This is going to sound like some Jerry Springer type of stuff, but I honestly don’t know where else to post this. I just need to get it out, and maybe someone out there can tell me if I’m actually being an asshole or if I’m just finally standing up for myself.

My father came back into my life 20 years after disappearing — and by “disappearing,” I mean after violently attacking my mom and twelve younger siblings and getting locked up. I was only 3 at the time, and honestly, I don’t remember much from those years except flashing lights, screaming, and then being taken away.

I ended up in an orphanage, then bounced around between foster homes until I aged out. I didn’t get adopted. No sweet reunion. No fairytale family. Just trauma, abuse, neglect, and silence. I found out years later that my mom didn’t survive the attack. I found out from some counselor during one of my many juvenile stints. That was how I processed my mother’s death — in a cold office with a folder and a stranger who had a “This is hard, huh?” look on her face.

As for my siblings? I have no idea where they are. All twelve of them vanished into the system just like I did. I’ve tried searching, but nothing’s ever come up. I don’t even know if they’re alive.

I grew up angry. Really angry. I started using young — pills, weed, then whatever I could get my hands on. Coke, meth, heroin. Anything to escape. I OD’d twice before I was 21. I went to rehab three times before I actually made it stick. I’ve been clean for six months now. I worked hard to rebuild myself. I got a job, a little apartment, and eventually I met my wife. She was everything I wasn’t — stable, kind, normal. At least that’s what I thought.

We got married four months ago. Had two kids, twins. I’ve never known love like I do when I look at them. I swore I’d never become the kind of man my father was. I’ve kept that promise every day of my life.

Then, six weeks ago, my wife told me she had someone she wanted me to meet. Said he was “family.” I thought maybe she found one of my siblings. I hoped.

Nope. It was him. My father.

I lost it. Completely. I walked out, sat in the car, and chain-smoked for the first time in years. He looked old, like life had drained the rage out of him, but all I saw was blood and broken memories. She said he was sorry. That he was “trying to make amends.” That he had “found God” or whatever. I didn’t want to hear it. I don’t want him near me, and I damn sure don’t want him near my kids.

But here’s where it gets twisted.

My wife won’t stop inviting him over. She says “the kids deserve to know their grandfather.” That “he’s changed.” That “he’s part of the family.”

And every time I say no, she gets distant. Cold. Like I’m the problem. I finally snapped and told her: “Stop inviting the man who destroyed my life into our home. He’s not family to me.”

She got real quiet, then said: “He’s my brother. He’s changed.”

I didn’t even register it at first. I thought she meant “like a brother” or something.

But no. He’s literally her brother.

We’ve been together for a while, met in rehab. She knew the whole time. Never told me. I don’t even know what to do with that information. I feel sick. Betrayed. Confused. I can’t tell if this is some twisted setup, or if she really thought this was okay.

So yeah. AITA for putting my foot down? For saying “No, my kids don’t need to know the man who beat my mother to death”? Even if he’s “changed”? Even if he’s her brother?

Because to me, this feels like a nightmare