The Scapegoat Daughter’s Beautiful Revenge

I was the glitch in a family of masterpieces.

My parents and sister treated my existence like a long-running inside joke. My mother called me her little eyesore, and my sister once suggested I start a TikTok channel dedicated to ugly-girl transformations, minus the transformation part.

Even the relatives couldn't help themselves during the holidays: Are you sure shes yours, Robert? She doesnt have a single one of your features.

For twenty-three years, I played the part of the family clown because it was easier than being the family disappointment. I worked three jobs, saved every cent, and finally scraped together twenty thousand dollars for the corrective jaw surgery and orthodontics Id needed since middle school.

I went to the clinic to finalize the surgery date, my heart light for the first time in my life. But the receptionist looked at me with a mix of pity and exhaustion.

Ms. Miller, your mother came in this morning. She caused such a scene we couldnt even open the doors for two hours.

I froze, the blood draining from my face.

She demanded a refund on the grounds that youre a minorwhich we told her you arentbut then she started screaming about malpractice and 'scamming a girl whos beyond help.' To get her to leave, the manager processed the refund. The twenty thousand is back in her account.

I called her, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone.

My mothers voice was breezy, as if she were discussing the weather. Oh, Casey, lets be real. No surgeon can fix what nature messed up. That money was better spent on something that actually appreciates in value. Your sister needed a new bag for her firm's galasomething that actually matches her face.

The call ended. My reflection stared back at me from the darkened phone screen.

The harsh truth finally sank in: in this family, if you werent beautiful, you werent a daughter. You were just an expense.

1.

Look, Casey, your mom was a nightmare. We just couldnt handle it, the receptionist said, her eyes darting away. She looked at me like I was a contagion she might catch if she stayed too close.

I couldnt even process the words. My vision blurred, and the first tear hit the counter with a quiet thud.

Please, don't start crying here, she whispered, her voice sharpening with disdain. She already chased off three of our high-end clients this morning, yelling about how 'ugly people shouldn't bother trying.' Were the ones who should be crying over lost commissions.

She took two steps back, a clear gesture of social distancing from my misery.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her that it was my money, my sweat, my blood. But my parents voices, echoes from a thousand childhood dinners, choked me: Stop making those faces, Casey. When you cry, you look even more hideous.

The shame was a physical weight, dragging my shoulders down. I didn't fight. I just turned and fled.

On the Uber ride home, I opened Instagram. My sister, Madeline, had posted a new photo.

Heart-shaped face, doe eyes, skin like filtered silk. She was radiant, the kind of beauty that made the vintage Chanel bag on her arm look like a mere accessory. She was sandwiched between Mom and Dad, all three of them beaming.

The caption read: Twin-check! Can you even tell whos the mom and whos the daughter? #FamilyGenes #GalaReady

The comments were a sea of fire emojis and heart-eyes. God really has favorites, one read. That bone structure is elite.

Then, I saw Madelines reply to a friend who asked if there were any more of them at home:

You wouldn't say that if you met my sister. We have one little genetic glitch in the basement! ~

She had attached a "throwback" photo of us from last Christmas. She had her arm around my neck, pulling me into the frame. I looked trapped. My skin was sallow, my jaw was noticeably misaligneda pronounced underbiteand my eyes were puffed from a secret cry in the bathroom.

Standing next to Madeline, I didn't just look plain. I looked like a cautionary tale.

In a family of high bridges and wide eyes, I was the anomaly. Every time we went out, strangers would stop my mother to gush over Madeline. Shes a doll! She took the best of both of you.

Then their eyes would slide to me, and the smile would falter into a confused, polite grimace. And... is this the younger one?

My parents faces would drop. My dad would let out a dry, forced chuckle. Yeah, this one? We don't know who she took after. If I hadn't been in the delivery room, Id swear there was a mix-up at the hospital. We just call her the 'Little Eyesore.'

As a child, I didn't understand the concept of aesthetics. I just knew that I was the only one kept out of the light.

Don't eat that, Casey. Youre already an eyesore; being fat will just make it a tragedy.

You want to take ballet with Madeline? Youd look like a toad hopping around. Lets not embarrass ourselves.

That pink dress looks garish on you. Keep it for the house. Don't go outside and shame me.

They said these things with a smile, like they were doing me a favor by being "honest."

When I was fifteen, I saved up my allowance to buy some drugstore makeup. Madeline caught me trying to cover my acne and contour my jawline. She took photos of me mid-blend, laughing until she cried. Look at you! You look like a clown in a horror movie. It actually makes it worse!

My mom walked in and swiped the products off the vanity, throwing them into the trash. Focus on your grades, Casey. You don't have the face for vanity. Next months allowance is cancelled since you want to waste it on trash.

Belittlement, insults, mockery... I had lived in that cold shadow for twenty years. I had worked myself to the bone to save for this surgery, thinking I could finally start my real life.

The Uber pulled up to our driveway. I was still crying, but the sorrow was being overtaken by a white-hot, jagged rage. I marched toward the front door, ready to demand my life back.

But as I reached the door, I heard laughter coming from the living room.

You guys won't believe it, my mothers voice rang out, bright and amused. Our little eyesore actually thought she could 'fix' herself. Shes been hoarding money for plastic surgery!

2.

The living room was full of people. A few aunts and cousins had stopped by for a pre-holiday drink.

My mother was leaning back, wine glass in one hand, gesturing dramatically with the other. The poor thing. I told her, 'Honey, even a master sculptor couldn't find a jawline in that mess.' Thank God I caught it before she threw twenty thousand dollars down the drain!

An aunt chimed in, I always wondered why she was being so stingy lately. To think, surgery! Its so dangerous, moving bones around. Shes already... well, plain. Imagine if they messed up and her face stayed paralyzed? It would be a disaster.

Another aunt, Sarah, tried to play the diplomat. She cleared her throat awkwardly. Oh, come on, Diana. Casey isn't... I mean, shes very... hardworking. She has a very 'salt of the earth' look. The kind of girl whos built for a long, quiet marriage.

The room went silent. Aunt Sarah looked down at her drink, sensing shed failed to find a genuine compliment.

Then, my parents and the other relatives exchanged looks and burst into laughter.

Salt of the earth! my mom wheezed, slapping her knee. Thats one way to put it! Shes always been our little comedy act.

I stood in the doorway, the air in my lungs turning to ice. My blood felt like it was rushing backward, pounding against my skull.

This was the family ritual. Madeline was the trophy to be polished; I was the punchline to be shared.

How are you so different from the rest of them? Were you a changeling? the relatives would ask me every Thanksgiving.

And my mom would lean in, whispering just loud enough for everyone to hear: Don't tease her, she knows. She knows shes the 'special' one. She tries so hard, though. Last week she tried to style her hair like Madelines. It was like putting a tiara on a gargoyle.

Every year, my pain was served as an appetizer.

I couldnt take it anymore. I stepped into the room, my voice a raw, jagged edge. What gives you the right? That was my money. Give it back to me!

Every head turned. The silence was deafening. I felt exposed, like they were stripping me bare with their judgment. The old, familiar inferiority began to coil around my throat, choking me.

Oh, look at that, my mother said, her smile not wavering. Our little eyesore is growing a backbone. Don't be so sensitive, Casey. Were just talking.

The aunts crowded around me, their eyes sparkling with that fake, performative concern. So, what were you going to get done, honey? Tell us. You can't just go doing these things in secret. Youll get scammed without us to look out for you.

Madeline came down the stairs then, humming a tune. She saw the scene and smirked. She wanted to get her jaw broken and reset. She thinks if her teeth are straight, shell suddenly be a Hadid.

Surgery for your teeth? one cousin asked. But Casey, your teeth are... fine. Theyre functional. Your sister, now, she had that slight overlap when she was tenremember, Diana? You spent a fortune on those specialized Swedish braces. Good thing you did, look at her now.

The conversation immediately pivoted back to Madeline. They circled her like she was a holy relic, praising her smile, her skin, her "perfect" recovery from a minor childhood flaw.

I stood there, tears streaming down my face. My voice was a hoarse whisper. The doctor said... he said my underbite could have been fixed with a simple retainer when I was seven. It would have cost almost nothing back then.

But you never looked at me. You never cared.

When Madelines teeth were even a fraction of a millimeter out of alignment, it was a family emergency. Countless specialist visits, thousands of dollars.

But with me, they just watched as my face grew lopsided, my jaw protruding more every year. They didn't feel pity. They didn't feel guilt. They just felt amused.

Youre getting weirder looking every year, Casey.

Little Eyesore, that nickname really fits you more and more, doesn't it?

3.

The years of accumulated bitterness finally overflowed. I wiped my face with the back of my hand, but the tears kept coming.

The relatives started to look uncomfortable. They shifted in their seats, offering half-hearted, patronizing comforts. Oh, Casey, youre not ugly. Youre... unique. Dont cry. It makes your face all blotchy.

They nudged each other, their eyes full of that cruel, "can you believe this drama?" sparkle.

My mothers patience snapped. She let out a sharp tsk. What is this performance? Who are you trying to impress with these theatrics? Its the holidays, for Gods sake. Dont be embarrassing.

Why? I sobbed, my ability to think rationally gone. I just needed to bleed the pain out. Why do you always call me that? Why have you spent my whole life making sure I knew I was the 'ugly' one?

My mom actually laughed. She looked at my dad, then back at me. Are you serious? Look in a mirror, Casey. Have you no self-awareness? Madeline, go get a mirror. Lets let her stand next to you and see if she still has questions.

She didn't stop. She kept twisting the knife. Look, were just being honest. Were trying to give you a sense of reality so you don't go out there making a fool of yourself. Look at what youre wearingthat sweater makes you look lumpy. When youre... aesthetically challenged... you have to work harder at your style, not just give up. People will laugh at you.

I felt like I couldn't breathe. My chest was a hollowed-out cavern.

Yes, I choked out. I hate you. I hate both of you.

I hate the casual way you crushed me.

Since I was a toddler, they treated Madeline like a porcelain doll. If she walked across the room, theyd rave: Look at Madelines posture! Shes like a little swan.

I could be sitting perfectly still, and my father would look at me with a sneer. Look at her, slouching. With that face, the least she could do is sit up straight so she doesn't look so... pathetic.

The word "ugly" was my shadow.

In high school, while Madeline was the homecoming queen, I was the girl with the cystic acne and the oily hair. My parents didn't buy me skin treatments; they bought me a lecture. My god, what is happening to your face? Its genuinely hard to look at. What are we going to do with you?

Casey, get some bangs. Cover that forehead.

Just wear your oversized hoodies. At least theyre neutral.

I listened to them. I believed them.

I developed a permanent slouch. I kept my head down. I wore masks long before the pandemic, just to hide. I wanted to disappear. My adolescence wasn't a time of "firsts" or "memories"; it was a long, dark tunnel of dysmorphia. I assumed every laugh I heard in the hallway was directed at me. I assumed everyone saw the "eyesore" my parents saw.

When I went away to college, three states away, I started to breathe. New friends would pull my hair back, or ask why I always wore a mask.

Youre not ugly, Casey. Youre just... tired. Lets try some tinted moisturizer.

Encouraged, I tried. I grew out the bangs. I learned to use a brow pencil. But even when I felt "pretty," the ghost of my mothers voice was there. If a group of girls laughed at a nearby table, Id spiral. Is my foundation too thick? Can they see my jaw? Are they laughing because the ugly girl is trying too hard?

The insecurity was in my marrow.

I once worked up the courage to post a selfie on Instagramheavily filtered, carefully angled. Id forgotten to block my family.

Madelines comment was the first one: Oof, Casey, that makeup isn't doing what you think its doing. Aren't you afraid people will see you in person and be shocked? #Catfish

My moms follow-up: Youre trying too hard to be 'glam.' Makeup just clogs your pores and makes your skin worse. Stick to the basics, honey.

I deleted the photo. I threw away the makeup.

When I came home for the summer, my mother didn't even say hello. She just looked at my plain face and smirked. Oh, good. You stopped wearing that 'slutty' makeup. You finally realized it was a losing battle?

Madeline chimed in, You need to lose ten pounds before you try wearing a sundress like that again, Casey. Some clothes require a certain... face... to pull them off.

4.

Little Eyesore. The "Glitch."

The "honest" advice that felt like lead weights.

I looked at themmy beautiful, perfect parents and my radiant sister. They were a united front of aesthetic superiority.

You call me 'small-minded' and 'antisocial,' I yelled, my voice cracking. But you made me this way! You told me my smile was hideous, so I stopped smiling. You told me I moved like a toad, so I stopped dancing. You told me I looked like a joke in a dress, so I stopped trying to be pretty.

Every time I tried to climb out of the hole, they stepped on my fingers.

I hate you! I hate that you did this to me!

The room went dead silent. My mother blinked, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her face, followed quickly by indignation.

Youve got a lot of nerve, she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. We gave you everything. Youve never wanted for food or a roof. And this is the thanks we get? Because we were 'honest' about your looks? A stranger would have been much crueler.

I clenched my fists so hard my nails drew blood. I didn't want honesty! I wanted a mother! I wanted someone to tell me I was smart, or kind, or anything other than a disappointment to the family photo album!

Oh, please, my mother scoffed. Youve had a perfectly fine life. Stop acting like a martyr.

I wanted to laugh. A fine life?

Madelines closet was a boutique. Mine was a collection of hand-me-downs and clearance-rack neutrals. Madeline had private coaches for everythingpiano, dance, tennis. I was told we "couldn't afford" the extracurriculars I wanted, while Mom bought Madeline a four-thousand-dollar gown for a debutante ball she didn't even win.

I walked to school alone from the age of six because Madeline told my parents, Shes so weird looking, people will think shes my maid or something. Its embarrassing to be seen with her.

I spent twenty years walking in the rain while they picked her up in a warm car. I spent twenty years being the "before" picture in their minds.

Youre biased! I screamed. Youre so obsessed with her beauty that youve treated me like trash for two decades! Why? Just because of a jawline? Just because I didn't get your nose?

The relatives began to whisper. My parents were starting to look rattled by the public spectacle.

Go to your room, Casey, my dad said, his voice a stern rumble. Youre making a scene.

No! Give me my money! You stole twenty thousand dollars from me to buy a bag for the daughter you actually like!

Slap.

The sound echoed like a gunshot. My mother had swung with everything she had. My head snapped to the side, and my ear began to ring.

I didn't raise a thief, she spat, though she was the one who had taken my funds. I raised a daughter. If you want to act like a stranger, then leave. Get out of my house.

I looked at her. Even in her rage, she was stunning. My father stood behind her, his handsome face set in a mask of cold disappointment. Madeline stood to the side, her arms crossed, looking bored.

They were a set. And I was the packing material.

Fine, I said, my voice finally steadying into something cold and dead. Keep the money. Consider it the 'ugly tax' Im paying to finally be rid of you. Im leaving. And you never have to worry about your family photos being ruined by me ever again.