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Here's the brutal truth I learned when we found my brother sleeping in his car behind our old high school.
I spotted his Honda while driving to work. Through the foggy window, I saw him curled up in a sleeping bag. I tapped on the window, and his eyes widened with shame when he saw me.
"Just temporary," he mumbled. "Lost my apartment last month."
What he didn't tell me was that he'd been fired for showing up drunk. His girlfriend had kicked him out two months before. He'd been bouncing between friends' couches until everyone ran out of patience.
I cleared out our guest room. My wife bought him new clothes while I stocked the fridge with his favorite foods. We were so sure we could fix everything.
Growing up, Mark had been the golden child. Star quarterback with college scouts at every game. Our parents pinned all their hopes on him, while I was the average student who ended up at community college. But a knee injury his senior year changed everything. The scholarships disappeared.
That was twelve years ago. Since then, he'd jumped between jobs and apartments, never staying anywhere longer than eight months. But he always had that charm that made everyone help him one more time.
For the first week, things seemed okay. He showered, ate with us, even played with our kids. My daughter adored her uncle who taught her magic tricks. My son showed off his baseball trophies, and Mark promised to coach him.
Then the excuses started.
The job interview he missed because "the bus was late." The dishes he couldn't wash because his "back was hurting." The money that disappeared from my wife's purse that he swore he "was going to pay back."
My wife found her jewelry box rearranged. Nothing missing yet, but she'd been through this with her own father.
"He's casing our valuables," she whispered one night. "Testing what we'll notice."
I defended him. "He's my brother. He wouldn't steal from us."
The next day, my son's birthday money vanished from his desk drawer. Forty-three dollars saved from mowing lawns. When I confronted Mark, he looked me straight in the eyes and suggested my son had probably spent it and forgotten.
That night, I heard Mark sneaking out at 2 AM. I followed him to a run-down house where he handed cash to someone through a car window. When he saw me watching, he just shrugged.
"Everyone needs something to take the edge off," he said as we walked home.
I got him an interview at my company's warehouse. Easy work, decent pay, health insurance. All Mark had to do was show up sober.
The morning of the interview, I found him passed out on the bathroom floor. He'd thrown up in the sink. When I shook him awake, he just mumbled, "Reschedule it."
That weekend, Sarah's father pulled me aside and said, "I recognize what's happening. Your brother's an addict. Not just alcohol."
I was angry, but deep down I knew he was right. The constant scratching. The pupils that never seemed right. The way he disappeared for hours and came back with boundless energy followed by crashing.
My father-in-law told me about Sarah's childhood. How her father had stolen her college fund. How he'd pawned her mother's wedding ring.
"You're watching history repeat itself," he said. "Your kids are seeing everything."
When we got home, Mark was teaching my daughter poker with chips from our neighbor's missing collection.
Sarah started locking our bedroom door at night. She carried her purse everywhere. The kids stopped bringing friends over because they never knew which Uncle Mark they'd get.
One morning, I caught Mark trying to remove our TV from the wall. "Just checking something," he claimed, stepping away from the screwdriver in the bracket.
We found empty vodka bottles hidden in the bathroom vent. When confronted, he exploded, calling us "entitled rich people" who couldn't understand his struggles. We live in a modest three-bedroom with two kids.
After he punched a hole in our wall during an argument, we gave him an ultimatum - rehab or leave. He chose to leave.
Three different family members have tried helping him since then. Each attempt ended the same way.
Last month, my sister paid for a motel room for him. He sold the TV from the room for cash before the week was up.
People ask why we "let" him be homeless. The truth? We've offered him everything except what he really wants - money for alcohol and zero expectations.