When my stepmom sold the only thing my late mother left me—a cherished antique piano—I thought nothing could hurt more. But her cruelty ended up costing her far more than a piece of furniture. My mom died of cancer when I was 14.It was long and brutal. Still, every Sunday, no matter how tired she was, she would sit at her upright Steinway and play. Jazz, classical, old songs—it didn’t matter.I’d sit on the rug with my cereal and listen, feeling safe. When she passed, all I wanted to keep was that piano. Dad promised it was mine, even putting it in his will.