When my stepmom, Tracy, sold the one thing my late mom left me—the piano—I thought my heart couldn’t break any more than it already had. But little did she know, her spiteful move would cost her far more than just a piece of furniture.
My mom passed away when I was 14. It was cancer. A long, painful battle that drained the life out of her, piece by piece. I watched her wither away, her once vibrant spirit fading every day until all that was left was a shadow of the woman I loved. But every Sunday morning, even when she was too tired to do much else, she would sit at that piano and play.
It was an old upright Steinway. Dark mahogany. Ivory keys. Carved legs that looked like something out of an old movie. My mom would sit on the bench, lost in the music. Sometimes it was jazz, sometimes old standards, and other times a bit of classical. It didn’t matter. I’d sit on the rug with my cereal and just listen.
It felt like home. Like her voice, still there even when she couldn’t speak.
After she died, everything felt cold. The house, the silence, the world. At her funeral, people asked me what I wanted to keep. I didn’t care about her jewelry or her clothes. All I wanted was that piano.
I remember the exact moment my dad promised me, “It’s yours, honey. I promise.” And I believed him. He put it in the will, too. I saw it. That piano was legally mine.
For a while, it stayed in the living room, just like a promise that hadn’t been broken.
Then Tracy entered the picture.
Dad met her when I was 16. I was a mess—angry, sad, and tired of pretending to be fine. But Tracy came in like some kind of Pinterest-perfect stepmom. Blonde, fake smile, always smelling like peppermint mocha. She laughed too loud and asked weirdly personal questions.
She had a daughter, Madison, my age, but everything I wasn’t. Madison wore expensive boots, had her hair always done, and seemed like she came straight out of a magazine. The first thing she ever said to me was, “You kinda look like a homeless Taylor Swift.”
Yeah, that was day one.
When Dad married Tracy, I knew things were going to change. But I didn’t realize just how fast.
At first, it was little things. She’d move things around, clean out drawers. Then the photos started disappearing. All the ones with Mom? Replaced by new ones—Tracy and Dad in Cabo, in Aspen, wearing matching Christmas sweaters.
One day, I went looking for Mom’s cookbooks. Gone. Then her scarves. Gone. Just gone. But the piano stayed. I think Tracy didn’t touch it because even she knew there were some lines you shouldn’t cross. Or maybe she was just waiting.
I left for college, out of state, needing the distance. Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
Then came spring break. I came back, bags in hand, excited for a break and maybe a taste of normalcy.
I walked into the living room…and the piano was gone.
Not moved. Not covered. Gone.
There was just an empty space where it used to be. A faint outline on the carpet. Dust where the pedals had been. I stood there, staring, hoping it would somehow reappear if I waited long enough.
“Dad?” I called out, my heart pounding.
Tracy’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Oh, that old thing? I had it hauled away. It was falling apart.”
I blinked. “What?”
She strolled into the room, holding her green smoothie, smiling like nothing was wrong. “Sweetie, you never played it. It was just taking up space. I figured it was time.”
“You WHAT?” My voice cracked. “That was my mom’s. That was mine.”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on. You’re being dramatic. It wasn’t even yours.”
I felt my heart stop. “It was in the will,” I snapped. “My dad said—he promised—”
She shrugged like it was nothing. “Well. Too late now.”
My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t breathe. I ran upstairs, slammed the door behind me, and I heard a picture fall off the hallway wall and shatter.
I texted my dad. My fingers were trembling as I typed.
Me: Where is Mom’s piano??? Tracy said she sold it.
No response.
I stared at my phone until my eyes hurt. Nothing.
Downstairs, I could hear Tracy laughing on the phone. She was talking about a furniture buyer in Ohio.
And all I could think was: She really did it. She really sold the one thing that made me feel close to my mom.
And my dad? He was silent.
Two days later, Dad came home. I was upstairs, still lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of everything.
I heard the door open, the sound of his suitcase rolling across the floor. For a moment, I froze. Then I heard him stop.
He didn’t say anything at first, which was strange. He usually came in and shouted, “Hey, I’m home!” or asked if I wanted takeout. But this time, nothing.
I crept to the landing and peered down.
He was standing in the living room, staring at the spot where the piano used to be. His shoulders were stiff. He looked like someone had knocked the air out of him.
Tracy breezed in, acting like everything was normal. She was in her workout clothes, holding a green smoothie, smiling like she hadn’t just destroyed my entire childhood. “Oh, you’re back!” she chirped. “How was the trip?”
He didn’t even look at her. “Where’s the piano?”
She blinked. “What?”
He turned slowly toward her, his eyes sharp. “The piano, Tracy. Where is it?”
“Oh,” she laughed, waving her hand like it was no big deal. “That old thing? I sold it. It was taking up space, and she never even played it.”
He just stood there, staring at her, then put both hands on his head. His voice was barely a whisper. “Oh my God…”
Tracy stopped smiling. “What?”
“I hid your birthday present in there,” he said, eyes wide. “I taped the box under the bottom panel. Inside the piano.”
Tracy blinked. “What kind of present?”
“A Cartier necklace,” he said, “I bought it last month. Three thousand dollars. I was going to surprise you.”
Her face shifted, like she’d been slapped. She dropped her smoothie. “You’re joking.”
“I can show you the receipt,” he said, his voice steady.
Tracy backed away, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re serious?”
He nodded, still staring at the empty space where the piano had been.
She whipped out her phone, dialing in a panic. “Hi, this is Tracy—I sold you a Steinway upright last week—I need it back, like now.”
I stayed upstairs, watching through the crack in the door.
Her voice was rising, desperate. “What do you mean it’s gone? Already out of state? You have to track it down. There was something valuable inside.”
Silence.
“NO, I didn’t know! It wasn’t mine—no, it wasn’t STOLEN, it was—”
She stopped herself, then slammed the phone onto the couch, fury radiating from her. She glared at Dad, her face red. “Why would you hide something like that in a piano? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He was calm. Too calm. “Because it was supposed to be a surprise. For your birthday. But now it’s gone. Because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”
That night, I heard them fighting in their bedroom. I didn’t mean to listen, but they weren’t exactly quiet. Tracy’s voice cut through the walls, sharp and defensive.
“You should’ve told me! How was I supposed to know?”
Dad’s voice was quieter, but colder. “You should’ve asked. You never once asked her if she was okay with you giving away her mother’s things.”
“She’s not a kid anymore—”
“She’s still my daughter. And that piano was the only thing she had left of her mom.”
There was a long silence, then I heard him say something I’ll never forget.
“That piano was hers. And so was my trust—which you just threw away.”
The next morning, Tracy was gone.
Her closet was half empty, and there was a note on the counter that said, “I need space. Don’t call me.” Dad read it in silence, folded it carefully, and slid it into the junk drawer without saying a word.
A week later, he sat me down. His voice was soft, but there was a quiet strength in it. “I filed for divorce,” he said simply. “I should’ve stopped it earlier. I should’ve seen what she was doing to you. To your mom’s memory. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t know what to say. My throat tightened. I just nodded.
We never found the piano. Or the necklace. It was gone, probably sitting in someone’s living room in Ohio by now. But something shifted between me and Dad. It was like the storm was finally over, and maybe, just maybe, we could start again.
Things between Dad and me slowly got better. Not right away, but little by little. He started making Sunday breakfast again—pancakes, scrambled eggs, the works. Just like Mom used to. We didn’t talk much at first, but it was okay. We didn’t need to.
Then one morning, he asked me to come to the garage. I followed him out, still in my pajamas.
Under a blue tarp, there was a secondhand upright piano. Not as grand as Mom’s, a little scuffed on the side, but it had hand-carved legs and soft, worn keys.
“I know it’s not hers,” he said, his voice rough, “But it’s yours now.”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat down, and my fingers touched the keys. The notes were shaky at first, but they came. One by one. And for the first time since Mom died, the music felt like home again.