My mom died of cancer when I was 14. Every Sunday, no matter how weak she got, she played her old Steinway piano. That sound felt like home — like her voice.
After she passed, I asked for one thing: the piano. My dad promised it was mine. And it was, until Tracy came.
Tracy, my dad’s new wife, slowly erased all traces of my mom. Photos disappeared. Her things vanished. But the piano stayed — until I came home from college and found it gone.
Tracy said it was “falling apart” and “just taking up space.” I was devastated. It was in the will. It was my last connection to Mom.
Then Dad came home. When he saw the piano missing, he went pale — he’d hidden a $3,000 necklace for Tracy’s birthday inside it.
She tried to get it back, but it was too late. The piano — and the necklace — were gone.
That night, they fought. And the next morning, she was gone too. A week later, Dad filed for divorce.
He told me, “That piano was hers. And so was my trust — which she threw away.”
We never found the piano, but things between Dad and me slowly healed. One morning, he led me to the garage and uncovered a secondhand upright.
“I know it’s not hers,” he said. “But it’s yours now.”
I sat down and played. And for the first time in years, the music felt like home again.