When I was 14, my mother passed away after a long battle with cancer. The one thing that connected me to her memory was her beloved upright Steinway piano, which she often played even in her final days. My father promised it would always be mine, and it was written into the will. For a while, it remained in our home, a comforting reminder of my mom, until my father remarried a woman named Tracy who slowly erased everything that reminded us of her.
While I was away at college, Tracy sold the piano without my knowledge. When I returned for spring break, the empty space left in the living room hit me hard. Tracy casually explained that she got rid of it because it was taking up space. I was devastated and texted my dad immediately. When he came home, he was equally shocked—he had hidden an expensive necklace meant for Tracy’s birthday inside the piano. Her careless act had cost her both the necklace and my father’s trust.
Their relationship quickly unraveled. After a heated argument, Tracy moved out, leaving a note that she needed space. A week later, my father told me he had filed for divorce, apologizing for not protecting my mother’s memory and my feelings sooner. Though the piano and the necklace were never recovered, something important had changed: the bond between my father and me began to heal.
In time, my father surprised me with a secondhand piano he found. Though it wasn’t my mom’s original, it became a new symbol of our renewed relationship and a way to keep her memory alive. The first time I sat down to play, the house finally felt like home again.