All the ones with Mom? Replaced by new ones — Tracy and Dad in Cabo, in Aspen, in matching Christmas sweaters.
One day, I went looking for Mom’s cookbooks. Gone.
Then her scarves. Gone. Just gone.
But the piano stayed. I think Tracy didn’t touch it because even she knew some lines you shouldn’t cross.
Or maybe she was just waiting.
I left for college. It was out of state.
I needed the distance. Home didn’t feel like home anymore.
Fast forward to spring break. I came back, bags in hand, excited for a break and maybe some normalcy.
I walked into the living room… and the piano was gone.
Not moved.
Not covered. GONE.
There was just this empty space, like a ghost. A faint outline in the carpet.
Dust where the pedals had been. I stood there staring like maybe it would reappear if I waited long enough.
“Dad?” I called out, heart pounding. “Where’s the piano?”
Tracy’s voice floated in from the kitchen.
“Oh, that old thing? I had it hauled away. It was falling apart.”
I blinked.
“What?”
