When my stepmother sold my mother’s lone possession, an antique piano, I believed I had experienced the deepest heartache. She didn’t realize that her terrible choice would cost her more than an old instrument.
I was 14 when my mother died.
C.a.ncer. Long, brutal, unrelenting. She faded day by day, becoming a ghost of the lady who tucked me in with jazz lullabies and lemon tea kisses.
At the end, she was weak, exhausted, and scarcely able to stand, yet she still played her piano every Sunday morning.
A dark mahogany Steinway upright was ancient. Like a movie prop, its ivory keys and melancholy melodies are weathered and classic. She performed old songs, Mozart segments, and random tunes that blended into the curtain light.
I ate breakfast cross-legged on the mat and watched her. That piano played music and housed her soul. She laughed. Her sorrow. Her love.
After she d.i.ed, the house was quiet. Cold and still. Nothing felt genuine.
I was asked about souvenirs during her funeral. Jewelry? Her scarves? None of it bothered me. I said one thing:
“The piano. I just want that.”
My dad, Thomas, nodded at me. Nora, it’s yours. I assure you.”
He meant it. He included it to his will later for safety.
Keeping the piano in our living room was a quiet pledge. Time couldn’t remove her one part.
Val came next.
When I was 16, Dad met her. She was sugary-sweet and designer. Perfect stepmom on Pinterest. Always saying “Hi, sweetheart!” and smelling like peppermint mocha.
She took her daughter Brooke. My age, with the smugness of someone who’s never felt out of place. Her first words to me?
“You look like a homeless Taylor Swift.”
Nice.
I disliked her. I distrusted her. Grieving and exhausted, I simply wanted to finish high school. I kept silent and watched my house become someone else’s.
The tiny things started it. Valerie moved furniture, threw away “old junk,” and lit cinnamon-scented candles to make the place seem like a bakery. Mom lost her cookbooks. Her shawls. Replaced photos of me and Mom baking and laughing with framed photos of Dad and Valerie in Cancun, Aspen, in matching Christmas pajamas.
She never touched the piano. I believed she may have known not to cross that line.
Maybe she was waiting.
I went to college out of state at 18. I needed separation. Home no longer felt like home.
Spring break followed.
I returned with baggage, desiring familiarity. Some grounding.
As I entered the living room…
The piano vanished.
Moved not. Not covered. Gone.
Only a faint footprint on the carpet where the legs stood. Space looked wrong. Hollow.
“Dad?” I shouted, panicking. Where’s the piano?
From the kitchen, Valerie said. “That old thing?” I had it removed. This was going apart.”
I stood dumbfounded. “What?”
She entered with her usual smoothie, swinging her manicured hand like a cobweb. “You never played it, Sweetheart. Dust was gathering. Maybe it was time.”
Chest burnt. That was mom’s. That was mine.”
Rolling her eyes. Do not overreact. Not even yours.”
“It was in the will,” I shakily responded. “Dad promised.”
“Well,” she shrugged. “Too late.”
My eyesight clouded. I turned and hurried upstairs, almost stumbling on the final step. Slammed my door. A piece of the wall behind me broke.
Shaking hands, I grabbed my phone.
Where is Mom’s piano? Val stated she sold.
No reply.
I viewed the screen for hours.
I heard her giggling on the phone downstairs. The buyer was from Ohio. Can you believe they keep those?
I wanted to shout. Cry. Break something. Only that piano remained of my mother. Just like that, she sold it. It looked like garage sale garbage.
Dad remained mute.
Dad returned from business two days later. I heard his luggage wheels hitting the floor as the front door opened.
Then—nothing.
Not happy. Hey, I’m back! Thai takeaway not offered. Just quiet.
Crawled to the landing.
He stood in the living room gazing at the piano’s vacant spot. His body was motionless, his shoulders stiff.
Always stylish, Valerie arrived with a smoothie and yoga pants. Oh, hi babe! You arrived early.”
He didn’t turn. Where’s the piano?
Blinking, she pretended to be confused. “What?”
He turned slowly. “Valerie. The piano. Where is it?
“Oh,” she laughed nervously. “That old thing?” I sold. Nora never used it, and it was ugly.”
Dad gazed at her. Then he murmured, “Oh my God.”
Her head tilted. “What?”
He added, “I hid your birthday present in there,” his voice breaking. “A necklace. Inside the piano, I taped the box beneath the bottom panel.”
Her face lacked color. What sort of necklace?
“A Cartier,” he said. 3,000 bucks.
A green smoothie fell from her fingers and burst on the wooden floor.
“You’re kidding.”
“I can show the receipt.”
Panic crept over her face. “No. The answer is no.
She grabbed her phone and paces. “Hi! Hi, I sold you a Steinway upright last week? I need it back. Urgently.”
I listened from the top of the steps, concealed.
You mean it’s gone? Already out of state? You must monitor. I had no idea there was stuff inside! It wasn’t stolen—hello?
With short breath, she hung up and looked at Dad. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He was serene. Cold. Since it was unexpected. It was forbidden to touch the piano.”
That’s unfair! You never told me—
“You didn’t ask,” he lashed out. “You never ask. Just take.”
Behind their bedroom door, shouting filled the home that night. Her strident accusing voice. His calm, forceful voice was new to me.
“She’s grown up!”
“She’s my daughter,” Dad added. “That piano was her only motherly possession. You took it.”
Her closet was half empty when I walked downstairs the following morning. Her scribbled message on the counter:
“I need space. Avoid calling me.”
After reading, Dad folded it and put it in the rubbish drawer.
A week later, he seated me at the kitchen table.
Filing for divorce.”
I regarded him. Stared at him. Tired. Guilty. But also…freer.
I should have stopped earlier. I let her update this home. I let her harm you. I let her delete your mom.”
He slid a folder across the table.
Photos of the piano were inside. The will. Report of the appraiser. His reselling platform search for the buyer. Regret on paper.
“I tried to track it,” he added. “But it’s probably gone forever.”
Not knowing what to say. I nodded, throat too tight to speak.
After then, something changed.
Dad and I rebuilt. Slowly. He cooked Sunday breakfasts again—pancakes with too much syrup like Mom. I was questioned about school. He listened.
He invited me to the garage one Saturday.
A used upright piano was beneath a blue tarp.
Not as magnificent. Wood was scratched. Unsteady leg. Beautiful, however.
Hand-carved. Ivory keys. A small elderly soul.
“I know it’s not hers,” he said. “But now it’s yours.”
I stepped up and touched the keys.
Felt warm. Familiar.
Sat down. I played several tentative notes. Then chord. And another.
The music returned. Like it waited.
That incident taught me that certain things are irretrievable.
Some things?
You start anew.
