My Ex-Wife Wanted Me to Sell My Dead Son’s Guitar for Her Stepson and I Almost Lost It

Some things are sacred. I thought everyone knew that. But apparently not my ex-wife. She showed up unannounced, standing in the doorway of the home where I raised our son alone, and asked me something I still can’t believe. She wanted me to sell Liam’s guitar—his prized possession, his dream, his legacy—so her new husband’s son could have it.

At first, I thought she was joking. A sick joke, but a joke nonetheless. But she was serious. She stood there like it was the most normal request in the world, as if the guitar was just another piece of old furniture collecting dust.

I had been in Liam’s room when she called earlier, dusting off his posters, straightening his books, making sure everything was still exactly how he left it. His guitar was still in the corner, untouched but never forgotten. I hadn’t moved it since the day we lost him. Every time I looked at it, I could still hear the chords, the riffs he practiced over and over, dreaming of playing on a real stage.

Liam never got the chance. A hit-and-run driver took that away. One careless moment, and the future we built together vanished.

And now she wanted me to sell that guitar... to a kid I’ve never even met.

“Think about it,” she said, her voice casual, like she was offering me a deal on an old lamp. “Jason could really use it. He’s been wanting to learn.”

I stared at her, trying to keep my voice steady. “Jason? Your new husband’s son? The one who’s into football, not music?”

She shrugged like it didn’t matter. “It’s just sitting there. Feels like a waste.”

I laughed, bitter and sharp. “No. It’s Liam’s. And it’s staying right here.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered that I was being selfish. But I wasn’t the one trying to pawn off my dead son’s dreams for the sake of convenience.

Later that night, I sat by the guitar. The fretboard was worn from Liam’s hours of practice, the strings still faintly carrying the memory of his touch. His favorite pick was still wedged between the strings, just where he left it after his last session.

I ran my fingers across the wood, feeling the grooves and scratches he made. I could still hear him—late at night, when the world was quiet, filling the house with music and hope.

I whispered, “Don’t worry, kid. It’s staying right here.”

Because some things don’t get sold.

Some things hold too much of a soul to ever have a price.

And no matter how many times the past comes knocking, there are memories I’ll never trade away.

Not for her.

Not for anyone.

Liam’s guitar stays with me. Forever.