When my mother died, cancer stole her slowly—day by day, note by note. But even in her final weeks, she played her piano every Sunday morning. That upright Steinway, dark mahogany with ivory keys, wasn’t just furniture. It was her voice. Her warmth. Her legacy.
I didn’t want jewelry or clothes. I wanted the piano. Dad promised it was mine. Legally, it was. Emotionally, it was everything.
Then came Tracy. My stepmom. Peppermint mocha perfume, Pinterest-perfect smile, and a daughter who mocked me from day one. Tracy didn’t just move in—she erased. Mom’s cookbooks, scarves, photos—gone. But the piano stayed. Maybe she knew some lines shouldn’t be crossed.
Until I left for college.
Spring break, I came home. The piano was missing. Tracy had sold it. “It was old,” she said. “Time to get rid of every memory.” My heart cracked. She hadn’t just sold wood and strings—she sold my mother’s voice.
But karma doesn’t forget.
Turns out, the piano was worth a fortune. Antique dealers traced it back to a rare Steinway series. The buyer, a collector, refused to return it—but the sale was illegal. It was mine. I sued. Won. Tracy had to pay damages, legal fees, and return every item she’d erased. Dad was furious. Their marriage crumbled.
I got the piano back. And more than that—I got justice.
Now, every Sunday, I play. Jazz. Old standards. Little bits of classical. And I swear, in the quiet between notes, I hear her again.
