Chapter 3: History Repeats

In my previous life, my cousin dropped out in his sophomore year of high school to deliver food, saying college graduates weren't worth much these days.

He strutted around town like a local celebrity, ballcap turned backward, phone buzzing with DoorDash pings. He’d tell anyone who’d listen, “Man, why waste time on school when you can pull in real money now?”

After graduation, he said, the salary was even less than delivering food.

I remember sitting across from him at Applebee’s, listening to his half-baked math. “A degree gets you a desk and a headache. I get tips and freedom.” The waitress kept refilling our Cokes, pretending not to hear as Tyler bragged about his DoorDash tips.

I tried to persuade him, telling him that a diploma was more important than anything now, but he wouldn't listen—nor would my uncle and aunt.

Every Thanksgiving, I’d get cornered by Uncle Mike, who’d say, “You book-smart types don’t know real life.” No matter what I said, they just heard ‘city kid snobbery.’

Sure enough, in his first month delivering food, he made over $1,000, and in the second month, even reached $2,000.

He’d post screenshots of his weekly earnings on Facebook, racking up likes and jealous comments. His mom would brag about him at the diner. “My Tyler’s a go-getter, not like those college types with their fancy debt.”

At that time, I had just graduated from college, finally found a job, and my salary wasn't even $800 a month.

I was sharing a tiny studio in Columbus, eating store-brand ramen, and watching Tyler fill up his gas tank without blinking. It stung more than I let on.

From then on, my cousin Tyler and I became their classic example of "studying is not as good as delivering food."

Every time I went home, I was the cautionary tale. “Why go to college and end up like Jason?” they’d say. My aunts would shake their heads, sipping watery coffee.

But what they didn't know was, three years later, I had changed jobs three times, and my salary rose with each move.

I’d hustled through internships, networked at downtown mixers, and eaten more cold pizza than I cared to count. Each leap got me closer to something real.

By now, my monthly salary was already $5,000.

I had my own place, a beat-up Jeep, and even splurged on a new mattress. I was finally breathing easier.

But my cousin, from running orders every day, sometimes had fluid build-up in his knees three times a month, and walked with a limp.

The wear and tear caught up to him. He’d hobble into the kitchen at family gatherings, rubbing his swollen knee, popping Advil like candy. The shine in his eyes faded, replaced by a quiet frustration.

That time, he ran a red light at an intersection and collided with a big truck, causing a serious accident.

It was all over the local news: "Food Delivery Driver Injured in High-Speed Collision on Route 17." The mangled remains of his bicycle made the lead photo. Aunt Linda cried for days.

In my previous life, after getting my uncle and aunt's call, I rushed over immediately.

I didn’t even pack a bag, just grabbed my keys and drove through the night, hands trembling on the wheel. I remember the gas station lights blurring past, my thoughts circling like vultures.

The doctor said the injuries were very severe, amputation was certain, and a quick decision was needed, otherwise the other leg would probably be lost too.

The surgeon spoke in clipped, urgent tones. “We have to move now, or we’re looking at septic shock. Do you understand?”

My uncle and aunt cried on the phone and couldn't make a decision.

They wept into the phone, voices breaking, unable to utter the word "amputation." I could feel their fear bleeding through every syllable.

My cousin cried and begged for conservative treatment.

Tyler’s voice was hoarse, almost childlike: “Please, Jason, don’t let them cut me up. I’ll be careful, I promise.”

The doctor urged me on my end, so I tried to persuade them to listen to the doctor.

The weight of the whole family fell on my shoulders. I called and called, trying to convince them through a haze of exhaustion and terror.

My uncle and aunt hesitated until they couldn't any longer, then finally agreed to the amputation.

It took what felt like hours, every second another mile between us and hope. When they finally said "yes," I almost collapsed from relief and grief both.

But they couldn't make it in time, so they had me sign the papers for them.

The nurse handed me the clipboard, face blank but eyes pitying. I signed with shaking hands, the pen scratching loud in the silent hallway.

Who knew, when my cousin woke up and found his right leg gone, he screamed and smashed everything in the hospital room.

He hurled his water pitcher at the wall, shattered the remote, ripped out his IV, howling like a wounded animal. Nurses rushed in, but he fought them off.

He screamed that I’d always been out to ruin him, that I never wanted him to get ahead. The words hit harder than I’d ever admit.

By then my uncle and aunt had already arrived, but didn't say a word, and forced me to take all the blame.

They wouldn’t meet my gaze, just nodded along as Tyler’s accusations echoed. Every visitor heard the story: how I made the call, how I ruined him.

Later, they said there was no one to take care of the chickens and ducks back home and had to rush back, so they shoved my cousin into my new apartment and made me take care of him.

They left in a flurry of excuses, their car packed with grocery bags and old Tupperware, waving me off with a list of Tyler’s meds and a sack of homegrown tomatoes. "Just help him for a while," Aunt Linda said, voice already distant.

After that, my cousin refused to leave, saying I had to be responsible.

He barricaded himself in my living room, barking orders and sulking when I suggested rehab. Every day felt heavier, my patience stretched thinner than cheap toilet paper.

He even pushed me out the window from the 25th floor on my wedding day, and didn't spare my fiancée either.

That nightmare replayed every time I closed my eyes: the shock, the pain, the sound of glass shattering, my fiancée’s scream lost in the wind. The world went black before I even hit the pavement.