I visited Grandma every day after that.
Sometimes I arrived carrying coffee I never finished.
Sometimes I still had chalk dust or marker stains on my sleeves.
I usually brought a story from school.
Grandma liked hearing about ordinary things.
She asked about my students.
She wanted to know which children were struggling.
She always seemed particularly interested in the quiet ones.
I think she understood them.
There were afternoons when she spoke very little.
I would sit beside her and read.
Or play recordings of music she loved.
Every now and then, she would lift a finger and point out that the pianist had rushed a passage.
Even lying in a hospital bed, she couldn't resist.
It made me smile.
It also made me sad.
There were moments when she looked almost like herself.
Then she would need help adjusting her pillows.
Or she would become exhausted after a few sentences.
I watched those changes happening.
I couldn't stop them.
So I kept showing up.
My father didn't visit.
At least, I never saw him there.
Mom sometimes called to ask how Grandma was doing.
But those conversations were short.
She wanted practical information.
Had the doctor said anything new?
Was Grandma eating?
Were there any documents that needed signing?
I answered what I knew.
I didn't understand why paperwork seemed so important to her.
Delaney visited once.
She arrived wearing an expensive coat and carrying a small handbag.
She stayed for about fifteen minutes.
Grandma was asleep for most of it.
Delaney kissed her forehead, looked at her phone, and asked whether I knew how long hospice usually lasted.
I stared at her.
"What do you mean?"
She shifted uncomfortably.
"Just generally."
"I don't know."
She nodded and changed the subject.
A few minutes later, she said she had to meet Ryder.
I walked her to the door.
In the hallway, she stopped to take a picture of herself.
I watched her check the image before leaving.
She didn't look back toward Grandma's room.
I returned to the chair beside the bed.
For a long time, I said nothing.
Grandma was still sleeping.
I remember watching her chest rise and fall.
I felt angry with Delaney.
Then I felt guilty for being angry.
That was a familiar habit.
Whenever somebody in my family disappointed me, I searched for a reason to excuse them.
Maybe Delaney was uncomfortable around illness.
Maybe she didn't know what to say.
Maybe she was frightened.
Those things could have been true.
But they didn't change the fact that Grandma was alone whenever I wasn't there.
A few evenings later, Grandma asked me to do something for her.
We had been listening to an old recording when she reached for my arm.
"Everett, could you bring me some photographs?"
"Of course."
"The albums your grandfather kept."
I knew which ones she meant.
They were stored high in the closet beside the den.
Grandpa had organized them carefully.
There were pictures from performances, family gatherings, and trips they had taken together.
Some albums were so heavy that I used to need both hands to carry them.
"Do you want a particular one?" I asked.
She considered it.
"Bring several."
I smiled.
"All right."
She looked toward the window.
"I've been thinking about the years when I was younger."
I waited.
"I'd like to see those days again."
Her voice was quiet.
Not frightened.
Just tired.
I promised to go to the house after work the following afternoon.
She squeezed my fingers.
"Thank you, sweetheart."
The next day, the weather was miserable.
Cold rain fell across Minneapolis.
The wind pushed it sideways.
By the time my last lesson finished, the windows were streaked with water.
I gathered my things and drove toward Wayzata.
The road followed familiar stretches near Lake Minnetonka.
I had made that drive hundreds of times.
Birthday dinners.
Christmas mornings.
Afternoons spent practicing.
Evenings when Grandma insisted I stay for supper.
I knew where the road narrowed.
I knew which turn came after the row of tall trees.
I knew the driveway before I could see the house.
For a few minutes, I almost felt peaceful.
Grandma's home had always been one of the few places where I could relax.
It represented something steady.
I still had a key.
She had given it to me years earlier.
Dad thought it was unnecessary.
Mom once suggested I return it because there was no reason for me to enter the property without calling.
Grandma had told them I was welcome whenever I wanted.
I kept the key.
That afternoon, I was grateful for it.
I parked near the front entrance and ran through the rain.
The lock opened easily.
Inside, everything was quiet.
I took off my wet coat.
The familiar smell of lavender greeted me.
For a moment, I stood in the hallway remembering all the times Grandma had called out from the living room.
She would usually ask whether I wanted tea.
Then she'd insist I was too thin.
I almost expected to hear her voice.
But the house remained silent.
I walked farther inside.
Something felt different.
I couldn't explain it immediately.
The furniture was still there.
The framed photographs were still hanging.
The old runner stretched across the hallway.
Nothing appeared damaged.
Yet the place felt disturbed.
I told myself it was because Grandma wasn't home.
Without her, the house was bound to seem strange.
I turned toward the living room.
And stopped.
At first, I didn't understand what I was seeing.
My eyes moved across the furniture.
The sofa.
The side table.
The bookshelves.
Then the space beside the windows.
Empty.
I looked again.
Grandma's piano wasn't there.
I took several steps forward.
The corner seemed much larger without it.
The carpet was still marked where its legs had rested.
The fibers underneath were lighter than the surrounding floor.
There was a clean shape where an instrument had stood for decades.
I remember staring at that mark.
I thought someone must have moved the piano into another room.
Maybe it needed repairs.
Maybe a technician had taken it away temporarily.
But nobody had told me.
And Grandma certainly hadn't mentioned it.
I walked into the dining room.
Nothing.
I checked the adjoining rooms.
Nothing.
I returned to the living room.
The empty corner was waiting for me.
I stood exactly where the piano bench used to be.
I could almost feel the seat beneath me.
I remembered being seven years old.
My feet swinging above the floor.
Grandma telling me to soften my wrists.
I remembered practicing there at sixteen after a terrible argument with Dad.
I remembered playing for Grandpa shortly before he died.
And now the instrument was gone.
I pulled out my phone.
My hands were trembling.
Mom answered after several rings.
"Everett?"
"Where's Grandma's piano?"
There was a pause.
"What?"
"I'm at her house. The piano is missing."
I heard a television in the background.
Then Mom spoke.
"Your father took care of it."
I frowned.
"Took care of what?"
"It's being handled."
"Mom, where is it?"
She sighed.
"Everett, you don't need to involve yourself in every family decision."
I looked at the empty corner.
"This isn't just some family decision."
She didn't answer.
"Grandma gave that piano to me."
"Don't start."
"I'm asking where it went."
Her voice became firmer.
"Your father knows what he's doing."
"Then tell me what he did."
She said my name in that warning tone I remembered from childhood.
I felt myself shrinking.
It happened automatically.
Even at thirty-two, one sharp word from my mother could make me feel twelve.
But this time I kept talking.
"Grandma asked me to come here. She trusted me with the key. I need to know where her piano is."
Mom interrupted.
"You're getting yourself upset over something you don't understand."
"Then explain it."
She ended the call.
I stared at the screen.
For a moment, I thought the connection had failed.
But it hadn't.
She had simply decided the conversation was over.
I tried calling back.
No answer.
I lowered my phone.
The house seemed quieter than before.
Rain tapped against the windows.
I could hear a faint ticking from the clock on the mantel.
I wanted to leave immediately and confront my father.
Instead, I remembered Grandma's photographs.
She was waiting for them.
That mattered.
I took a breath and walked toward the den.
The closet door stuck slightly, as it always had.
I reached up and carefully removed the albums.
Grandpa's handwriting was still visible on the labels.
Concerts.
Family.
Travel.
Early Years.
I placed several inside a tote bag.
While moving through the house, I noticed other things.
A vase had been shifted.
Some papers on a side table were no longer arranged the way Grandma kept them.
There were small signs that somebody had been sorting through her belongings.
That disturbed me almost as much as the missing piano.
Grandma was still alive.
She wasn't home because she was sick.
That didn't mean her life had become a collection of things other people could divide.
I went into the kitchen to wash my hands.
My gloves were damp and dirty.
I threw them into the trash.
As I lifted the lid, I noticed a torn piece of paper beneath some rubbish.
Printed letters.
Numbers.
The edge of a company name.
I bent down and pulled it free.
It looked like part of a receipt.
Or perhaps a collection document.
The paper had been ripped.
Only fragments remained.
I couldn't understand the entire transaction.
But there were enough printed details to make me uneasy.
Somebody had wanted that paper discarded.
I turned it over.
Nothing helpful.
I folded it and slipped it into my pocket.
I wasn't sure why.
I just knew I shouldn't leave it behind.
Then I heard an engine outside.
I moved toward the kitchen window.
A small box truck was driving away along the street.
It turned at the corner and disappeared.
I couldn't see a company logo clearly.
I couldn't even be certain it had stopped at Grandma's house.
But I watched until it was gone.
My stomach felt tight.
I wondered whether that truck had carried the piano.
I had no proof.
Just an empty space, a torn paper, and a growing feeling that something had happened without Grandma's knowledge.
I picked up the albums.
Before leaving, I returned to the living room.
I stood beside the mark in the carpet.
The photographs on the mantel were still there.
One showed Grandma as a young woman sitting at the piano.
She was looking down at the keys.
Her face was serious.
I had always loved that picture.
Now I couldn't bear to look at it.
I locked the front door and hurried to my car.
The rain had become heavier.
I sat behind the steering wheel, staring at the house.
Then I called Dad.
Voicemail.
I tried again.
This time he answered.
"What is it?"
I didn't bother greeting him.
"I'm at Grandma's house. Her piano is gone."
Silence.
"Where did you take it?"
He breathed out sharply.
"We'll discuss that later."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Why can't you tell me now?"
"Because I'm busy."
"Dad, she promised me that piano."
"I heard you."
"So where is it?"
His voice changed.
"Come by tonight."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not discussing this over the telephone."
I heard movement on his end.
Then he added one last instruction.
"Don't make this difficult."
The call ended.
I remained parked outside Grandma's house.
I should have been furious.
I was.
But fear was mixed in with it.
My parents had a way of making every disagreement feel like something I had caused.
Even when I knew they were wrong, I still felt an urge to apologize.
I hated that about myself.
I had done nothing except ask where Grandma's piano had gone.
Yet I was sitting there rehearsing how to speak calmly to my father.
I glanced toward the tote bag.
Grandpa's albums were inside.
I imagined bringing them to Grandma and having her ask whether everything at home was all right.
I didn't know what I would say.
The truth frightened me.
So did the thought of hiding it.
I started the car.
Instead of going straight to my parents' house, I drove back toward Minneapolis.
I had several hours before Dad expected me.
As I drove, I kept thinking about the family dinner.
Grandma had made her wishes clear.
She had looked directly at my father.
She had said the piano was for me.
There hadn't been any confusion.
Nobody had misunderstood.
Whatever had happened since then had happened because somebody chose to ignore her.
I wasn't dealing with a mistake.
I was dealing with a decision.
And for once, I wanted to know exactly who had made it.
That evening, I would find out.
Source: us45.longbientruck.com
