I was fourteen when cancer took my mom. The kind of slow, cruel death that steals a person in fractions, until all you have left is the memory of how they used to laugh, the scent of their sweater, and in my case—music.

Every Sunday, no matter how sick she was, she played her piano. Her fingers, pale and trembling by the end, would still find the keys. Jazz. Classical. Standards from her youth. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that sound. That moment. I’d sit cross-legged on the rug, bowl of cereal in hand, and just listen. It was the last real thing she left me.

The piano was a dark mahogany upright Steinway with ivory keys and carved legs that reminded me of old movie sets. To me, it wasn’t just a piano. It was her voice after she lost her own.

When she passed, everyone asked what I wanted to keep. I didn’t want her pearls. Not her scarves. Not the dishes everyone insisted I should take. Just the piano.

Dad didn’t hesitate. “It’s yours, honey. I promise.”

Later, he even wrote it into his will. That piano was legally mine.

For a while, it stayed right there in the living room. Like a piece of her watching over us.

Then came Tracy.

I was sixteen and still trying to remember how to breathe without my mom. Tracy blew in like a lifestyle blogger come to life—oversized smile, peppermint mocha perfume, and “just trying to help” energy that always felt a little too sharp. She had a daughter, Madison, the same age as me. First thing she ever said to me? “You kinda look like a homeless Taylor Swift.”

That was how it started.

Tracy and my dad got married fast. And then the house started changing. Slowly, quietly, and then all at once.

Mom’s photos came off the walls. Her scarves disappeared. The cookbooks she used on Sunday mornings? Gone. Her chair replaced by something beige and expensive-looking.

But the piano stayed.

Maybe Tracy knew better than to touch it.

Or maybe she was just waiting.

I left for college out of state. I needed the miles. I told myself I’d visit for spring break, maybe try to find some piece of home again.

I walked into the living room… and it was gone.

The piano.

Just gone.

The corner it lived in was empty. Only the faint outline on the carpet and some dust where the pedals used to be. My stomach dropped.

“Dad?” I called, already knowing something was wrong.

Tracy’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Oh, that old thing? I had it hauled away. It was falling apart.”

I blinked. “What?”

She appeared in the doorway, sipping her ridiculous green smoothie. “Sweetie, you never played it. It was just taking up space.”

My voice caught in my throat. “That was my mother’s piano. It was mine.”

She rolled her eyes. “Come on. Don’t be so dramatic. It wasn’t even yours.”

“It was in the will,” I said, my voice cracking. “He promised—”

She shrugged. “Well. Too late now.”

My hands were shaking. My heart felt like it had cracked in half. I ran to my room and slammed the door. A photo fell off the wall and shattered on the floor.

I texted my dad.

Where’s the piano??? Tracy said she sold it.

Nothing.

No reply.

Downstairs, I could hear Tracy laughing on the phone, casually talking to someone about a furniture buyer in Ohio.

And that was it. The one piece of my mom I had left… sold to someone who’d never know what it meant.

Two days later, Dad came home.

I stayed upstairs, lying on my bed, too hollow to cry anymore. Then I heard the front door open. The slow roll of a suitcase. Then nothing. No greeting. No callout. Just silence.

I crept down the stairs, half-expecting to find something else missing.

He was standing in the living room, just… staring at the empty space where the piano had been. His hands on his hips. Shoulders stiff.

Tracy waltzed in, her smile fixed in place. “You’re back! How was the trip?”

He didn’t look at her. “Where’s the piano?”

She paused. “What?”

“The piano, Tracy. Where is it?”

“Oh,” she said, laughing lightly. “I sold it. It was just taking up space. She never played it.”

He closed his eyes, pressed his fingers to his temple. “Oh my God…”

Her face twitched. “What?”

“I hid your birthday present inside the piano,” he said, voice low. “Taped the box under the bottom panel. Inside.”

She blinked, confused. “What kind of present?”

“A Cartier necklace,” he said. “Three thousand dollars. I bought it a month ago.”

She froze. “You’re joking.”

“I have the receipt,” he replied.

The smoothie slipped from her hand and splattered across the floor.

She lunged for her phone, frantically dialing. “Hi! This is Tracy—I sold you a Steinway upright last week. I need it back. Immediately.”

I watched from the landing, hidden by shadows.

“What do you mean it’s already gone? Out of state? There was something valuable inside—no, I didn’t know—yes, it was mine—no, not stolen—”

She hung up and looked at Dad like he’d betrayed her.

“Why would you hide something like that in a piano?”

He stared at her. “Because it was supposed to be a surprise. But now it’s gone. Because you couldn’t ask. Because you couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

That night, they argued behind closed doors. I didn’t try to eavesdrop. But I didn’t have to.

Her voice was sharp. “She’s not a little girl anymore. You didn’t even tell me it meant anything to her!”

His voice, cold and calm: “It was the only thing she had left of her mother. And you knew it. You just didn’t care.”

There was a pause.

Then, softly: “That piano was hers. And so was my trust. And now both are gone.”

The next morning, Tracy was gone.

Half her closet empty. A note on the counter: “I need space. Don’t call me.”

Dad didn’t say a word. He read it. Folded it. Tucked it in the junk drawer and started making coffee.

A week later, he sat me down and told me he filed for divorce.

“I should’ve protected your mother’s memory better,” he said. “I should’ve protected you better. I’m sorry.”

We never found the piano. Or the necklace.

But something shifted after that. Between me and him. A quiet beginning again.

He started cooking on Sundays. Pancakes and eggs, the way Mom used to. We didn’t talk much, but the silence was warm instead of sharp.

Then, one morning, he asked me to come to the garage.

Under a blue tarp was a secondhand upright piano. Not a Steinway. Not even close. It was scratched. The legs were chipped.

But it had keys.

“I know it’s not hers,” he said. “But it’s yours now.”

I didn’t answer. I just sat down.

The first note wobbled. The second was better. And by the time I played the third, something inside me started to settle.

For the first time in years, the music felt like home again.