My brother did not fail to love his family.

He loved them so much, and feared their disappointment so terribly, that his love curdled into a paralysis that nearly destroyed the very people it was aimed at.

That is a sickness, but it is a sickness of a person who cares, not of a person who does not, and a person who cares can be healed, slowly, painfully, over years, because the raw material of repair, which is love, is present in them, buried under the shame.

This is not an excuse.