My brother got 3 women pregnant and always asks me for money.

Recently, he said he’s going to have another child soon. I firmly said, “Get a vasectomy! Why do you keep having kids you can’t afford?”

I was stunned when he dropped a bombshell: “Actually, it’s because I don’t know how to say no. I think… I might be addicted to being needed.”

At first, I thought he was joking. Or deflecting. But he looked serious—like that kind of quiet, broken serious that I’d only seen once before, when we were younger and Dad left.

See, my brother Mateo always wore chaos like a coat. He was the funny one, the charming one, the guy who could make a stranger hand over their last cigarette just by smiling. But underneath that, he was a people-pleaser in the worst way.

His first kid came when he was barely 21, with a woman named Lianne. She was sweet, but they had nothing in common except a messy week together. She moved back to Pittsburgh and raised their daughter mostly alone. Mateo sent money—when he had it.

Then came Nura. Then Tanith. Now, some woman named Kelly was pregnant, and he barely knew her last name.

“Every time I see a woman struggling,” he said, “I think maybe I can be the guy who fixes it. And then I can’t back out.”

I sighed. “You’re not a rescue dog, Mat. You’re a grown man with three kids and another on the way.”

“I know,” he whispered, staring at his shoes. “And none of them know each other. Not really.”

That part made my stomach twist.

I tried to be the reliable sibling. I had a job in finance, a paid-off sedan, and a little studio apartment where the only chaos was my laundry schedule. Mom called me her “solid rock.” Mateo was the tide—always in motion, sometimes crashing.

He asked me, again, for money to help Kelly.

“She’s behind on rent. And she’s got a little boy already. The father bailed. I can’t just watch her sink.”

“You’re not a lifeguard,” I snapped. “You’re barely keeping your own head above water.”

That got him quiet. He said, “I thought maybe I’d get it right this time. Be there from the beginning. Not be some ghost who shows up with birthday gifts and guilt.”

That part got to me.

I caved. Gave him $200, even though it meant pushing my own credit card payment. Again.

But something felt off. Not just about the new pregnancy, but about how he was acting. He was too quiet. Too… rehearsed.

So I did something I probably shouldn’t have. I looked up Kelly.

I had her last name from a piece of mail he accidentally left in my car. Took five minutes to find her on Facebook. Her profile was public.

No signs of a pregnancy. No baby bump pics. No ultrasound photos. Not even a cryptic “big news coming” post. But there were a lot of smiley photos with her boyfriend—not Mateo.

Now I was confused.

I messaged her. Just said, “Hi, sorry to bother—my name’s Sariah. I’m Mateo’s sister. He said you two are expecting together?”

Her reply was immediate. “What? Expecting? No. We dated a little last year, but I haven’t seen him in months.”

I sat there, blinking at the screen.

So the whole pregnancy story… was fake?

I didn’t reply right away. I didn’t know how. I kept rereading her message, thinking maybe I’d misunderstood something.

But I hadn’t. Mateo lied.

And I’d handed him two hundred bucks.

I drove straight to his place. He was renting a room from a guy named Artie who never remembered my name.

When I walked in, Mateo was on the couch eating cold noodles and watching some cooking show. He looked up, half-smile forming. “Hey, what’s up?”

I didn’t smile back. I just said, “Kelly says she’s not pregnant.”

His face changed immediately. That flicker of panic. The one I’d seen when we were kids and he’d broken Mom’s coffee table but blamed it on the cat.

“Mat.”

He rubbed his jaw. “Okay. I wasn’t sure how to tell you.”

My voice was shaking now. “So you lied. For what, exactly?”

“I needed the money. I didn’t think you’d help if I just said that.”

I wanted to scream. Or throw something. Instead, I sat on the armrest and stared at him.

“You made up a whole fake pregnancy? That’s disgusting, Mat.”

“I was desperate.”

“For what?”

That’s when his eyes welled up.

“I’m behind on child support. All of it. If I miss another payment, I could get a bench warrant. I already got one warning. I didn’t know what else to do.”

I exhaled hard. “Then say that. Don’t lie and drag some poor woman’s name into it.”

He put his head in his hands. “I didn’t want you to think I was a deadbeat.”

“But you ARE.”

That came out harsher than I meant. But it was true.

Still, my heart broke a little seeing him like that. Defeated. Embarrassed. Human.

I said, quieter this time, “Mat… you can’t lie your way into being a better man.”

He didn’t say anything.

I got up to leave. Told him I wasn’t bailing him out again unless he showed real effort to fix his mess. I meant it this time.

For the next few weeks, I ignored his calls.

But I was worried about him.

Then one afternoon, my phone buzzed. A message from a name I didn’t know: “Hi, I’m Jeanette. I run a community resource center in Midtown. Mateo’s been volunteering here the past two weeks. He said you’re his sister. He talks about you a lot.”

I read it three times.

I drove down there the next day. Sure enough, there he was—sorting canned goods, chatting with a grandma about shelf-stable milk.

He looked surprised when he saw me. Sheepish.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he said.

I nodded. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”

He explained that after I left that night, something shifted.

He realized he’d hit a wall. No more stories. No more dodging. He owed over $9,000 in back child support. He couldn’t pay it yet, but he wanted to show he was trying.

So he went to a local clinic and got a free consultation about a vasectomy. Said he wanted to break the cycle.

Then he signed up to volunteer at the center—mostly because they had counselors and support groups for dads trying to clean up their lives.

“I don’t want to be someone my kids resent,” he told me. “I want to be someone they call first, not last.”

That hit me hard.

He didn’t ask for money that day. Or the next.

Instead, he asked for help organizing a meet-up.

He wanted all three of his kids—plus the moms, if they agreed—to come together. Not some forced, awkward sit-down. Just a park day. He said it was time they knew about each other.

I was skeptical. But I helped.

We made calls. Sent messages. Only two of the moms agreed—Lianne and Nura.

That weekend, we set up at Crescent Park with juice boxes, bubbles, and Mateo in a too-tight “#1 Dad” t-shirt he’d found at Goodwill.

It was awkward at first.

But the kids—Yara and Silas—hit it off fast. They ran in circles, laughing like they’d known each other forever.

Mateo teared up. “I didn’t think this would work.”

I smiled. “It’s a start.”

Two months later, Tanith agreed to meet too.

Mateo started taking shifts at a mechanic’s garage. Not glamorous, but steady.

He sent me a screenshot when he made his first real child support payment. $250. Not much—but everything, really.

I won’t lie—he’s still got a long road. Still figuring out how to be consistent. Still paying off debt.

But he stopped lying.

He started showing up.

And the other day, he called and said, “I told the kids about each other. We video chatted. I’m going to do it right this time.”

That might not seem like a big deal to some. But for Mateo, it’s everything.

I think sometimes people don’t need another lecture or bailout—they need a shot at redemption and someone to believe they can change.

He lied to me, yes. And that hurt.

But the truth? I’m proud of the man he’s becoming.

He’s not perfect. But he’s trying.

And that’s more than he’s ever done before.

If you’ve got someone in your life who’s messed up more times than you can count—hold them accountable, yes. But leave the door open. Sometimes people just need one moment of truth to turn everything around.

Thanks for reading. If this made you feel something, give it a like or share—it might help someone else too.

The post My Brother Got 3 Women Pregnant And Kept Borrowing Money—Until He Told Me The Real Reason appeared first on Interesting Usa.