When I was 14, my mom died of cancer. The only thing I asked to keep was her piano — a beautiful, antique Steinway that she played every Sunday, even in her final weeks. My dad promised it was mine, and it stayed in our living room as a reminder of her. Then came Tracy — my chipper, peppermint-scented stepmom — and her daughter, Madison. Slowly, Tracy erased every trace of my mom. Photos, scarves, cookbooks — gone.
But the piano stayed. Until one spring break, I came home from college and found it missing. Tracy smiled and said, “I had it hauled away. It was falling apart.” I was crushed. My dad was out of town, and Tracy brushed me off like I was being dramatic. But when Dad came back and saw the empty spot, his face went pale.
