When I was 14, cancer stole my mom—but her music stayed. Every Sunday she’d play jazz or Chopin on her antique Steinway piano, even when the pain tried to silence her. It became more than wood and ivory—it became her voice.
After her funeral, I asked Dad for just one thing: the piano. He promised. Even put it in his will.
Then Tracy arrived—my stepmother with her fake warmth and scented coffee. She started scrubbing Mom out of the house, memory by memory. Her daughter Madison made cruelty a habit. I stayed quiet and left for college.
One spring break, I came home—and the piano was gone.
Tracy shrugged: “That old thing? I sold it. You never played it anyway.”
It wasn’t just a piano. It was Mom. Her spirit. Her love. I texted Dad. Nothing. When he returned and saw the space where it once stood, I waited for outrage. Or apology.
But all I got was silence.
