I Gave My Daughter My Father’s Violin For Her Graduation, She Called It “Shabby,” So I Sold It…

The Appraisal and the Sale

We drove back to our house in East York. I didn’t say anything the whole way.

When we got home, I took the violin to my study and set it on the desk. I sat down in my chair.

Margaret made tea. She brought me a cup and sat across from me.

“She doesn’t understand,” Margaret said. “No,” I said. “She doesn’t.”

I looked at the violin. I thought about my father playing it in those small concert halls.

I thought about Sunday mornings. I thought about teaching Rebecca to read music when she was 6 years old, before she decided it wasn’t useful enough.

The next morning I called a colleague of mine named James. He’d retired from teaching the same year I did.

He was an expert on string instruments. He sometimes appraised them for insurance purposes or estate sales.

“James,” I said. “I need you to look at something.”

He came over that afternoon. I showed him the violin.

He opened the case, took out the instrument, and examined it under a lamp. He looked inside through the f-holes and checked the label.

He was quiet for a long time. “Thomas,” he said finally. “Do you know what you have here?”

“It’s a Gagliano,” I said. “My father bought it in 1928.”

“It’s not just any Gagliano. This is a Ferdinando Gagliano. Look at the craftsmanship, the scroll work, and the varnish patina is original.”

“This is extremely rare.” “What’s it worth?”

James set the violin down carefully. “I’d need to verify the provenance and get some documentation.”

“But if this is authentic, and I believe it is, you’re looking at somewhere between $100,000 and $150,000. Maybe more at the right auction.”

I sat down. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not joking. Ferdinando Gagliano instruments are highly sought after. This one is in remarkable condition considering its age.”

“The fact that it’s been played regularly actually helps keeps the wood resonant. If you wanted to sell it, I know collectors who would be very interested.”

I thanked James. He left me some paperwork, names of appraisers, and auction houses.

I sat in my study for the rest of the afternoon. I thought about what Rebecca had said: shabby, embarrassing, garage sale.

I made a decision. I contacted an appraiser, a woman named Catherine Chen.

She specialized in Italian string instruments. She came to my house 3 days later.

She examined the violin for over an hour. She took photographs and measured everything.

She checked the wood grain and verified the label against her database. When she was finished, she sat down with me at my kitchen table.

“Mr. Thompson,” she said. “This is an authentic Ferdinando Gagliano from 1922. It’s in excellent condition and the tone is beautiful.”

“I have a private collector who has been looking for exactly this kind of instrument. He’s based in Vancouver.”

“If you’re interested in selling, I can facilitate the transaction. He’s prepared to pay $120,000.”

I thought about it for maybe 10 seconds. “Yes,” I said. “I’d like to sell it.”

“Are you certain? This is a family heirloom.” “I am certain.”

The transaction took 2 weeks. There was paperwork and verification.

The collector, a man named Mr. Chen, no relation to Catherine, flew to Toronto to see the violin in person.

He was in his 60s, originally from Hong Kong. He’d been collecting rare instruments for 30 years.

He played the violin in my living room. When he finished, he had tears in his eyes.

“This instrument has a soul,” he said. “You can hear it. Your father must have loved it very much.”

“He did,” I said. Mr. Chen wrote me a check for $120,000.

I signed the papers and he took the violin. I watched him leave with it.

Margaret asked me if I was okay. “I’m fine,” I said. And I was.

I didn’t tell Rebecca. I didn’t tell anyone except Margaret.

I deposited the check. Margaret and I talked about what to do with the money.

We decided to put most of it in a trust for Emma. It would be for her education and for her future.

We kept 20,000 for ourselves. We’d been wanting to renovate the kitchen for years.

Two weeks after the sale, Rebecca called me. It was a Sunday morning and I was reading the paper.

She sounded angry. “Dad, I need to talk to you.”

“What’s wrong?” “Where’s Grandpa’s violin?”

My stomach tightened. “Why do you ask?”

“Because Emma’s violin teacher was here yesterday. She’s very experienced and used to play professionally.”

“Emma was showing her some of her music books and she saw a photo on my phone from the graduation. The one where I’m holding the violin case.”

“She asked what kind of violin it was. I said it was just an old family instrument. She asked if she could see it.”

“I didn’t say anything, Dad. She told me that violin in the photo looked like a Gagliano.”

“She said if it’s authentic, it could be worth a fortune. So I went looking for it.”

“I thought maybe you’d left it here that night, but I couldn’t find it. So I called you. Where is it?”

I took a breath. “I sold it.”

Silence on the other end. “Then you what?”

“I sold it to a private collector.” “When?”

“3 weeks ago.” “3 weeks ago, Dad? That was right after my graduation.”

“That’s correct.” “Why would you sell it?”

“Because you didn’t want it. You called it shabby and embarrassing.”

“I didn’t mean I wanted you to sell it! I just meant I couldn’t use it for performances.”

“I thought you’d keep it or give it to Emma later.” “You handed it back to me, Rebecca.”

“You made it very clear you had no interest in it.” “How much did you sell it for?”

I paused. “$120,000.”

Another silence, longer this time. When she spoke again, her voice was different, cold.

“$120,000?” “Yes.”

“That violin was a family heirloom. It belonged to all of us. You had no right to sell it without discussing it with me first.”

“I had every right. My father left it to me, not to you. I chose to offer it to you as a gift. You refused it.”

“I didn’t refuse it! I just said I couldn’t use it for performances.” “You called it a garage sale item.”

“Dad, I was surprised. I didn’t know what to say. But that doesn’t give you the right to sell something that’s been in our family for almost a century.”

“It was mine to sell.” “I’m coming over. We need to talk about this in person.”

She hung up. Margaret looked at me from the kitchen doorway.

“That didn’t sound good.” “No,” I said. “It didn’t.”

Rebecca arrived an hour later and Derek was with her. She walked into my house without knocking.

She looked furious. Derek looked uncomfortable.

“Dad, you need to understand how serious this is,” Rebecca said. “That violin was worth a fortune and you sold it out of spite.”

“I didn’t sell it out of spite. I sold it because you didn’t want it and because I realized it deserved to be with someone who would appreciate its value.”

“Its value? You’re talking about money now?”

“You spent my entire childhood lecturing me about how music wasn’t about money. You said it was about passion and art and connection.”

“And now you’re telling me you sold Grandpa’s violin for money?”

“I sold it because you looked at it and saw nothing but an old piece of wood that embarrassed you.”

Derek stepped forward. “Mr. Thompson, maybe we can work something out. If you still have the buyer’s information, maybe we could arrange to buy it back.”

“Buy it back with what money?” Rebecca crossed her arms.

“With the money you got from selling it! You give us the $120,000 and we use it to buy the violin back. Everyone’s happy.”

I stared at her. “You want me to give you $120,000 so you can buy back something you didn’t want in the first place?”

“It’s not about wanting it, Dad. It’s about preserving family history.”

“You didn’t care about family history at your graduation.” “I didn’t understand what it was worth!”

“Exactly,” I said. “You didn’t understand. You saw an old violin and you made a snap judgment based on how it looked.”

“You didn’t think about the music my father played on it. You didn’t think about the Sunday mornings I spent playing it.”

“You didn’t think about any of that. You thought about how it would look on stage.”

“That’s not fair!” “Isn’t it, Rebecca?”

“Do you know what your grandfather did to buy that violin? He worked two jobs for 2 years.”

“He taught music lessons during the day and played in dance halls at night. He saved every extra dollar.”

“Your grandmother made their clothes by hand so they could save money. When he finally had enough, he took a train to Montreal.”

“He bought that violin from a widow who was selling her late husband’s estate. He carried it home on his lap.”

“He played it at his own wedding. He played it when I was born. He played it at your grandmother’s funeral.”

“That violin was his voice.” Rebecca’s expression changed. Something flickered there—doubt maybe, or guilt.

“I didn’t know that.” “You didn’t ask.”

Derek put his hand on Rebecca’s shoulder. “Babe, maybe we should go.”

She shook her head. “No. Dad, the money. What did you do with it?”

“That’s none of your business.” “It’s absolutely my business! That violin should have been mine one day. That money should have been mine.”

“Should have been? Based on what?” “Based on the fact that you’re my daughter!”

“You made it clear you didn’t value what I was offering you, so I found someone who did.” “This is theft!”

“Theft? How is it theft to sell something that belonged to me?”

“Because you knew I would have wanted it if I’d known what it was worth!” “There it is,” I said.

“If you’d known what it was worth. Not if you’d known what it meant. If you’d known the price tag.”

Rebecca’s face went red. “You’re twisting my words!”

“I’m not twisting anything. You’re a lawyer, Rebecca. You understand ownership.”

“My father left that violin to me. It was legally mine. I offered it to you as a gift. You declined. End of story.”

“I’m going to talk to a lawyer about this!” “You are a lawyer.”

“A different lawyer! Someone who can tell me if I have grounds to sue you.”

Derek actually flinched. “Babe, you can’t sue your father.” “Watch me.”

She turned and walked out. Derek followed her. He glanced back at me and mouthed the words, “Sorry.”

Then they were gone. Margaret came into the living room and sat down next to me on the couch.

“She’ll calm down.” “I don’t know if she will.”

“She’s hurt and she’s embarrassed. She made a mistake and now she’s trying to blame you for it.”

“She said she’s going to sue me.” “She won’t sue you.”

Margaret was wrong. 3 days later I received a letter from a law firm.