I Helped My Dad Botch Himself

After my dad's ninety-ninth business venture went down in flames, he announced his next big plan: conquering the internet.

He had been scrolling through social media, obsessed with the viral plastic Natasha doll trend, and insisted he was going to get head-to-toe plastic surgery to look exactly like her.

I tried to warn him. "Viral fame is a flash in the pan, Dad. Plastic surgery is a permanent scar."

He chickened out and gave up.

But his childhood buddy went through with it instead, became a massive internet sensation, and made so much money his entire family relocated to a tax haven in Europe.

My dad, consumed by the belief that life-changing wealth had been stolen from him, spiraled into a bitter rage. One night, he slipped rat poison into my dinner.

When I opened my eyes again, I was sitting at the dinner table on the exact day he first brought up the surgery.

"If a plastic Natasha doll can pull in millions in sales, the real-life versionmeis bound to make billions!"

At the dinner table, my dads face was flushed red, slurring his words as he bragged to his friends.

I lifted my head and looked at him.

The realization hit me slowly: I had actually gone back in time. Back to the night he announced his plan to reconstruct his face into the likeness of that creepy viral doll.

In my past life, after yet another failed business, my dad had invited his best friend over for drinks to drown his sorrows.

During the dinner, his childhood buddy, Chuck, pulled out his phone and showed us a TikTok of the viral Natasha doll.

"Greg, listen to me," Chuck said, leaning in close. "Our last projectopening a drive-thru vape lounge by the highwaywas just rushed. We didn't do market research, that's why we lost money."

"This time, I asked ChatGPT. As long as we lean hard into the Natasha meme and sell gourmet hot dogs on the boardwalk, well make a killing!"

Lean into it? Like cosplay?

My jaw twitched. I felt entirely numb.

But my dad was already clapping frantically, his eyes shining with manic excitement.

"Yes! That's brilliant! Chuck, you're a genius!"

"But buying those realistic masks and costumes is expensive, and anyone can copy us... What if I just get plastic surgery to look exactly like the doll?"

"I mean, look at those women who get filler to look like Kim Kardashian just to bag a billionaire!"

His buddies slammed their fists on the table, cheering and howling like theyd already hit the jackpot.

But my chest tightened with panic.

My dad was a high school dropout who had never held a real job but was completely obsessed with being a "CEO."

Pet speed-dating, construction-site crossfit, custom adult novelty urns, silent disco funeral services... whatever trended online, he fell for it. To fund his "startups," he had already mortgaged two of our properties and drained every penny of our savings.

The Natasha doll was a creepy, uncanny-valley novelty toy. Actually reconstructing a human face to look like that would be horrific. Plus, our family was completely broke.

I couldn't take it anymore. I begged my mother to stop him, but she just scoffed.

"What do you know? A psychic in Vegas told me your father was destined for greatness, like a king. Im just waiting to take my place as his queen."

My Nana chimed in from her rocking chair. "Kids shouldn't meddle in grown-up business. After dinner, go search for the best plastic surgeons in the city."

Desperate, I had looked up dozens of graphic, botched-surgery photos to show him. I told him: "Viral fame is a flash in the pan, Dad. Plastic surgery is a permanent scar."

He was thoroughly disgusted by the videos. He hesitated, lost his nerve, and backed out.

But Chuck didn't. Chuck went ahead with the surgery, became a viral sensation overnight, and made so much money his family relocated to a tax haven abroad.

My dad blamed me. He believed I had robbed him of his destiny. One night, he slipped rat poison into my pasta.

"I was one step away from making it big, and you ruined my entire life!" he screamed as I lay dying on the floor. "Im ruined, and you dont deserve to live either!"

After I died, my soul lingered. I watched my mother and Nana, and neither of them shed a single tear. Instead, they spat on my memory.

"Good riddance," my mother muttered. "If she hadn't stopped my sweet husband from getting that surgery, Id be living in a mansion by now!"

"She was always a nosy little brat," Nana grumbled. "I should have left her in a dumpster the day she was born."

Fine. You think I meddled too much?

This time, I won't stand in the way of your fortune. If my dad wants to turn himself into a plastic freakhell, even if he wants a sex changeI will support him unconditionally.

I started to slide away from the table, but suddenly, every eye in the room locked onto me.

Apparently, my dad had already polled everyone else. Now it was my turn.

He held up a photo of the Natasha doll next to his face, grinning like an idiot.

"Emily, you're the college kid. You know how the internet works. Do you think I'd go viral if I looked like Natasha?"

I forced a wide, supportive smile and gave him a big thumbs-up.

"No one on the internet has actually gotten the surgery to look like Natasha yet, Dad. Youd be the absolute first. The views and followers would be insane."

"You're my father. Of course I support you."

My dad lived for flattery, especially when he had a few beers in him.

"Go find out which clinic has the best surgeons," he ordered, his chest puffing out. "I want to book the consultation tomorrow!"

He immediately Venmoed me $200.

In my entire life, my dad had never given me a dime. Even when I was working part-time to pay off my student loans, he would hit me up for cigarette and beer money.

He was dead serious about this.

Once the party cleared out, I washed the dishes alone, not crawling into bed until 1:00 AM. Just as I started to drift off, my bedroom door slammed open. My heart jumped into my throat.

My mother stood over my bed, her face twisted in a cold sneer. She snatched my phone off the nightstand.

Venmo Notification: $200 received.

She immediately transferred the money to her own account, then hard-pinched my arm, digging her nails into my skin.

"Bitch! Why are you taking my husbands money? Emily, are you trying to play his little side-chick?!"

The sheer absurdity of her words nearly gave me a stroke. But I forced myself to stay calm and explain. "Mom, you know he only has eyes for you. That $200 is just for the clinic consultation fees."

Her gaze didn't soften. She stared at me, eyes burning with paranoia.

"I saw the way you were smiling and batting your eyes at him at dinner. Don't lie to me."

"I'm warning you, Greg is my man, and my man only. Don't you dare try to steal him."

I had to raise my hands and swear to God to keep her from losing her mind.

My mother was a textbook codependent, deeply insecure woman. She lived by the twisted logic that daughters are their fathers' "past-life lovers," treating me like a romantic rival since I was a child. Actually, she treated every female on the planet as a threat.

A few years ago, when one of my dad's businesses briefly showed promise, a female client had a professional dinner with him. My mother tracked them down, burst into the restaurant, and beat the woman so badly she put her in the hospital. It cost us over twenty thousand dollars in legal fees, and the business went under. My mother didn't care; she was just proud she had "defended her territory."

She smirked at my panicked explanations, clearly enjoying the toxic sense of superiority. Then, as if remembering something, she let out a dry chuckle.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway. You won't have the chance to tempt him much longer. Old man Roy next door asked about you. Hes offering a forty-thousand-dollar cash settlement, and he already gave me a ten-thousand-dollar deposit. We're getting the papers signed this weekend."

My blood ran cold. "Mom! Roy is a violent sociopath!"

She shrugged, completely unfazed.

"He did time, sure, but he's out now."

"He's a real manbuilt like a tank. You can smell the testosterone on him from a mile away. You should be grateful a man like that wants you."

Hearing the envy in her voice made me want to scream.

Roy was a monster. He had beaten his first wife to death on their wedding night and served a ten-year sentence. Since his release, the police had been called to his house dozens of times. Everyone avoided him like the plague, yet my mother was practically throwing me into his cage.

In my past life, I had fought my father on the surgery, which made my mother despise me even more. This time, because I had agreed with my father, her "threat radar" had gone off.

If I married Roy, he would kill me.

For a split second, I wanted to burn the whole house down with them inside. But it wasn't time yet. I had to play along.

I forced a sycophantic smile.

"Mom, Roy might be a man, but he doesn't compare to Dad. Nobody does."

"But plastic surgery is a massive procedure. There are so many shady clinics, and his face could literally rot if it's done wrong. Do you or Nana know what a rhinoplasty or cheek implants entail? I'm younger, I can talk to the doctors and make sure they don't screw up."

I looked at her perfectly manicured hands, which had never done a day of hard labor in her life.

"Besides, after the surgery, he'll need constant, intensive care during his recovery. If I'm married off, who's going to look after him? You don't want to be doing heavy lifting and cleaning up after him every day, do you?"

At the mention of physical labor, my mother hesitated.

"Fine. We can wait a bit. Your fathers face is the priority."

"But you make sure you grill those doctors. If anything happens to your dad, I'll make your life a living hell."

I nodded eagerly, promising to treat him like royalty.

Just as she opened her mouth to say more, a violent, retching sound echoed from the living room. My mother instantly forgot about me and scrambled out.

"Oh, my sweet baby! I told you not to drink so much! Look at you, you're hurting!"

"Let mommy make you some hangover soup."

The baby talk made my stomach turn. But what followed was even worse.

My dad slurred, "Silence, woman! Who do you think you're talking to?"

My mother giggled in a high-pitched, childish voice. "It's your queen, my lord."

"Ah, my queen. Come here."

"Oh, stop it~ You're so bad~"

The neighbor started pounding violently on the shared wall, screaming at them to shut up. Meanwhile, my Nana opened her bedroom door just a crack, watching them with a proud, beaming smile.

"That's my boy. Still as virile as ever! God bless, hopefully we'll get a grandson out of this!"

I put on my headphones to drown out the noise, the urge to escape this madhouse burning like acid in my chest.

I spent the rest of the night researching plastic surgery clinics. Finally, I found a listing and sent a photo of the Natasha doll to their inbox.

I want a one-to-one replication.

Price is not an issue. Recovery is not an issue. Just make him look exactly like this doll.

My mother's toxic devotion to my father was entirely based on one thing: in his youth, he looked strikingly like a 90s Brad Pitt.

If that face disappeared, would her devotion survive?

Not a chance.

When I was in middle school, my dad went to South America for six months to sell counterfeit sunscreen. During that time, I saw my mother bring different men home constantly. Back then, Nana didn't have her pension yet, so she spent her evenings rummaging through neighborhood recycling bins for extra cash, which is why she never caught her.

But eventually, my mother caught an STD. The physical symptoms were so obvious that Nana figured it out. Nana beat her raw in the living room until my mother wept and swore on her life she'd never stray again.

If my dad's face was ruined, my mother would run. And Nana would lose her mind. It would be an absolute bloodbath.

The thought made me giddy. I requested a week of paid leave from my job first thing the next morning.

I pretended to go to work but spent the day wandering around the mall. If they knew I had time off, theyd have me scrubbing floors at a local diner to bring home extra cash. To them, I wasn't a daughter; I was a draft horse.

I expected my dad to call me by 2:00 PM about the surgery. But by the time I had to go home, my phone hadn't buzzed once.

Had he changed his mind?

Panicked, I hurried back, only to find an unexpected guest in the living room: Chuck.

And next to him sat a slick-looking man in a designer suit and gold-rimmed glasses. I recognized him instantly. He was the chief surgeon and owner of Aesthetic Edge.

During my late-night research, Aesthetic Edge had stood out because of its horrific track record. Botched surgeries, necrosis, and thousands of active lawsuits. The place was a notorious chop shop, and its reputation was completely shot.

I looked at Chuck, then at the doctor. A classic kickback scheme.

My dad looked up at me, holding a pen over a contract.

"Emily, Chuck brought over this specialist. You're the smart onetake a look at this paperwork for me?"

My dad was clever in his own petty way. He wanted to shift the blame to me if things went south. But I wasn't going to play his game this time.

I gave a polite, apologetic shrug.

"Honestly, Dad, cosmetic surgery isn't really my area. Maybe you should call around and get a second opinion?"

Chuck jumped in, visibly sweating.

"Greg, come on! We're closer than brothers. You think Id screw you over?"

The doctor gave me a slow, predatory look that made my skin crawl. Sensing danger, I excused myself to the kitchen to "start on dinner."

Through the door, I heard Chuck making grand promises.

"Man, I've been with you through thick and thin. I'd never snake you. If I'm taking a kickback on this, may God strike my family dead!"

He was a childless bachelor; he'd swear on anything. My dad still looked hesitant.

But then my mother chimed in.

"Honey, internet trends move fast. If we wait, the Natasha craze will be over."

That did it. My dad signed the contract.

As the guests were leaving, I walked out of the kitchen with a plate of food. I caught my mother lingering by the door, tugging lightly at her bra strap while looking at the slick doctor. Her eyes were practically dripping with lust.