When I was 14, my mom died of cancer. The only thing I asked to keep was her piano — a beautiful, antique Steinway that she played every Sunday, even in her final weeks. My dad promised it was mine, and it stayed in our living room as a reminder of her. Then came Tracy — my chipper, peppermint-scented stepmom — and her daughter, Madison. Slowly, Tracy erased every trace of my mom. Photos, scarves, cookbooks — gone.
But the piano stayed. Until one spring break, I came home from college and found it missing. Tracy smiled and said, “I had it hauled away. It was falling apart.” I was crushed. My dad was out of town, and Tracy brushed me off like I was being dramatic. But when Dad came back and saw the empty spot, his face went pale.
“I hid your birthday gift inside that piano,” he said to Tracy. “A $3,000 Cartier necklace. It was taped under the panel.” Tracy panicked. She tried to get it back, but it was too late — the piano was already gone, sold to a buyer out of state. That night, they fought. Dad said words I’ll never forget: “That piano was hers. And so was my trust — which you just threw away.” By morning, Tracy had left.
A week later, Dad filed for divorce. We never found the piano or the necklace. But something changed between Dad and me — he started showing up again. Making pancakes on Sundays. Listening. One day, he led me to the garage, where a secondhand piano sat under a tarp. Not as grand, a little scuffed — but still beautiful. “It’s not hers,” he said. “But it’s yours now.” I sat down and played. And for the first time in years, it felt like home again.