When my mom passed away from cancer, I was just 14. The one thing that kept her spirit alive in our home was her antique Steinway piano. Every Sunday, no matter how sick she felt, she’d play jazz, classical—whatever moved her. I’d sit on the floor with my cereal, mesmerized by the music that filled the room.
After she died, I told my dad, “That piano is all I want.” He promised me it was mine and even included it in his will.
Then Tracy came into our lives—my stepmom. She smiled too much, smelled of overpriced lattes, and slowly erased everything that reminded us of Mom. Her daughter Madison insulted me from day one. I kept my head down and eventually left for college, trying to focus on my future.
But one spring break, when I came home, the piano was gone.
Tracy casually said, “Oh, that old thing? I sold it. You never played it anyway.”
I was stunned. That piano wasn’t just furniture — it was my mother’s memory, our connection.
I texted Dad immediately. No reply. When he finally got home and saw the piano missing, I hoped for answers. But the silence was deafening.
