My mom died of cancer when I was 14. It was long, painful. She faded slowly, but every Sunday, no matter how weak she was, she played her old upright Steinway. Jazz, classical—anything. I’d sit on the rug with my cereal and listen. It felt like her voice. Like home.
After she passed, the house felt cold. At the funeral, when asked what I wanted, I only said, “The piano.” Dad promised it was mine—it was even in the will. It stayed in the living room, untouched.
Then came Tracy. I was 16, still grieving. She was bubbly, fake, peppermint-scented. And her daughter Madison—my age, mean from day one.
After Dad married Tracy, things changed fast. Photos of Mom vanished, her things disappeared. Only the piano remained—maybe even Tracy knew not to touch it.
I left for college. When I came home for spring break, the piano was gone. Just an empty space.
“Dad?” I called.
Tracy answered from the kitchen:
“Oh, that old thing? I had it hauled away. It was falling apart.”
I blinked. “What?”