“You Don’t Have a Family—Give the House to Your Sister, She Needs It More,” My Mum Said. “You Have It Easier, but Your Sister Has Three Kids—Try to Understand.” Why Is It Always Me Who Has to Give Everything Up?

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 2

You dont have a family, you should let your sister have the houseshe needs it more at the moment, my mother declared. Its easier for you, but your sister has a big family. You should understand.

Why are you so glum?

My sister, Emily, settled beside me on the sofa, cradling a mug of apple juice. The children shrieked with laughter around the table. Her husband, Matthew, was regaling our mum with a grand story, gesturing wildly with a fork skewering a bit of Victoria sponge.

Im fine, I said, looking away. Just tired. Work was an absolute nightmare today.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and forced a smile.

Theres something Ive wanted to discuss for a few days Dads house.

Im listening.

She shifted a little closer, dropping her voice.

Matthew and I have been talking You and David dont need the house, do you? Just the two of you living in a flat. But weve got three children squeezed into a rented two-bed. Out there, theres fresh air, a garden, proper space for all of us.

I didnt speak. Instead, I watched her eldest, Sophie, six years old, blowing out the candles on her birthday cake.

You dont even need the house, not really, Emily pressed on. Its just draining your savings. The roof leaks, the fence is falling, nothing but endless repairs

How are you going to afford any of that? flashed through my mind, but I kept quiet.

Mum thinks it makes sense too, Emily added. Its not like we want a handout. Just let go of your half. Well sort it all later.

I nodded, but something shrank inside me.

On the drive home, David kept his eyes on the road.

What happened back there?

They want me to give up my share of Dads house.

What, just hand it over?

Yes. They say they need it more than we do Since we have everything.

Everything? David scoffed, his tone bitter. You mean our tiny flat, with ten years of mortgage left?

The next day, Mum rang me.

Thought about it, love?

Theres nothing to think about. Half of that house belongs to me.

Its always about your rights, isnt it? she retorted. What about family? Theyve got three children, and youre on your own.

Our flat is on mortgage, Mum. Well be paying it off for a decade.

They dont even have that, do they?

I looked after Dad at the end. Took him to hospital, sorted all his medicine. Emily came twice.

Youre the older one, Claire. You should understand. Youre free.

Free. The word stung.

That evening, I sat in the kitchen with a cuppa.

So, shes pushing, too? David asked quietly.

Yes.

The next day, I met Lucy for lunch.

When did your sister last do you a good turn? Lucy asked.

I couldnt answer.

Do they even know how much you two spent on IVF?

No.

Almost a hundred grand. And still nothing. Yet they think this is easy for you.

I made up my mind to go to the house.

I went alone.

The garden was overgrown, the door creaked on its hinges, and the air smelled of dust and memories.

I found Dads old notebookfull of repair estimates, all in his handwriting. Plans he never saw through.

And there it wasour apple tree. The one wed planted together when I was just a girl.

This wasnt just bricks and mortar. It was memory.

When Mum arrived and said, You dont have a family, its easier for you

I didnt swallow it this time.

Three rounds of IVF, Mum. Three.

And for the first time, I said quietly but firmly,

The house is mine. I wont be giving it up.

Silence fell. But it wasnt empty anymore. It was liberating.

Spring came early that year.

Mrs. Allen next door said, He was only ever waiting for you.

I sat on the veranda, with a mug of tea and Dads old jumper round my shoulders, looking out at the apple tree.

This was my home.

Not because I backed away.

But because it was my right.

The Black Widow Charming and clever Lily was finishing her journalism degree when she met Vlad, a charismatic, much older man who was already a local celebrity, songwriter, and television personality. Vlad spotted Lily before anyone else did—her grace and beauty caught his eye. Thanks to his influence, he soon secured her a job hosting her own TV program. Lily quickly became well-known for her insightful show, “Heart-to-Heart Conversations,” inviting prominent city psychologists and guests to discuss real-life issues. Vlad, now 45 and thrice-married, was famous for his wild lifestyle, countless friends, and creative flair—but was hopeless at family life. He wrote songs, claimed nearly every local title in music, was a regular at restaurants, bars, and saunas, and drank heavily. Lily blossomed on TV, married Vlad, and became adored by her viewers for her elegance, warmth, and style. But she soon realized she’d married the wrong man. Vlad’s attention faded and his drinking worsened, prompting his friend Simon to warn him: “Don’t underestimate Lily—she’ll outsmart you.” Vlad, ever arrogant, claimed he never chose clever wives, dismissing Lily’s intellect. As Lily’s star rose, she brushed off Vlad’s push for her to learn English, only to be inspired by Simon’s remark: “English for a sophisticated woman is as natural as wearing stilettos.” Lily enrolled in top-notch courses the very next day. They lived in a large inherited flat, employed Vera, a solitary, sharp-tongued housekeeper whose envy was expertly concealed. Vera witnessed every moment of their lives as Vlad’s drinking spiraled. After seven years, Lily had no children, choosing her career over motherhood. One morning, Vera found Vlad unconscious and called Lily. Vlad was rushed to hospital—he soon died, despite Lily’s disbelief. His funeral was an event, with Simon extolling Vlad’s vibrant life. Afterwards, colleagues told Lily: “You’re young, free, and with money—don’t mourn.” She divided Vlad’s assets with his son and threw herself into work and socialising. After another TV shoot, Lily visited a nearby café and met Kenneth—a burly, friendly businessman who charmed her over wine and dessert. Nicknamed “Teddy,” Kenneth was caring and funny, quickly winning Lily’s heart. She dismissed Vera but relented, letting her stay. Three months later, Lily married Kenneth, opting for a modest wedding but enjoying a lavish honeymoon in the Maldives. Life with her plush teddy was luxury with first-class flights, a private villa, and every indulgence—though Kenneth’s diabetes prevented him from becoming her dream athletic type. Despite Kenneth’s devotion, Lily longed for passion. Her colleagues teased her for her faithfulness, but soon Lily was swept into an affair with Artem—a rugged, handsome man she met through work. Artem was the opposite of Kenneth, thrilling but heartless, and their secret romance filled the gap in Lily’s life. One day Kenneth caught Lily with Artem; his shock triggered a diabetic crisis, and though Lily tried to save him with a shot of insulin, Kenneth died before paramedics arrived. After the funeral, Kenneth’s daughter—backed by her lawyer father—evicted Lily, leaving her only a bundle of cash. Lily and Vera moved back to the large flat Vlad had left. Time passed. Lily, mourning Artem’s later death in a car crash, wondered: “Am I the Black Widow? All my men die—maybe it’s my aura.” But when she met Mac, a captivating young guest on her show, Lily felt true love for the first time. They became inseparable. A curious moment led Lily to Google him—she learned Mac was one of England’s richest men. When Mac suffered a heart scare, Lily rushed to his side; he vowed to marry her as soon as he recovered. Finally, Lily realised happiness was truly within reach—real love and a new beginning awaited. Thank you for reading—wishing you happiness and good fortune!

01

My Husband’s Family Invited Themselves to Our Holiday Cottage—But I Refused to Hand Over the Keys —“Well, we’ve made up our minds: why should your place stand empty? We’re heading to your country cottage for the Christmas holidays with the kids. Fresh air, sledging hill by the house, a nice sauna. You’re always at work anyway, Lena, and Vitya needs a break—but he says he just wants to sleep in. So hand over the keys, we’ll pop round tomorrow morning.” Svetlana, my husband’s sister, was barking down the phone so brashly I had to hold it away from my ear. I stood in the middle of my kitchen, still drying a plate, stunned by her nerve. My husband’s relatives were infamous for their cheekiness, but I never expected this level of pushiness. “Hold on, Svetlana,” I said as calmly as I could, trying not to let my irritation show. “Who decided this? With whom? The cottage isn’t some public leisure centre, it’s our home. And we were planning to go ourselves, as it happens.” “Oh come on!” Svetlana scoffed, munching on something so loudly I could hear it. “You were ‘planning’, sure. Vitya told mum you’d be home watching telly. There’s plenty of room—two floors! We won’t bother you if you show up… but better not, we’re a noisy crowd. Gena’s inviting friends: barbecue, music… you and your books would be bored to tears.” I felt my face flush as an all-too-familiar image filled my mind: Gena with his mates and their favourite loud, trashy music; their two teenage kids with zero boundaries; and my poor cottage, into which I’d poured five years of savings and all my heart. “No, Svetlana,” I said firmly. “I’m not giving you the keys. The place isn’t ready for guests, you need to know how to winterise the heating, and the septic tank is temperamental. Plus, I simply don’t want a mass party in my home.” “We’re not strangers!” my sister-in-law shrieked. “I’m your husband’s own sister, and those are your nieces and nephews! What’s wrong with you—have you gone all cold from crunching numbers? I’m ringing mum right now to tell her how you treat your family!” The dial tone exploded in my ear. I put my phone down, hands trembling. I knew this was only the beginning—soon my mother-in-law, Queen Nina, would roll out “heavy artillery,” and the siege would begin. Viktor sloped into the kitchen, guilty smile already in place. Of course he’d overheard, but preferred to hide out, hoping I’d sort everything myself. “Lena, did you have to be so harsh?” he started, trying to put an arm around me. “Svetka’s a pain, but they’re family… they’ll take offence.” I shook him off and turned to face him. The look I gave Viktor stopped him short. “Do you remember last May?” I said. Viktor grimaced. “Well, it was—” “‘It was’? They came for a ‘quick barbecue’, trashed the apple tree my father planted, burned holes in the sitting room carpet (which I scrubbed for a week), left a mountain of dirty dishes because Svetlana claimed, ‘I’ve got a manicure—use your dishwasher,’ then stuffed everything in there and clogged the filter. Don’t forget the broken vase, or the trampled peonies.” “They’re just kids…” Viktor mumbled, tracing patterns on the lino. “Kids? Your nephew’s fifteen and the niece is thirteen. They rammed the steam room door shut, nearly set our house on fire! And you want to hand them the house for a week? In winter?” “Well, they promised to be careful. Gena said he’d supervise.” “Gena supervises the drinks cabinet. No, Viktor. I said no. It’s MY home—legally and in fact! Every penny from Grandma’s flat went into the renovation. I know every nail. I won’t have it turned into a pigsty.” That evening passed in heavy silence. Viktor tried the TV, then retreated to bed. I sat in the kitchen, drinking cold tea, thinking how we’d built that place. It was a sanctuary—not just a holiday let. For his family, though, it was a free hotel by default. Next morning, the doorbell rang. Nina Petrovna in full regalia—fur hat, scarlet lipstick, and a massive handbag with a frozen fish tail sticking out. “Open up, Lena! We need to talk!” she barked without so much as a “hello.” Soon enough, she’d stationed herself like a judge at the kitchen table. “Explain yourself, dear daughter-in-law,” Nina began primly, sipping her tea. “What’s wrong with Svetochka? We asked nicely: give us the keys, we just want a peaceful break. Their flat’s being renovated—dust and mess everywhere. And there your palace sits, empty. What’s it to you?” “Nina Petrovna,” I answered evenly, “it’s no palace—just a house in need of care. For over five years Svetlana’s had ‘renovations’ as her excuse to annex our place. And last time, your family smoked inside despite my asking you not to. The smell is still in the curtains.” “A bit of smoke! Air it out! You, Lena, care more about things than people, that’s materialism, that is!” my mother-in-law snapped. “We raised Viktor to be kind, not a miser!” “Mum, Lena really did put everything into the place—” Viktor offered. “Quiet!” Nina shot back. “Her way or nothing—making a henpecked husband out of you. Your sister and her children should freeze outside in January? Gena’s birthday is the third, a big milestone! Guests already invited—meat bought. What are we supposed to do now, cancel and be humiliated?” “That’s not my problem,” I said coolly. “Inviting guests to someone else’s house without asking first—that’s called rudeness, Nina Petrovna.” She flushed beetroot red—unused to rebuttal, especially from Viktor. I was tougher than she liked. “Hmph! Is this how you talk to your mother-in-law?” Nina grabbed at her heart, playing wounded. “Vitya! Give me the keys, I’ll hand them to Svetlana myself! Are you the man of this house or what?” Viktor looked helplessly from her to me, torn in two. In truth, he too valued the cottage; he hated the chaos each visit brought. “Mum, the keys are with Lena, and we might go there ourselves.” “Lies!” she thundered. “Alright. Svetlana’s turning up in the morning. Keys on the table, and write her instructions for the boiler. If not—Vitya, you’re no son of mine. And as for you,” she jabbed at me, “remember this day. The world turns.” She stormed out, slamming the door. “You won’t cave in?” Viktor asked quietly after a while. “I won’t,” I said. “And we’re going to the cottage tomorrow. Ourselves.” “But you’ve got deadlines, you said—” “Plans change. If we don’t get there first, they’ll try to break in. You know your sister. She’ll climb through a window if she wants. If we’re in, they’ll have to go away.” “Lena… this is war.” “No, Viktor—this is drawing the line. Pack your bags.” We left before dawn. The city was gorgeous in its festive finery, but all joy had been drained from us. Viktor fretted, glancing at his silenced phone. The drive was quiet. The cottage gleamed under its snowy hat—like the cover of a Christmas card. Safely inside, we turned the heating up, dug out Christmas baubles, breathed as relief set in. For a few hours, peace. At 3pm, horns blared at the gate. I saw a crowd: Svetlana’s old SUV, an unknown sedan, children, a giant, unmuzzled Rottweiler, a random couple, and the matriarch herself. Viktor stood stock-still, shovel in hand. “Open up, lads! We’re here!” Gena shouted from behind the fence. I stepped onto the porch. Viktor hovered by the gate. “Vitya, let us in, we’re freezing!” Svetlana whined. “Lena, we wanted to surprise you! If you’re here, even better! Let’s all celebrate together!” I put my hand on Viktor’s shoulder and said, loud and clear: “Sorry, we weren’t expecting company.” “Oh quit the act!” Gena boomed. “We brought meat and crates of vodka, look—Tolya brought his wife and the dog. The dog’s friendly! Let us in, Vitya!” “The dog?” I saw the Rottweiler already peeing on my beloved shrub. “Get the dog off my plants!” “It’s just a tree!” Svetlana giggled. “Come on! The kids need the loo!” “There’s a toilet at the petrol station, five miles that way,” I replied crisply. “As I told you—our cottage is occupied. We’re here, and there’s no room for ten people and a dog.” A stunned silence hung over the crowd. They’d confidently expected that a full-frontal siege would override our boundaries. “You’re really not going to let us in?” Nina Petrovna’s voice shook with icy rage. “Your own mother, left out in the cold? Vitya—say something!” Viktor looked at me, pleadingly. “Lena… they’ve come all this way… How can you?” “Like this, Viktor.” I fixed him with a stare. “If you open that gate, within an hour it’ll be a drunken mess. The dog will wreck the garden, the kids will trash the bedrooms, your sister will ‘teach’ me to cook in my own kitchen, Gena will smoke indoors… and we won’t have our Christmas at all. So: chaos, or a peaceful holiday with me. You choose—now.” Viktor looked at the yowling family outside. Memories of last time flashed through his mind; the swing he’d spent three days repairing, the burnt carpet, his longing for simple peace. He straightened, stepped to the gate and said, maybe softly, but with real resolve: “Mum, Svetlana, Lena’s right. You were told—no keys, no guests. Please leave.” “What?!” they howled. “You heard me. This house is mine too, and I don’t want a circus. Off you go.” Gena started ranting, grabbing for the gate, but Viktor hefted his shovel. “Off you go, Gena, or I’ll call the police. This estate has security.” “Strangers?! STRANGERS?!” Nina shrieked. “Traitor! And your witch of a wife! I’ll never set foot in your life again!” “Come on, let’s leave this madhouse,” Svetlana yelled, giving me a rude gesture as they bundled into their cars. “We’ll go to Tolya’s place—at least he’s got soul!” Engines revved, wheels span, and within five minutes, only silence and the whirl of pale snow remained. Viktor slumped to the steps, face in his hands. “Oh God, how humiliating. My own mother…” I sat beside him, hugged him tight. “It’s not humiliation, Viktor. It’s growing up. You stood up for our family—for us. Not their ‘clan’—us.” “She’ll never forgive me.” “She’ll forgive you—when she needs something. Money for medicine, help with her leaky roof. That’s how it works. They never stay offended if it’s inconvenient. But now they know—not to barge in. Not without respect. You’ve earned it. If not… at least we’ll be at peace.” “You think so?” “I know so. And if not—so be it. Now, come inside before you freeze. I’ll make mulled wine.” We went in, drew the curtains, and shut out the cold and the shouting world. That night by the fire, we sat in companionable silence—true, restorative quiet. Three blissful days followed. Walks in the woods, cozy evenings, just us. Family phones stayed silent—boycott in full effect. On January 3rd, as predicted, a message arrived from Svetlana. No apology—only a photo of a grim shed, battered stove, bottles everywhere, red-faced Gena. Caption: “We’re having a blast without you! Jealous?” I looked at the messy photo, then at my husband—peaceful, book in hand. I smiled and deleted the message. Back in town a week later, Nina Petrovna herself called—her voice stiff, but asking Viktor to drive her to the clinic. The cottage was never mentioned. The boundary had been set. Skirmishes would follow, but our sanctuary stood strong. I’d learned the hardest lesson: Sometimes, you have to be the “bad guy” for others—to be true to yourself and protect your marriage. The cottage keys, from then on, lived safely locked away. Just in case.

02

The Day I Lost My Husband Wasn’t Just the Day I Lost Him — It Was the Day I Lost the Marriage I Believed In. It All Happened So Quickly. He left early that morning to drive through several villages. He was a rural vet — working on contracts and spending most of the week traveling from village to village: checking livestock, vaccinating animals, responding to emergencies. I was used to the goodbyes — brief, in passing. Used to watching him head out with muddy boots and a packed van. That day, he messaged at lunchtime to say he was in a more remote village, that the rain had grown heavy, and that he needed to head to one more — about half an hour away. He said afterward he’d come straight home, eager for an early dinner together. I replied, telling him to drive carefully because the rain was so bad. After that… I didn’t know anything until the afternoon. First, there was a rumour. A call from a friend, asking if I was okay. I didn’t understand. Then his cousin phoned, saying there’d been an accident on the road to the village. My heart thumped so hard I thought I’d faint. Minutes later, the confirmation came: his van had skidded in the rain, slid off the road, and crashed into a ditch. He didn’t survive. I don’t remember how I got to the hospital. I just recall sitting on a chair, cold-handed, listening to a doctor explaining things my mind couldn’t process. My in-laws arrived in tears. My children asked where their dad was… and I couldn’t answer. And that same day — before we’d even finished telling family — something else broke me in a new way. Posts began appearing on social media. The first was from a woman I didn’t know. She’d uploaded a photograph of him in a village — his arm around her — and wrote that she was devastated, that she’d lost “the love of her life,” thankful for every moment together. I thought it was a mistake. Then there was a second post. Another woman, new photos, saying goodbye to him and thanking him for “love, time, promises.” Then — a third. Three different women. In the space of a day. All publicly talking about their relationship with my husband. They didn’t care that I’d just become a widow. Didn’t care that my children had lost their father. Didn’t care about my in-laws’ pain. They just put their version of the truth out there — as if writing tributes. Then I started putting pieces together. His constant travels. The hours when he didn’t answer. The far-off villages. The excuses for meetings and urgent late-night calls. It all began to make sense… in a way that made me feel sick. I was burying my husband as I realised he’d led a double — maybe triple — life. The wake was one of the hardest moments. People came to pay their respects, not knowing I’d seen the posts. The women looked at me oddly. There were whispers, quiet comments. And I just stood there, trying to hold my children together while my mind played images I never wanted to see. After the funeral came that royal emptiness. The house was quiet. His clothes still hung. His muddy boots dried out in the garden. His tools remained in the garage. And alongside the sadness came the weight of betrayal. I couldn’t truly grieve for him without thinking about what he’d done. Months later, I began therapy, unable to sleep. I woke every morning in tears. My psychologist told me something that marked me forever: if I wanted to heal, I had to separate in my mind the man who cheated, the father of my children, and the person I’d loved. If I only saw him as a traitor, the pain would stay locked in me. It wasn’t easy. It took years. With my family’s help, with therapy, with much silent processing. I learned how to talk to my children without hatred. I learned how to sort through memories. I learned how to release the anger that stopped me breathing. Today, five years have passed. My children have grown. I went back to work, rebuilt a routine, ventured out alone, drank coffee without guilt. Three months ago, I started seeing someone. Nothing rushed. We’re just getting to know each other. He knows I’m a widow. He doesn’t know all the details. We’re taking it slowly. Sometimes, I catch myself telling my story out loud — like today. Not to seek pity, but because it feels like, for the first time, I can speak without burning in my chest. I haven’t forgotten what happened. But I’m no longer trapped by it. And though the day my husband died shattered my whole world… now I can say I’ve learned to rebuild it, piece by piece — even if it was never quite the same again.

01

“You Don’t Have a Family, Just Let Your Sister Have the House—She Needs It More Now,” My Mum Told Me. “It’s Easier for You; Your Sister Has a Big Family, Try to Understand.” “Why Are You So Moody?” My Sister Sat Next to Me on the Sofa, Cradling a Glass of Juice. The Kids Bustled Around the Table, Her Husband Waving a Fork with Cake While Chatting to His Mother-in-Law. “I’m Fine,” I Looked Away. “Just Tired. Work Was a Nightmare Today.” She Smiled, Tucking a Strand of Hair Behind Her Ear. “I’ve Been Meaning to Talk to You—About Dad’s House.” “I’m Listening.” She Leaned in Closer, Dropping Her Voice. “We’ve Been Thinking… Why Do You Two Even Need That House? It’s Just the Two of You and You Have a Flat. We’re Crammed into a Two-Bed Rental with Three Kids. If We Move In—Fresh Air, a Garden, Room for Everyone.” I Stayed Quiet, Watching My Niece Blow Out Her Birthday Candles. Six Years Old—the Eldest of Three. “You Don’t Really Need the House,” She Continued. “It’s Just More Expenses. Leaking Roof, Crooked Fence, Never-Ending Repairs.” “And What Will You Do About That?” I Thought, But Kept It to Myself. “Mum Thinks It’s Sensible Too,” She Added. “We’re Not Asking for a Gift, Just Step Back from Your Share. We’ll Sort It Out Later.” I Nodded, Though Something Tightened Inside. On the Way Home My Husband Drove in Silence. “What’s Going On?” “They Want Me to Give Up My Share of the House.” “You Mean—Give It Away?” “Yes. Apparently They Need It More. And We ‘Have Everything’.” “Everything?” He Smirked. “Our Tiny Flat with a Mortgage?” The Next Day Mum Called. “Have You Thought About It?” “What’s to Think About? Half the House Is Mine.” “You’re Always Talking About Rights,” She Snapped. “What About Family? They Have Three Kids. You’re Alone.” “Our Flat Is Mortgaged. Ten More Years to Pay.” “They Don’t Even Have That.” “I Cared for Dad Those Last Months. The Hospitals, the Prescriptions. My Sister Came Twice.” “You’re the Older One. You Should Understand. You’re Free.” Free. The Word Stung. That Night I Sat in the Kitchen With Tea. “She’s Pushing for It Too?” My Husband Asked. “Yes.” The Next Day I Met a Friend. “When Was the Last Time Your Sister Helped You?” She Asked. I Had No Answer. “Do They Know How Much You’ve Spent on IVF?” “No.” “Almost a Million. And Not One Pregnancy. Still They Think You Have It Easy.” I Decided to Visit the House. I Went Alone. Overgrown Garden. Squeaking Gates. The Smell of Dust and Memories. I Found Dad’s Notebook—Plans for Repairs in His Handwriting. He’d Planned. Time Ran Out. The Apple Tree We’d Planted Together When I Was Little. This House Wasn’t Just Property. It Was Memory. So When Mum Came and Said, “You Don’t Have a Family, It’s Easier for You…” I Didn’t Swallow It Down. “Three Rounds of IVF. Three.” And For the First Time, I Said: “The House Is Mine. I’m Not Giving It Away.” Silence Followed. But It Wasn’t Empty—It Felt Freeing. Spring Came Early. The Neighbour Said, “He Was Just Waiting for You.” I Sat on the Porch, Cradling a Mug of Tea, Dad’s Jumper Around My Shoulders, Apple Tree Before Me. This Was My Home. Not Because I Gave In. But Because It Was My Right.

03

📌 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

“You Don’t Have a Family—Give the House to Your Sister, She Needs It More,” My Mum Said. “You Have It Easier, but Your Sister Has Three Kids—Try to Understand.” Why Is It Always Me Who Has to Give Everything Up?