I am woken by a loud commotion. It's 1996, and I'm ten years old, two years older than my brother, Randy. He is banging on the wall our rooms share—BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!—and screaming, "I'M SO STUPID! I WANT TO DIE!" Our mother, Feryn, runs into his room and I follow close behind. Amber hair matted against her damp forehead, she moves toward him, seated in the worn wooden chair by his desk, and cups her clammy hands around his pale face. She holds him close. He tries to smash his fist against the wall, and then his head, but she catches him just in time. I stand in the doorway in my pajamas. He looks over at me, his eyes red and awash in sadness. "Why can't I be normal like you, Dan?" he asks. He buries his hands in his lap and screams, "IT'S NOT FAIR! I HATE MYSELF!" My mother cries with him. "I love you with all my heart," she says, holding him tightly around his waist, trying her best to calm him. "Please, never forget that. I love you."

My brother has always wanted what most of us do: love. Someone to care about. Someone who will care in return. Someone other than our mother.

FARAH PART I, 2014

Slumped in his bedroom chair, Randy scrolled through profiles of single women. He was exhausted and slightly sweaty, and hadn't felt like doing much else. He certainly didn't want to clean; clothing was piled high on the floor, Cheetos stains dappled his unmade bed. After a few clicks, in a dating group on Facebook, he came across the woman he would later intend to marry. He was instantly drawn to her round face and beaming smile, and he built up the courage to send a friend request. Farah (not her real name) quickly added him back, and they began chatting. Like my brother, she had distinct quirks, repeating odd phrases in rhythm like a metronome. She was the only girl who seemed to fall in love with him instantly—the only person in the world who cared to understand him. Farah lived in Malaysia and he lived in Orlando; meeting in person was an insurmountable barrier separated by 10,000 miles, but that didn't stop them from talking about it all the time.

Edward Linsmier for Esquire

She was 34, the oldest woman with whom Randy, then 26, had formed a bond. She was plump and charismatic, a safety controller for a Malaysian airline. She would call early, 6:00 a.m. his time—at first he'd be startled from sleep but was soon enough waiting expectantly by his computer for the ring—and they would talk for hours on Skype about everything: theme parks, Asian cuisine, sports, and romance. Sometimes they would quarrel over petty jealousies. Randy, always ill equipped to read others' emotions, would become nervous she might leave him and threaten to stop eating if she did. Farah felt he sought attention because he was lonely, and she wanted to be there for him because she was lonely, too.

Randy is now 27, one of 3.5 million Americans on the autism spectrum. He suffers from what is officially called PDD, or pervasive developmental disorder, a condition whose symptoms vary enormously—hence the term "spectrum"—but are generally characterized by delays in the maturation of socialization and communication skills. Doctors have not yet uncovered its root cause (or causes), leading many to put faith in disproven theories such as vaccinations, pesticides, prenatal exposure to traffic pollution, non-stick cookware, gluten intake, and poor maternal bonding. The typical age of onset is three years old, sometimes younger. Randy had problems from birth. Communication has always been one of his hardest struggles, and meeting someone he could truly connect with was like coming across a match burning brightly in the darkness.

Farah lived in Malaysia and he lived in Orlando; meeting in person was an insurmountable barrier separated by 10,000 miles, but that didn't stop them from talking about it all the time.

After three months of daily conversations, Farah broached a dream she'd been keeping inside: She wanted to birth their child. My brother thought this was a beautiful idea—he'd always wanted a family of his own, a wife and children to care for. Never mind the impracticality: he lived in an assisted-living facility where he was monitored by private care managers who made sure he took his medications—Zoloft and Concerta for mood stability, anti-rejection eye drops to protect his sight as a result of corneal-transplant surgery in 2013. The aides also helped carry out necessary functions of the day: maintaining personal hygiene—showering, shaving, deodorant application—and taking him on errands because he cannot drive.

Soon after, Farah surprised my brother with a plan to visit Florida for a weeklong stay. Logistics could be worked out later; for now, Randy just wanted her to come. On October 1, after a daylong journey from Malaysia, she finally arrived. They embraced as soon as he opened the door, but she pulled away when he leaned in for a kiss. She nervously smiled, and he glanced away. "Sorry," he told her, staring at his feet. "I thought you wanted that." She blushed, and then clapped her hands in delight—it was her way of showing that everything was okay. A blue hijab covered her head and chest; my brother at first thought she liked wearing beautiful scarves on her face. They came from two different worlds: she a Muslim and he a secular Jew. But neither religion nor cultural differences mattered right now. She was timid but struck him as sweet and kind.

Randy did not mention Farah to anyone in our family: not our mother, who lived a 45-minute drive away; not our father and stepmother in Allentown, Pennsylvania; not me across the country in Los Angeles.

The next day my brother's caretaker, Ralph, let himself in for a scheduled visit and walked in on the two of them in bed, catching all parties involved off guard. He stepped outside and immediately called my mother, who was out of town on business. She was shocked and, far away and unable to immediately resolve the crisis, felt helpless.

Randy was told that he could not have a guest stay for an extended period, which struck him as absurd. After a series of failed relationships, he'd found his soul mate, and no one was going to tell him he couldn't be with her. So they called a taxi and fled.

Edward Linsmier for Esquire

My mother panicked. The boy she'd protected so carefully since before he was born had vanished. She phoned 911 to report him missing and called his cell over and over. We all did. At first he did not respond; none of us knew where he was or whether he was all right. We were concerned that he might not have brought his medication. What if his thoughts became jumbled or depressive? What if, without his eye drops, he went blind?

He picked up her call on the second day of his disappearance, but he did not want to talk things through. He was furious: She and everyone else were trying to control his life. He screamed at her to stop calling and promptly hung up.

After a series of failed relationships, he'd found his soul mate, and no one was going to tell him he couldn't be with her. So they called a taxi and fled.

The police searched for Randy for a week. They warned my mother that Farah could be conning Randy, that such things happen to people with disabilities all the time. They looked in downtown Orlando but had no leads and gave up the search.

Seven days after he disappeared, Randy returned to his apartment with Farah in tow. They'd been at a nearby hotel, feverishly having sex in an effort to get pregnant. He didn't care how much trouble he'd be in: He had that look in his eyes, like he couldn't get enough of her. He was filled with happiness, something he hadn't felt in a long time. But it was time for her to go home.

Randy took Farah to the airport in a cab and said goodbye, promising that they'd see each other again. She left, but he couldn't get home, so Ralph the caretaker picked him up. On the ride back, all he thought about was how much he loved her and that he couldn't wait until they could talk again. All he had left in Florida now was my mother's love.

CHILDHOOD, 1988-2007

Randy's issues began before he took his first breath. As a fetus, he was implanted low in my mother's uterus, and a series of high-risk OB-GYNs closely monitored the pregnancy to make sure he survived. He was born five weeks early, and my mother knew immediately that something wasn't right: The placenta and umbilical cord were abnormal, and he flopped around like a rag doll for months when she held him in her arms.

He was a very sick preemie; he could barely hold his head up and couldn't keep food down. At six months old he was diagnosed with mild cerebral palsy. Some doctors thought he would never be able to walk; his legs were deformed—both turned at right angles like hockey sticks. But he persisted and continued to grow. He was eventually able to remain upright and then move around, but only with the assistance of plastic braces from his ankles to his waist; even then he had trouble holding proper posture.

Randy struggled to keep saliva in his mouth, a condition that persists to this day. He had difficulty developing speech as a result of weak facial muscles. He defaulted to a slack-jawed, open-mouthed expression. All of this made it hard for him to communicate. He mumbled frequently and preferred to avoid eye contact. He didn't learn to talk until the time he entered preschool. At seven, he was diagnosed with severe attention deficit disorder. An endless stream of speech, occupational, and physical therapy appointments defined the first several years of his life.

From kindergarten to second grade, Randy attended a private institution for children with learning disabilities; from third through sixth he went to public school but wasn't able to keep pace with his peers. With all the attention he got, I often felt neglected and would occasionally lash out at the family. But more often, I felt bad for him because of his condition, even though I didn't fully comprehend it. I also hated the stress it put on our parents. I did my best to remain the strong older sister.

My parents decided to send him to a boarding school for children with special needs when he was 13. Around this time, my parents separated and later divorced, further throwing off my brother's fragile stability. Hearing them fight at home was hard on him; he'd get deeply sad and confused, not understanding why two people who'd loved each other so much couldn't work it out. Didn't they have what he'd always wanted?

My brother's childhood in our hometown of Allentown was rough, filled with bullying and loneliness. I can see it so clearly, a Super 8 film flickering in the back of my mind: Randy being harassed at a nearby country club we'd swim at each summer. Kids shouted "Stupid!" and "Retard!" He would try to keep his composure; but more often than not would get irritated, snap back, and end up in tears, sitting alone in a plastic pool chair by the snack bar. I'd comfort him, which probably made the ridicule worse, but I couldn't bear to see him in pain. All he wanted was real friends; he wanted to be liked. He'd purchase french fries, candy, and soda on my parents' account for all the boys who'd just made fun of him.

My brother's childhood was rough, filled with bullying and loneliness. I can see it so clearly, a Super 8 film flickering in the back of my mind: Randy being harassed, kids shouting "Stupid!" and "Retard!"

Despite the endless parade of hardships, Randy found joy in plenty of places. His favorite pastime was watching the Philadelphia Flyers; he remains a die-hard fan. He obsessively listened to nu-metal and watched bro-y comedies on repeat. He found solace in video games. His friends were almost all gamers he met online but never in person, and thus did not tend to notice his disabilities. But most of all, he wanted love. At his school he met three girls whom he liked and who showed interest in return. They would "date" for a day or two, but nothing substantial ever developed.

MARY, 2008

That summer, at 19 years old, Randy went to stay with our father, Gary, and stepmother, Karen, at their house in Pennsylvania. He attended classes at a center for students with special needs, where he met Mary (not her real name) and he instantly struck up a relationship with her. Our father received a call one day from the center's director, who explained that Randy had been kissing and touching Mary in front of other students during class, behavior that threatened his enrollment. At home, my father sat Randy down to explain why this was socially unacceptable behavior, but my brother didn't care to understand. Although Randy is bright and reasonably articulate, he's often unable to read others' feelings and understand how his actions affect them. Plus, he'd finally found someone with whom he connected, and no one was going to intervene.

Edward Linsmier for Esquire

A week later, Randy and Mary were found kissing in a school closet. The next day, her father called to excoriate our father, who calmed him down and promised that Randy would not be seeing Mary in the future. Later that morning, Mary called to say that she didn't want to be with him anymore.

Not knowing how to process such devastating loss, my brother became inconsolably angry. He twisted his glasses, slammed them to the ground, and began shaking. He curled in a ball on the floor. "I want to die! I'm going to kill myself!" he shouted at Karen. She called my father and told him to come home from work. Karen had become used to Randy's frequent outbursts and usually knew how to pacify him, but this was different: He was threatening to harm himself.

Randy had reached his breaking point. He didn't know what else to do—Mary wanted nothing to do with him and he couldn't understand why. He was sent to a psychiatric-care unit for ten days. I spoke to him during that time from Los Angeles, where I'd eventually move. Over the phone, his voice thin and shaky; he was scared and uncertain of his future. He could barely utter a word. I wished so badly I could be there, but knew there was little I could do from so far away.

He was diagnosed with depression and spent six weeks in outpatient therapy, learning to cope with the loss of the first true love of his life.

AMY, 2009

After his 21st birthday, he met Amy (not her real name), a 17-year-old autistic girl at his new vocational-technical school in Pennsylvania. He was there to study the hospitality industry and learn how to cook; she was there to study hospitality, too. At first she was dating someone else in school, but as soon as they broke up, my brother asked her out. She accepted, and they began a sweet courtship.

The hospitality students were occasionally responsible for serving lunch. But following societal cues was difficult for Randy, and his own desires often trumped how others expected him to act. One day, when my brother was supposed to accept the cafeteria's food delivery, he instead snuck off to fool around with Amy and was caught. My father once again received a call about the incident. This time, though, Amy's parents were aware of the relationship and had already met Randy. They approved of what had developed between the two.

Problems between them soon began. She was overly affectionate, and he often did not want to reciprocate—the touch from another person took an enormous amount of trust. At times her attention made him uncomfortable. When she smiled at him and leaned in, her lips seeking his, he turned to peck her on the cheek. She'd poke him as a way of flirting, which he found annoying rather than endearing. But he wanted this to work; his drive to keep trying despite the obvious signs otherwise was a way to protect against feeling rejected. He may not have understood how to be the perfect boyfriend all of the time, but he wanted to be. Being alone was so much worse.

Edward Linsmier for Esquire

Randy and Amy dated for a year and a half. Their love was at times as strong as any I've seen between any couple, but perhaps due to her disability or young age, Amy had difficulty finding safety and comfort. As a result, my brother started feeling worse. She'd alternately ask for affirmation—"What do you think of me?" "Am I pretty?" "Do you like me?"—and act petty, calling him ugly and talking to her ex-boyfriend just to get a rise out of Randy. At first, he did his best to alleviate the former by telling her she was attractive and just ignore the latter, but he eventually couldn't get past it. "Stop asking me the same questions over and over," he'd say. "You are hurting my brain." The relationship eventually caused him so much stress that he broke up with her. They quickly got back together, but then Amy called things off in 2010. It wouldn't be the last time he saw her.

VIRTUAL LOVES, 2010

After his second breakup with Amy, he had four short-lived, online-only relationships—little more than digital outlets for his loneliness and frustration. Just as he found friends when he was younger, seeking out love on the Internet was a way of combating his disability; he could become someone different from who he was in real life. Both my father and Karen would ask him about these budding online relationships, but he didn't like to talk about them—it wasn't any of their business. Plus, finding the words to express the feelings bubbling inside his body was tough.

The touch from another person took an enormous amount of trust. When she smiled at him and leaned in, her lips seeking his, he turned to peck her on the cheek.

I tried to give him dating advice, telling him that it might be better to meet women in person. I offered dating tips like buying girls flowers and writing love notes. "Why do you have to do that?" he asked me. "Can't you just tell a girl you like her?" He didn't entirely get it, but he tried. He'd compose poetry on his computer for the girls he spoke to, but he'd rarely send it to them.

After time apart, Amy convinced Randy to get back together once again. He bought her a $20 heart necklace to show his love. But when he moved to Orlando to be closer to our mother, who had relocated there with our stepfather, the relationship's instability resumed. In May of 2011, she broke up with him for the last time. The distance was too hard. He was upset for weeks, but rebounded by talking to women online. Then, several years later, he met Farah.

FARAH PART II, 2015

Soon after she returned to Malaysia, Farah's father passed away. Randy and she continued talking, he one of her main sources of support. She wasn't pregnant—their Orlando lovemaking hadn't done the trick—but she was more resolved than ever to make this work: Over Skype, she asked for his hand in marriage. My brother agreed; he wanted a committed relationship more than anything, and he'd never met anyone he loved as much as her. He didn't tell any of us about the engagement.My father and stepmother wanted to meet the woman so in love with my brother that she had come halfway around the world to be with him. So in March, Randy and Farah flew to Allentown to spend the week. My mother thought this was a terrible idea. In fact, she thought the whole relationship was a terrible idea.

The first day, they locked themselves in a bedroom upstairs; my father couldn't avoid hearing them having sex for hours. They even broke the bed frame. Farah came down later that night clad only a bathrobe. My father asked her calmly to put on more clothes, a request she ignored. She told him that she had been speaking to her deceased father in her dreams and that he told her that my father was a good man. Perhaps this was her way of winning over my father. She went back upstairs.

The next day, my father returned from an errand to find his financial documents had been removed from the filing cabinet in his office and were strewn across the floor. Farah emerged from upstairs, where my brother remained, and began berating him, saying that he was spoiled and should be ashamed of himself for spending as much money as he did. Shocked at the confrontation, he told her, angrily, that his and his wife's finances were none of her fucking business.

That evening, Farah sat them down in the living room and asked for their blessing for her and Randy's proposed marriage, as if the earlier incident hadn't occurred. My father responded with a definitive no. Randy just sat and listened to her beg—he often remained quiet when emotions between people became muddled. At times he would chime in and tell them why he wanted to get married too, but he mostly remained silent.

The next day, my father and Karen left the house and called my mother to devise a plan on how to best navigate the thorny situation. They decided that this was dangerous for Randy—Farah didn't seem healthy, and her intentions were unclear—and that she had to leave. My mother called Randy to tell him the news, and my father and Karen headed back home.

They returned, only to find that Randy had locked all the doors, keys inside—he was furious that my mother was now involved, but above all else, he couldn't stand that his family didn't want him to be happy. He yelled from behind the front door; they yelled right back.

Eventually he relented and unlocked the door. Once in the house, my father demanded that Farah leave for a hotel, where she'd remain until they brought her to an airport. My brother was mortified and desperately wanted Farah, his future bride and mother of his future children, to stay. He urged my dad to reconsider, but it was too late. She refused to go, and they were left no choice but to call the police.

He often remained quiet when emotions between people became muddled.

Two officers arrived and talked to Farah first. She fabricated a story about my father beating my brother. My father explained what was really going on. The officers told her she was trespassing and either had to vacate the premises or be arrested. She left; my brother glanced out the window as the cops drove his love away. She returned to Malaysia. He never had the chance to say goodbye.

RANDY ON THE REBOUND, 2016

"I really did love Farah," Randy says now. He's been divulging the details of his love life for hours in my father's Allentown home. He's impulsive and doesn't always have the strongest sense of cause and effect. But this time, rather than spiral out of control, he realized something was wrong and learned from it. But that doesn't make the loss any easier. "It was the first time I really loved someone, and it was so hard letting her go." He takes off his glasses and wipes his eyes with his index finger and continues. "I think true love is out there, but I know it's hard to find. Yes, I am handicapped. Yes, I have special needs, but my disabilities have nothing to do with love whatsoever."

Edward Linsmier for Esquire

Randy is hopeful that one day he will meet someone who loves him, but he still has woman problems; six months ago, he was stood up by a girl he met online. His new resolution is to meet women in person, which is much easier now that he has a job: working the food court at the Walt Disney World's Pop Century Resort. On a recent bus ride home from work, Randy hit it off with a 25-year-old woman with no disabilities. My brother got her number, texted her that night, and asked her out on a date. She said yes. He feels like this is someone he could date a long time. But this time around, he wants to take it slow.