When my mom passed away from cancer, I was just 14. The one thing that kept her spirit alive in our house was her antique
Steinway piano. Every Sunday, no matter how sick she felt, she played it—jazz, classical, whatever came to her. I’d sit on the
floor with my cereal and listen. After she died, I told my dad, “That’s all I want.” He promised it was mine. Later, he even put it
in his will. Then came Tracy, my stepmom. She smiled too much, smelled like overpriced lattes,
and gradually erased everything that reminded us of Mom. Her daughter, Madison, insulted me on day one. Still, I kept my
head down and eventually left for college. One spring break, I came home—and the piano was gone. Tracy casually said, “Oh,
that old thing? I sold it. You never played it.” I was in shock. That piano wasn’t just furniture—it was my mother’s memory. I
texted Dad immediately. No reply. When he got home and noticed the piano missing,
