Almost everyone has felt that strange, uncomfortable moment when something that once felt meaningful begins to feel overwhelming. Dear Abby, the celebrated advice column written by Abigail Van Buren and now continued by Jeanne Phillips, has spent decades guiding readers through these precisely human dilemmas. Two recent letters, printed side by side, capture two very different but surprisingly similar struggles. The first comes from a California reader who signs himself “Full Mailbox.” He is a loyal donor to children’s cancer research hospitals, someone who has given generously for years, even decades, because he genuinely believes in the mission. The second comes from a 50-year-old man who signs himself “My Brother’s Keeper.” He is grieving the recent death of his mother and trying to figure out whether he should seek legal guardianship over his 52-year-old brother, who has never been good with money and is easily taken advantage of by others. On the surface, these are unrelated problems: one is about charity mail, the other about family and finances. But underneath, both letters are asking the same fundamental question. How do you continue to care for a cause or a person when that care starts to cost you peace of mind? How do you protect yourself without becoming cold? How do you set boundaries without losing what matters most? These are not easy questions, and Dear Abby does not pretend to have simple answers. But her responses, rooted in practicality and compassion, remind us that love and generosity must be sustainable, or they will eventually turn into resentment.
The first letter is a painful illustration of what happens when good intentions get buried under paper. The reader explains that for years he has made quarterly contributions to two well-known charities dedicated to children’s cancer research. He believes in their work. He has written checks gladly and never hesitated to support the cause. One of the two charities continues to send its polite, predictable quarterly request, and he sends a check without complaint. The other, however, has slowly transformed into an endless fundraising machine. What began as monthly requests became weekly requests, then multiple requests every single week. On top of the letters, he has started receiving phone calls on his landline, text messages on his phone, and emails in his inbox. This bothers him greatly because he never gave those charities his phone number or email address. He only gave them his mailing address. Yet somehow they have reached every corner of his life. Then came the final straw. One day, he found seven pieces of mail in his mailbox. Six were donation requests. Five were from organizations he had never even heard of. The pattern was obvious to him: his name and address had been sold or shared with other nonprofits. He felt less like a valued donor and more like a piece of inventory, a target on a list. He could almost imagine the administrators counting how many envelopes they could send for the price of his last gift. The very money he had given in goodwill seemed to be funding more and more aggressive requests for more money. He became exhausted, insulted, and finally determined to stop supporting the charities he had once loved. He decided to take his giving elsewhere, to local school programs where he could see the impact and trust that his generosity would not be traded to strangers. His letter is not just a complaint about junk mail; it is a story about a relationship breaking. He did not stop believe in the cause. He stopped believing that the institution still saw him as a person rather than a wallet.
Dear Abby’s answer to “Full Mailbox” is as practical as it is reassuring. First, she confirms what many donors suspect: yes, charitable organizations do sell, rent, or share donor contact information. According to Give.org, the consumer education arm of the Better Business Bureau, charitable groups often buy and exchange mailing lists with other groups, and the names of people who subscribe to magazines or buy certain products can end up on lists used by various charities. This is not a matter of the donor accidentally doing something wrong. It is simply an uncomfortable reality of the fundraising industry. But Abby does not leave the reader helpless. She offers clear steps to reduce the flood of appeals. The simplest approach is to write directly to the charities whose mail you no longer want and ask them to remove your name from the lists they rent, sell, or exchange. She also points out that a Better Business Bureau standard requires charities to offer donors an opt-out opportunity in their appeals at least once a year. That means the reader likely already has the power to say no, if only he knows how to use it. Abby gives a useful detail: when you contact a charity, enclose the mailing label or return card that came with the appeal. Be sure to add the correct postage to their envelope, and on it write “delete my name” or “return to sender.” This is necessary because charities’ nonprofit mailing rates do not cover return postage. In other words, if you simply send their envelope back without a stamp, the charity may not actually receive it. These instructions may seem small, but they show a deep understanding of how bureaucratic systems work. Abby is not telling the reader to rage against the machine; she is telling him how to confidently operate it. Her broader message is that he does not have to silently endure the pressure. He can take back control of his mailbox, his phone, and his peace. And if he still wants to support children’s cancer research, he can do so in a way that honors his values rather than fueling an endless loop of guilt and guilt trips.
The second letter is much heavier, and it touches a nerve for many families. “My Brother’s Keeper” begins by explaining that his mother passed away last year. He is 50 years old, and his brother is 52. Their mother is gone, and with her death, a difficult question has risen to the surface: who will look out for the brother who cannot look out for himself? The reader describes his brother as someone who has never been good with money. He is gullible. He lets people take advantage of him. Perhaps he trusts too easily, or perhaps he simply does not have the skills to manage his own finances. The reader wants to help, but his brother will not let him. They already have a rocky relationship, and the reader worries that taking control of his brother’s money would only make things worse. At the same time, he fears the consequences of doing nothing. What if his brother loses everything? What if someone cleans out his bank account or tricks him into signing away his home? The reader would feel guilty, and he believes his mother would have wanted him to step in. So he asks Dear Abby whether he should pursue a guardianship or let his brother fend for himself. Anyone who has dealt with a struggling sibling can feel the weight of this question. There is love underneath it, but there is also fear, frustration, and exhaustion. The reader is not trying to dominate his brother. He is trying to honor a promise he feels he made to his mother, or perhaps to the family itself. And he is caught between two painful possibilities: being hated for interfering, or hating himself for standing by. Grief only makes the situation more complicated. He has already lost his mother. The idea of losing his brother, emotionally or financially, may feel unbearable.
Dear Abby responds with sympathy and practical caution. She begins by offering her condolences for the loss of their mother. Then she gently notes that it is unfortunate these questions were not settled before she passed away. That is not a reproach; it is a reminder that planning ahead can spare families impossible decisions during times of grief. But the past cannot be changed. The reader must act now, carefully and deliberately. Abby advises him to discuss the situation with an attorney. This is crucial because guardianship is not just a matter of good intentions. It involves legal authority, court procedures, and serious consequences for the person placed under guardianship. An attorney can explain what options are available, what the process looks like, and whether a less restrictive arrangement might be better suited to the brother’s needs. Abby also emphasizes that whatever route the reader takes, it will need to be explained to his brother. This is not something to be done behind his back or dropped on him as a surprise. The brother is an adult, and even if he struggles with money, he deserves to be treated with dignity. Finally, Abby warns the reader not to put off the conversation, even if it is uncomfortable for one or both of them. This is the kind of advice that sounds simple but is very hard to follow. It is much easier to avoid difficult conversations, especially with family. It is much easier to hope that things will somehow work out. But Abby knows that avoidance rarely leads to clarity. Sometimes the most loving thing a family member can do is speak honestly, consult professionals, and accept the discomfort of doing the right thing slowly and carefully. The reader may never be able to control his brother’s choices completely, but he can choose to be present, informed, and honest about his concerns.
Taken together, these two letters offer a broader lesson about what it means to give and care for others in a world that often demands too much. The donor who was buried in requests is not wrong to walk away from organizations that made him feel like part of a revenue stream. Generosity should be joyful, not stressful. And the brother who worries about his sibling is not wrong to consider taking action, even if that action is difficult and legally complicated. Love does not mean letting someone harm themselves. It sometimes means stepping in, setting boundaries, and asking for help from lawyers and counselors. Both readers are struggling with the same underlying problem: how to keep their own hearts open when the systems and people around them seem to be pushing them toward resentment. Dear Abby’s answers are not cynical. They are grounded in the belief that we can protect ourselves and still care deeply. For the donor, that might mean choosing smaller, local organizations where every check is seen and appreciated. For the brother, that might mean having a frank conversation with an attorney and with his brother, even if the conversation is painful. In both cases, the endpoint is not isolation. It is a more honest, more sustainable way of giving. The donor will still support causes that matter to him, but he will do so on his own terms. The brother will still try to protect the family he has left, but he will not do it blindly. In the end, these letters are not really about mail or money. They are about the quiet dignity of deciding where our energy, our gifts, and our love should go. And that is a decision no one should make while feeling overwhelmed, guilty, or afraid.
