When my stepmom sold the only thing my late mother left me—a cherished antique piano—I thought nothing could hurt more.
But her cruelty ended up costing her far more than a piece of furniture. My mom died of cancer when I was 14.
It was long and brutal. Still, every Sunday, no matter how tired she was, she would sit at her upright Steinway and play. Jazz, classical, old songs—it didn’t matter.
I’d sit on the rug with my cereal and listen, feeling safe. When she passed, all I wanted to keep was that piano. Dad promised it was mine, even putting it in his will.
For years, it stayed in the living room like a piece of her that was still with me. Then Tracy came along. Dad met her when I was 16.
She was loud, flashy, always acting like she belonged, and she had a daughter my age who mocked me from day one. Slowly, Tracy started erasing my mother from the house. First the cookbooks, then the scarves, then the photos.
But the piano stayed—like a line even she wouldn’t cross. I left for college, desperate for distance. When I came home for spring break, I dropped my bags in the hall and froze.
The piano was gone. Just an empty space, a faint outline on the carpet where the pedals had stood. “Dad?” I asked, panicked.
Before he could answer, Tracy’s voice rang from the kitchen. “Oh, that old thing? I had it hauled away.
Falling apart anyway.”
My chest tightened. That piano wasn’t just wood and strings. It was my mother’s voice.
And now, it was gone.