When my stepmom, Tracy, sold the piano my late mom left me, she thought she could erase my past. That cherished Steinway was my last connection to Mom, and Tracy’s heartless act broke me—until her mistake cost her dearly, proving that love and trust outweigh spite every time.
I’m Lily, and my mom died of cancer when I was 14. Her antique piano, with its glossy wood and soft keys, was her voice. Sundays, she’d play jazz or old tunes, and I’d sit nearby, soaking in her warmth. After she passed, I told my dad, Tom, “I want the piano.” He vowed it was mine, securing it in her will. It stood in our living room, a reminder of her love. Then Tracy entered our lives.
At 16, I was still grieving when Dad met Tracy, a flashy woman with a fake laugh and peppermint scent. Her daughter, Madison, my age, sneered at me, calling me a “messy singer.” When Dad married Tracy, she reshaped our home—swapping Mom’s photos for her vacation shots, tossing Mom’s books and clothes. The piano stayed, maybe too sacred to touch. Or so I hoped.
I went to college, needing space from a home that felt foreign. On spring break, I came back, eager for familiarity. But the piano was gone, replaced by an empty spot and faint dust. “Tracy, what happened?” I demanded. She sipped her smoothie, smirking. “I sold it. It was old and useless.” My heart broke. “It was my mom’s! It was in her will!” She shrugged. “You’re overreacting. It’s done.” I texted Dad, shaking: “Tracy sold Mom’s piano. Help.” He didn’t reply.
Downstairs, Tracy laughed, mentioning a buyer in Ohio. I felt betrayed. Two days later, Dad returned. From upstairs, I saw him stare at the empty space, stunned. “Where’s the piano, Tracy?” he asked. She waved it off. “Sold it. It was junk.” Dad’s voice hardened. “I hid your birthday gift inside—a $3,000 Cartier necklace, taped under it.” Tracy’s smoothie hit the floor. “What?” She called the buyer, panicking. “I need it back! There was something inside!” The piano was gone, shipped away.
Tracy yelled, “Why hide it there?” Dad was calm but cold. “It was a surprise. You didn’t ask Lily about her mom’s piano. You broke our trust.” Their fight echoed that night. Dad said, “That piano was Lily’s last piece of her mom. You crossed a line.” By morning, Tracy was gone, leaving a note: “I need space.” Dad filed for divorce, telling me, “I failed you. I’m sorry.” The piano and necklace were lost, but Dad and I rebuilt our bond. He bought a used piano, scratched but lovely. “It’s yours,” he said. I played, feeling Mom close. Tracy’s cruelty lost her everything, but I gained my dad back.
