty inside. Behind a pile of bricks in the half-ruined boiler room lay a boy, maybe twelve, face bloodied, lip split, clothes torn. “Oh God!” Val knelt beside him. “What happened to you?” “Uncle Val?” the boy peered painfully up. “Is that you?” Val leaned closer and recognised Andy Mason, the quiet lad from the fifth flat. “Andy! What happened?” “Steve and his gang,” the boy sobbed. “They wanted money from Mum. I said I’d tell the police. They…” “How long you been here?” “Since morning. I’m freezing.” Val shrugged off his coat and tucked it around the lad. Rusty lay close, sharing his warmth. “Can you stand, Andy?” “My leg hurts. Broken, I think.” Careful fingers confirmed a break—what else might be wrong, who could say. “Got a phone?” “They nicked it.” Val pulled out his battered old Nokia and dialed 999. Ambulance in half an hour, they said. “Hold on, lad. The medics are coming.” “What if Steve finds out I’m not dead?” Andy’s voice trembled. “He said he’d finish me off.” “He won’t touch you again,” Val said firmly. The boy stared, confused. “But Uncle Val, yesterday you ran away from them.” “That was different. Then it was just me and Rusty. Now…” He left it unsaid. What could he explain? That thirty years ago, he’d sworn an oath to protect the weak? In Afghanistan, they’d taught him—a real man never leaves a child in danger. The ambulance arrived sooner than expected. They took Andy away, and Val stood with Rusty by the old boiler house, lost in thought. That evening, Andy’s mother, Mrs Mason, knocked on his door, weeping with gratitude. “Mr Valentine,” she managed through tears, “the doctors said—one more hour out there and he’d have died. You saved his life!” “I didn’t save him,” Val said, stroking Rusty’s head. “It was him who found your boy.” “What happens now?” Mrs Mason glanced fearfully at the door. “Steve won’t let it go. Even the police say one child’s word isn’t evidence…” “It’ll be all right,” Val promised, though how, he didn’t know. He lay awake that night, asking himself what to do. How to protect that boy? And not just him—how many more kids in the estate suffered at Steve’s hands? By morning, Val had his answer. He put on his old service dress uniform, medals and all. Stood in front of the mirror—a soldier again, if an older one. “Come on, Rusty. We’ve got work to do.” Steve’s crew were where they always hung out, outside the shop. They sniggered as Val, resplendent in uniform, approached. “Oy! Looks like Gramps is off to a parade!” one shouted. Steve straightened, cocky as ever. “Move along, grandpa. Your time’s up.” “My time is just beginning,” Val replied calmly, coming closer. “What d’you want, dressed up like that?” “To serve my country. To defend the weak from the likes of you.” Steve burst out laughing. “You what, mate? Defend the weak? Who from—me?” “Andy Mason—ring any bells?” The smirk faltered on Steve’s face. “Why should I remember every loser’s name?” “You should. He’s the last kid in this estate you’ll ever hurt.” “You threatening me, old man?” “I’m warning you,” Val said. Steve edged forward, flick-knife flashing in his hand. “I’ll show you who’s boss round here.” Val didn’t back down an inch. Army training never fades. “The law’s the boss.” “What law?” Steve waved the knife. “Who put you in charge?” “My conscience did. And so did this—” he nodded at Rusty, “my dog’s a war hero. Afghanistan. Explosives detection. He can sniff out trouble a mile off.” This was a lie—Rusty was just a mongrel—but Val sounded so sure, everyone believed him. Even Rusty seemed convinced, standing tall and growling low and fierce. “She sniffed out twenty terrorists. Caught every one alive. Think she can’t handle a druggy thug?” Steve stepped back. The others froze behind him. “Listen up. From now on, this estate is safe. Every day I’ll walk every corner, and my dog’ll sniff out bullies. And if—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. “You think you can scare me?” Steve tried to sneer. “One phone call—” “Go on, call,” Val nodded. “But remember—I’ve got mates inside and out. I know people. People who owe me.” Another lie—delivered with unblinking calm. “Name’s Val Afghan,” Val said. “Remember it. And leave the kids alone.” He turned and walked away, Rusty trotting loyally by his side, tail high. Silence hung behind them. Three days passed. Steve’s gang barely showed their faces. Val really did start patrolling every evening. Rusty padded alongside, grave and proud. Andy was home from hospital in a week, limping, but on the mend. He showed up at Val’s flat the first day he could. “Mr Valentine,” Andy asked, “Can I help you? With the patrols?” “Ask your mum first,” Val said. Mrs Mason agreed—glad her son had such a good role model. So every evening, people would see them: the old soldier in uniform, the boy at his side, and the elderly ginger mongrel. Everyone liked Rusty. Even the mums let their kids stroke him, though he was just a scruffy stray. There was something about him—a quiet dignity, maybe. Val told the boys stories—about the army, about true friendship. They listened, captivated. One evening, walking home after patrol, Andy asked softly, “Were you ever afraid?” “Of course,” Val admitted. “Still am, sometimes.” “Of what?” “Of being too late. Of not being strong enough.” Andy petted Rusty. “When I’m older, I’ll help you. I’ll have a dog, too—a smart one, like Rusty.” “You will,” Val smiled. “You will.” Rusty wagged his tail. Everyone in the estate knew him now. They’d say: “That’s Val Afghan’s dog. He can tell heroes from bullies.” And Rusty walked on, proud, no longer just a stray—he was a true guardian.

03

She Walked All Over My Destiny – The Tale of a Brazen Woman Who Stole My Heart and Left My Mother in Despair “Son, if you don’t break it off with that shameless woman, you no longer have a mother! That Nina is at least fifteen years older than you!” my mother repeated for the hundredth time. “Mum, I can’t! I wish I could, but I just can’t,” I tried to explain. …I once had a sweet, innocent girl I adored—Lena, fourteen years old, pure and reserved, someone I cherished deeply. I was eighteen when I first met her at a school dance and instantly knew she was something special. Through her friend, I convinced Lena to meet with me. Did she show up for our first date? Of course not. But like a huntsman, I pursued her, tracked down her number, and begged her to go out with me. Finally, she relented—but warned: “Come ask my mum for permission first.” Standing nervously at Lena’s door, I was a bundle of nerves. Her mother turned out to be a good-humoured, kind woman, willing to trust me with her treasure—but only for two hours. Lena and I wandered the park, chatting, laughing, with everything staying perfectly innocent. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she said: “Vova, I’ve got a boyfriend. I think I love him, but he’s a terrible womaniser. I’m tired of catching him with other girls. I have my self-respect. Let’s try being friends, you and me—what do you say?” I raised my eyebrows, my curiosity piqued. Lena could be coy, or a girl in love already. I was captivated. The hours with Lena melted away. I returned her safely to her mum. …In time, I couldn’t imagine life without her. My mum, too, fell in love with this “little sunshine.” Lena often visited, and they’d forget all about me, chatting for hours on end. When Lena turned eighteen, we talked about marriage. Our families raised no objections. Our wedding was set for autumn. Then summer came. Lena left to stay with her grandmother in the country, while I spent the summer at our cottage, helping Mum. One day, as I watered the tomatoes, I heard someone call: “Young man, could I have some water?” I turned—there stood a dishevelled, fiery-eyed woman of around thirty-five. I didn’t recognise her as one of the neighbours, but I offered her a cup of well water anyway. “Thank you, young man! I was parched. Here, I’ve got some of my homemade cordial. Take it as a thank you—don’t be shy.” She pressed a full bottle into my hand. Not wanting to be rude, I took it, calling after her, “Thank you!” That evening, I drank the cordial over dinner while home alone—Mum was away in town. If she’d been there, she’d never have let me near that bottle. The next day, the woman returned. We talked. Her name was Nina; she lived nearby. I welcomed her in—she’d brought more of that sweet cordial. I made us a quick salad and sandwiches. Conversation and drink flowed, and before I knew it, I found myself utterly in Nina’s thrall—a boy bewitched. What happened next still haunts me years later. Nina, like a seasoned enchantress, took full control. I was helpless, adrift, foggy-headed—and when I came to, she was gone. My mother was standing over me, trying to wake me: “Vladimir, what happened while I was gone? Who were you drinking with? Why is your bed like a herd of horses ran over it?” she demanded, bewildered. I could barely open my eyes; my head spun, hands shook. I mumbled and dodged answers. By evening, coherence returned, and shame overwhelmed me—especially when I thought of my dear fiancée, Lena… Less than a week later, Nina reappeared—and, to my surprise, I was actually happy to see her, maybe even missed her a little. Mum intercepted her at the door, arms akimbo: “What do you want, madam?” I led Mum inside. “Mum, honestly—what kind of welcome is that? Maybe she just wants water!” I protested. “Water? That’s Nina from the village! Every stray dog knows her—she roams from cottage to cottage, seducing the menfolk! Harlot! And now she wants to get her claws into you! Get rid of her!” Too late for warnings—Nina’s honeyed brew had bound me to her. I knew she wasn’t mine, didn’t truly love her, yet I trailed after her like a shadow. Lena faded entirely from my mind. When I mentioned my fiancée, Nina shot back: “Vova, first loves aren’t real fiancées.” Wedding plans with Lena collapsed. Mum invited Lena over and confessed everything. “Forgive the foolish boy, love. He’s tumbling straight into the pit and won’t listen. Build your own life—don’t wait for him,” Mum pleaded. Lena moved on, married, started a family. My mother, desperate to tear me away from Nina, enlisted the help of the recruitment office—and, just like that, I was sent off to the army. In Afghanistan, I lost three fingers, but survived—barely. Nina waited for me at home, our little son already toddling about (I’d “planted a seed” before I went to war, unsure if I’d return). During those dark days, I dreamt of having five children. Mum still detested Nina, doted on Lena and her little girl (“I’m sure that child’s yours!” she insisted). I would have loved that, but it simply wasn’t true. Lena often visited Mum’s, asking after me—years later, she passed on Mum’s latest news: “He’ll never break free of that woman, I just don’t know what my son ever saw in her…” Soon after, I took my family north. Nina and our three children followed. Two more were born to us, but our little daughter passed away from pneumonia. Grief-stricken, we returned home. Memories of Lena resurfaced, and longing hollowed me out. I learned her number from Mum (who warned me not to meddle in Lena’s happy family). I called, and we met. Lena had grown even more beautiful. She welcomed me home, introduced me to her husband as a childhood friend; he trusted her completely, leaving us alone while he worked the night shift. Half-finished champagne, fruit on the table, and Lena’s daughter visiting her grandmother; it was just the two of us. “Well, Vova,” said Lena finally. “Tell me yourself how you’ve been?” “I’m sorry, Lena. What happened can’t be undone. I have four children now,” I stammered. “You don’t have to change anything, Vova. We’ve met, remembered our youth, and that’s enough. Only—be kinder to your mum, she’s suffered enough,” Lena replied softly. Staring at her, I couldn’t look away—she was still breathtaking, still desirable as ever. I took her hand and kissed it, gently. “Lena, I still love you, just as I did in youth. But our love has drifted by. You can’t retell life, only live it. I’m sorry, Lena…” “Vova, it’s late. It’s time you went,” she said, ending the meeting. Could I really leave so easily? An overwhelming wave of emotion crashed over me, passion I couldn’t quell. …I crept away in the morning while Lena slept sweetly. For three years we met in secret, then she moved to the suburbs with her family, and our contact ended. I divorced Nina when the children were grown. My mother had been right all along: some people are just passing through, trampling on your destiny and breaking your heart before moving on. …No matter how much you boil water, it’s always just water in the end. In the end, only one child turned out to be truly mine—my firstborn son.

04

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

I Discovered My Ex-Husband Was Cheating When He Suddenly Took Up Sweeping the Street—It Sounded Ridiculous, But That’s Exactly How It Happened