When my stepmother sold the only thing my late mother had left me – a precious old piano – I thought my heart couldn’t break anymore. But she had no idea that her spiteful decision would cost her much more than a piece of furniture.
My mom died when I was 14 years old. Of cancer. It was long. It was horrible. I saw her vanish day after day until it was just a whisper of herself. But every Sunday morning, even when I was too tired to do anything else, I played the piano.
A woman playing the piano | Source: Pexels
A woman playing the piano | Source: Pexels
It was an old and beautiful vertical Steinway. Dark mahogany. Ivory keys. Legs carved as if taken out of a movie. He sat on the bench and… played. Jazz. Old classics. Small fragments of classical music. It didn’t matter. I sat on the carpet with my cereals and listened.
I felt at home. Like his voice.
A girl playing the piano with her mother | Source: Pexels
A girl playing the piano with her mother | Source: Pexels
After his death, everything seemed cold to me. The house. The silence. The world. At his funeral, people asked me what I wanted to keep. I didn’t care about jewelry or clothes or anything like that. I just said, “The piano. It’s all I want.”
Dad nodded. “It’s yours, honey. I promise you.”
Then he put it in the will. I saw it. That piano was legally mine.
A man signing documents | Source: Pexels
A man signing documents | Source: Pexels
And for a while he stayed there, in the living room, like a promise that he had not yet broken.
He met her when I was 16 years old. I was still a disaster: sad, angry, tired of pretending I was fine. But she came in like a Pinterest version of a stepmother. Blonde, big fake smile, it always smelled like mint mocha. He laughed too loudly and asked strangely personal questions.
A smiling woman in a park | Source: Pexels
A smiling woman in a park | Source: Pexels
He also had a daughter: Madison. The same age as me, but everything I wasn’t. She wore expensive boots and was always combed. The first thing he told me? “You look like a slutty Taylor Swift.”
Yes. That was the first day.
When Dad married Tracy, I knew things were going to change. I didn’t know how fast.
A couple getting married | Source: Pexels
A couple getting married | Source: Pexels
At first, they were small things. I changed things in place. I cleaned drawers. Then the photos began to disappear. All of mom’s? Replaced by new ones: Tracy and dad in Cabo, in Aspen, with matching Christmas sweaters.
One day I went to get mom’s cookbooks. They were no longer there. Then his scarves. They were no longer there. They disappeared. But the piano stayed. I think Tracy didn’t touch it because even she knew that there are lines that should not be crossed.
Or maybe I was just waiting.
A worried woman looking to her side | Source: Pexels
A worried woman looking to her side | Source: Pexels
I went to college. I was out of the state. I needed the distance. My home no longer seemed like my home.
Let’s move forward to spring break. I came back, with the suitcases in my hand, excited for a break and maybe some normality.
I entered the living room… and the piano was not there.
They hadn’t moved it. Not even covered. I WASN’T THERE.
A shocked woman covering her mouth | Source: Pexels
A shocked woman covering her mouth | Source: Pexels
There was only an empty space, like a ghost. A faint silhouette on the carpet. Dust where the pedals had been. I stood there looking as if maybe he would reappear if I waited enough.
“Dad?” I shouted, with a beating heart. “Where is the piano?”
Tracy’s voice came floating from the kitchen. “Oh, that old junk? I had them take him. He was falling apart.”
