When my stepmom sold the one thing my late mom left me—a cherished antique piano—I thought my heart couldn’t break any more. But she had no idea her spiteful move would cost her far more than a piece of furniture.
My mom died when I was 14. Cancer. It was long. It was awful. I watched her fade day by day until she was just a whisper of herself. But every Sunday morning, even when she was too tired to do much else, she would play her piano.
A woman playing the piano | Source: Pexels
It was this old, beautiful upright Steinway. Dark mahogany. Ivory keys. Carved legs like something out of a movie. She’d sit on the bench and just… play. Jazz. Old standards. Little bits 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.
A girl playing the piano with her mother | Source: Pexels
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 jewelry or clothes or any of that. I just said, “The piano. That’s all I want.”
Dad nodded. “It’s yours, honey. I promise.”
He put it in the will later. I saw it. That piano was legally mine.
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And for a while, it stayed right there in the living room, like a promise he hadn’t broken yet.
Then came Tracy.
He met her when I was 16. I was still a mess — sad, angry, tired of pretending I was fine. But she breezed in like some Pinterest version of a stepmom. Blonde, big fake smile, always smelled like peppermint mocha. She’d laugh too loud and ask weirdly personal questions.
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She had a daughter too — Madison. Same age as me, but everything I wasn’t. She wore expensive boots and always had her hair done. First thing she ever said to me? “You kinda look like a homeless Taylor Swift.”
Yeah. That was day one.
When Dad married Tracy, I knew things were going to change. I didn’t know how fast.
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At first, it was little things. She’d move stuff 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, in 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 some lines you shouldn’t cross.
Or maybe she was just waiting.
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I left for college. It was out of state. I needed the distance. Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
Fast forward to spring break. I came back, bags in hand, excited for a break and maybe some normalcy.
I walked into the living room… and the piano was gone.
Not moved. Not covered. GONE.
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There was just this empty space, like a ghost. A faint outline in the carpet. Dust where the pedals had been. I stood there staring like maybe it would reappear if I waited long enough.
“Dad?” I called out, heart pounding. “Where’s the piano?”
Tracy’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Oh, that old thing? I had it hauled away. It was falling apart.”
I blinked. “What?”
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She stepped into the room, holding her ridiculous green smoothie. “Sweetie, you never played it. It was just taking up space. I figured it was time.”
“You WHAT?” My throat went dry. “That was my mom’s. That was mine.”
She rolled her eyes. “Come on. You’re being dramatic. It wasn’t even yours.”
“It was in the will,” I snapped. “My dad said—he promised—”
She gave this little shrug. “Well. Too late now.”
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My hands were shaking. I couldn’t even breathe. I ran upstairs. Slammed the door. A picture fell off the hallway wall and shattered.
I texted Dad. Fingers trembling.
Me: “Where is Mom’s piano??? Tracy said she sold it.”
No answer.
I stared at my phone until my eyes hurt. Nothing.
A woman holding a phone in her hands | Source: Pexels
Downstairs, I heard Tracy laughing on the phone. Something about a furniture buyer in Ohio.
And all I could think was: she really did it. She really sold the one thing that still made me feel close to my mom.
And my dad was just… silent.
Dad came home two days later. I was upstairs, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, still trying to make sense of everything.
A woman in bed covering her face with her hands | Source: Pexels
I heard the door open and his suitcase roll across the floor. For a moment, I just waited, frozen. Then I heard him stop.
He didn’t say anything right away, which was strange. Usually, he’d yell “Hey, I’m home!” or ask if I wanted takeout. But this time, nothing. I crept out to the landing and looked down.
A woman peeking behind a door | Source: Pexels
He was standing in the living room, just 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 like nothing was wrong. She was wearing her workout clothes, holding a green smoothie, and smiling like she hadn’t just nuked my entire childhood. “Oh, you’re back!” she said, her voice too sweet. “How was the trip?”
A woman in her workout clothes | Source: Pexels
He didn’t look at her. “Where’s the piano?”
She blinked. “What?”
He turned to her slowly. “The piano, Tracy. Where is it?”
“Oh,” she said with a little laugh, waving her hand. “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 he put both hands on his head and whispered, “Oh my God…”
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She 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.”
She looked confused at first. “What kind of present?”
“A Cartier necklace,” he said. “I bought it last month. Three thousand dollars. I was going to surprise you.”
A gold necklace | Source: Pexels
Tracy’s face changed fast. She dropped her smoothie on the floor. “You’re joking.”
“I can show you the receipt,” he said.
She backed up like she’d been slapped. “You’re serious?”
He nodded, still staring at the empty spot where the piano used to be.
She pulled out her phone and started dialing, walking in circles. “Hi, this is Tracy—I sold you a Steinway upright last week—I need it back, like now.”
A woman talking on her phone | Source: Pexels
I stayed upstairs, watching from the shadows.
Her voice rose. “What do you mean it’s gone? Already out of state? You have to track it. There was something valuable inside.”
Silence.
“NO, I didn’t know! It wasn’t mine—no, it wasn’t STOLEN, it was—”
She stopped, then hung up and threw the phone on the couch. She looked at Dad, her face red and furious. “Why would you hide something like that in a piano? Why didn’t you tell me?”
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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 it well enough alone.”
That night, I heard them fighting in their bedroom. I didn’t mean to listen, but they weren’t exactly quiet. Her voice kept cutting through the walls, sharp and defensive.
“You should’ve told me! How was I supposed to know?”
A couple arguing | Source: Freepik
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 pause, then I heard him say something I’ll never forget.
“That piano was hers. And so was my trust — which you just threw away.”
A serious-looking man | Source: Pexels
The next morning, Tracy was gone.
Her closet was half empty. There was a note on the counter that said, “I need space. Don’t call me.” Dad read it in silence, folded it, and slid it into the junk drawer without saying a word.
A week later, he sat me down and told me he filed for divorce. He said it simply, like he’d already made peace with it.
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“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 was tight. I just nodded.
We never found the piano. Or the necklace. It was gone—probably sitting in someone’s living room in Ohio or something. But something had shifted between me and Dad. Like maybe the storm was finally over. Like maybe we could finally start again.
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Things between Dad and me got better after that. Not overnight, but slowly. Quietly.
He started making Sunday breakfast again—pancakes, scrambled eggs, the works. Just like Mom used to. We didn’t talk much at first. But we didn’t have to.
Then one morning, he asked me to come to the garage. I followed him out, still in pajamas.
A woman in a onesie | Source: Freepik
There, under a blue tarp, 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, 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. One by one. And for the first time since she died, the music felt like home again.
A young woman playing the piano | Source: Pexels