When my stepmom, Tracy, sold the piano my late mom left me, she aimed to wipe out my memories. That Steinway was my last tie to Mom, and Tracy’s selfish act crushed me. But her plan backfired spectacularly, showing me that love and family triumph over spite, and giving me a fresh start with my dad.
I’m Lily, and my mom died of cancer when I was 14. Her upright Steinway piano, with its dark wood and carved legs, was her heart. Every Sunday, she’d play soft jazz or classical, and I’d sit on the rug, feeling safe. After she passed, I told my dad, Tom, “I only want the piano.” He promised it was mine, writing it into her will. It sat in our living room, a piece of Mom no one could touch. Then Tracy came into our lives.
I was 16, still raw with grief, when Dad met Tracy, a loud woman with a fake smile and coffee breath. Her daughter, Madison, my age, mocked me, saying I looked “like a lost poet.” When Dad married Tracy, she changed our home—replacing Mom’s photos with hers, tossing Mom’s scarves and recipes. The piano stayed, maybe too important to mess with. Or so I thought.
I left for college, needing distance from a house that felt wrong. On spring break, I returned, hoping for comfort. But the piano was gone, leaving a bare spot and dust. “Tracy, where’s my piano?” I asked, voice shaking. She held her green smoothie, casual. “I sold it. It was old.” I gasped. “It was my mom’s! It was mine by will!” She smirked. “You’re being silly. It’s gone.” I texted Dad: “Tracy sold Mom’s piano. Why?” No answer. Tracy’s laughter downstairs, talking about an Ohio buyer, cut deep.
Two days later, Dad came home. From upstairs, I saw him freeze, staring at the empty space. “Where’s the piano, Tracy?” he asked, tense. She laughed. “I sold it. It was junk.” Dad’s voice dropped. “I hid your birthday gift inside—a $3,000 Cartier necklace, taped under it.” Tracy’s smoothie splattered on the floor. “You’re joking!” She called the buyer, frantic. “I need that piano! Something was inside!” It was gone, shipped away. Tracy screamed, “Why hide it there?” Dad replied, “It was a surprise. You didn’t care about Lily’s mom.”
That night, they argued loudly. Dad said, “You took Lily’s last piece of her mom. You broke my trust.” By morning, Tracy was gone, leaving a note: “I need space.” Dad filed for divorce, telling me, “I should’ve protected you. I’m sorry.” We never found the piano or necklace, but Dad and I grew closer. He started Sunday breakfasts, like Mom’s. One day, he showed me a used piano in the garage—worn but beautiful. “It’s yours,” he said. I played, and Mom felt near. Tracy lost it all, but I got my dad and my music back.
