When my mom died of cancer when I was 14, the only thing I wanted was her antique Steinway piano. It was her voice, her comfort, and my connection to her. My dad promised it would always be mine.
Then came Tracy—my stepmom—who slowly erased every trace of my mom. When I came home from college one spring, the piano was gone. Tracy had sold it. “It was just taking up space,” she said. I was devastated. It was in the will. It was mine.
But karma moves fast.
When my dad returned and saw the empty space, he was stunned. “Where’s the piano?” he asked Tracy. She laughed it off—until he told her he’d hidden a $3,000 Cartier necklace inside it for her birthday.
Tracy panicked. Called the buyer. Too late.
Later that night, I heard them arguing. My dad’s voice was calm but cold: “That piano was hers. And so was my trust—which you just threw away.”
Tracy left the next morning. A week later, Dad filed for divorce.
We never found the piano, but Dad and I slowly healed. One day, he surprised me with a secondhand upright. Not my mom’s, but still beautiful. I sat down and played. The music, finally, felt like home again.
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