When my mom passed away from cancer, I was just 14. The one thing that kept her spirit alive in our house was her antique Steinway piano. Every Sunday, no matter how sick she felt, she played it—jazz, classical, whatever came to her. I’d sit on the floor with my cereal and listen. After she died, I told my dad, “That’s all I want.” He promised it was mine. Later, he even put it in his will. Then came Tracy, my stepmom. She smiled too much, smelled like overpriced lattes,
and gradually erased everything that reminded us of Mom. Her daughter, Madison, insulted me on day one. Still, I kept my head down and eventually left for college. One spring break, I came home—and the piano was gone. Tracy casually said, “Oh, that old thing? I sold it. You never played it.” I was in shock. That piano wasn’t just furniture—it was my mother’s memory. I texted Dad immediately. No reply. When he got home and noticed the piano missing,
he went pale. Then he dropped a bombshell: he had hidden a $3,000 Cartier necklace—Tracy’s birthday gift—inside the piano as a surprise. She turned white. Her frantic call to the buyer confirmed it: the piano was already gone, out of state. So was the necklace. But the real damage was already done. That week, my dad filed for divorce. He told Tracy,
“You didn’t just sell a piano—you sold my daughter’s memory of her mother. And you sold my trust.” Tracy moved out. A month later, Dad brought me to the garage. Under a tarp was a secondhand upright piano—not quite my mom’s, but beautiful in its own way. “I know it’s not hers,” he said, “but it’s yours now.” I sat down and played. The notes were rusty, but something shifted. In that moment, it felt like Mom was with me again—and for the first time in years, home felt like home.