My brother Dean got six women pregnant and constantly hit me up for money. When he announced another kid on the way, I snapped: “Get a vasectomy! You can’t afford the ones you have!”

Stunned, he confessed: “I want a big family like Dad dreamed of. Maybe then something will feel right.” Dad died a decade ago, and grief had twisted him. But six kids from six moms, barely involved? That was chaos, not family.

“You don’t even see them!” I said. He admitted it made him feel important amid his struggles—unlike my stable life. Furious at always bailing him out, I told him: “Stop running from yourself. Be present for the kids you have.” He shot back that the moms hated him for broken promises. We didn’t speak for weeks.

Then a stranger called: Dean was jumped outside a liquor store, beaten badly. At the hospital, he looked like a scared kid. “You were right,” he whispered. “I messed up.” Rock bottom hit; he’d booked a vasectomy.

Months later, he apologized to the moms, picked up diner shifts, and started showing up—groceries, cards, visits. One weekend, he brought three kids to my place for pancakes and movies. They giggled; he fixed shoelaces, relaxed.

A year on, he paid support, journaled letters to his kids, hosted a chaotic but real Christmas with all six and two moms. One mom even said he listens now.