When my stepmom sold the piano my late mom left me, I thought my heart couldn’t break any further. But she had no idea her spiteful act would cost her far more than just an old piano.
My mom passed away from cancer when I was 14. The whole process was agonizing, watching her fade a little each day. But every Sunday, even when she was exhausted, she’d play her piano.
It was an antique Steinway, dark mahogany with ivory keys and beautifully carved legs. She’d sit and play jazz, old standards, bits of classical music. I’d sit on the rug with my cereal, just listening.
It felt like home. Like her voice.
After her death, everything felt cold. The house, the silence, the world. At the funeral, when people asked me what I wanted to keep, I didn’t care about jewelry or clothes. I just asked for the piano.
Dad promised me it was mine, and it was even included in the will.
For a while, it stayed right where it had always been, a quiet reminder of his promise.
Then came Tracy.
Dad met her when I was 16. I was a mess, grieving, angry, and tired of pretending to be fine. But Tracy breezed in like a Pinterest-perfect stepmom—blonde, always smiling, and always asking odd, personal questions.
She had a daughter too—Madison. Same age as me, but everything I wasn’t. Madison always had perfect hair and wore expensive boots. The first thing she ever said to me? “You look like a homeless Taylor Swift.”
Yeah, that was the start.
When Dad married Tracy, I knew life was about to change, though I didn’t realize just how fast.
At first, it was little things. She rearranged furniture. Cleaned out drawers. The photos started disappearing. All the ones with Mom? Replaced with pictures of Tracy and Dad on vacations.
Soon, Mom’s cookbooks were gone. Her scarves too. But the piano stayed—maybe even she knew not to cross that line.
I went off to college out of state. Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
Fast forward to spring break. I returned home, eager for a break and hoping for some normalcy.
I walked into the living room… and the piano was gone.
Not moved. Not covered. Gone.
There was just an empty spot, a faint outline in the carpet where the piano had been. I stood there, stunned, waiting as if it would suddenly reappear.
“Dad?” I called, my heart racing.
Tracy’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Oh, that old thing? I had it hauled away. It was falling apart.”
I froze. “What?”
She walked in holding a green smoothie. “Sweetie, you never played it. It was just taking up space.”
“You WHAT?” My throat went dry. “That was my mom’s. It was mine.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic. It wasn’t even yours.”
“It was in the will,” I snapped. “Dad promised it was mine.”
She shrugged. “Too late now.”
I ran upstairs, hands shaking, barely able to breathe. I texted Dad. No response.
Downstairs, I heard Tracy laughing on the phone, talking about a furniture buyer in Ohio.
I was crushed. She sold the one thing that connected me to my mom. And Dad didn’t even seem to care.
Two days later, Dad came home. I stayed upstairs, trying to make sense of everything.
I heard him enter, and then… silence. No usual greeting.
I peeked out from the landing and saw him standing in the living room, staring at the spot where the piano had been. He looked hollow, defeated.
Tracy walked in like nothing was wrong, smiling. “Oh, you’re back! How was your trip?”
He didn’t even look at her. “Where’s the piano?”
She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“The piano, Tracy. Where is it?”
“Oh, I sold it. It was taking up space. She never even played it.”
Dad stood there, staring at her, and then, in a soft voice, said, “I hid your birthday present in there.”
She looked confused. “What present?”
“A Cartier necklace. Three thousand dollars. I was going to surprise you.”
Her face dropped, and she backed away. “You’re kidding.”
“No,” he replied. “I have the receipt.”
She dialed the buyer, demanding the piano back. It had already been shipped out of state.
She stopped, furious, and threw the phone down. “Why would you hide something like that in a piano?”
He was calm. “Because it was supposed to be a surprise. But now it’s gone. Because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
That night, I overheard their argument. Her voice was defensive, his colder than I had ever heard it.
“You should’ve asked me first if she was okay with you giving away her mom’s things,” he said. “That piano was hers, and so was my trust. You threw that away.”
The next morning, Tracy was gone. Her closet was half empty, and there was a note saying, “I need space. Don’t call me.”
Dad told me a week later he filed for divorce. “I should’ve stopped it earlier. I should’ve seen what she was doing to you and your mom’s memory. I’m sorry.”
I nodded, though my throat was tight. Things between Dad and I began to heal slowly.
We never found the piano or the necklace. But something shifted between us. Like maybe the storm was over and we could finally start again.
One morning, Dad took me to the garage. There, under a blue tarp, was a secondhand upright piano. It wasn’t as grand as Mom’s, but it had hand-carved legs and worn keys.
“I know it’s not hers,” Dad said, his voice rough. “But it’s yours now.”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat down and played. The notes were shaky at first, but they came. And for the first time since Mom died, the music felt like home again.
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