So last night we went to eat at Olive Garden. It wasn’t anything fancy—just one of those simple family dinners we try to have every now and then, nothing more than good food and a little time together. My mother, who is 79 years young, joined us, as she always does when she’s feeling up for it. She’s still sharp, still full of little jokes and stories, and still likes to remind us all she was dancing the jitterbug before any of us knew how to walk.
When we got to the restaurant, the hostess led us to a big round table in the corner. As we all moved to sit down, my mom quietly walked to the far edge and took the seat in the corner. “I’ll sit here,” she said with a small smile. “I like it better. I can see everyone this way.”
We didn’t think much of it. It’s just a seat, right? But as dinner went on, I realized something—she was right. From her little corner spot, she had a full view of the table. She watched her grandchildren laugh over breadsticks and took in every story we shared. When my brother started teasing my niece about her new boyfriend, Mom chuckled into her salad and raised an eyebrow like she was filing away the gossip for later. At one point, she leaned over to me and whispered, “Do you see how tall he’s getting? He was barely up to my shoulder last year!”
She smiled a lot that night. Not a big toothy grin, but those quiet, content smiles that come when you’re watching something you love unfold in front of you.
There was something peaceful about her presence. She didn’t need to lead the conversation or be in the middle of it. Just being there—tucked in her corner seat, fork twirling fettuccine, eyes dancing from one grandchild to the next—was enough.
When the waitress brought out the check, my mom insisted she pay her part. “Ma,” I said, reaching for the bill, “you’re not paying. You raised us. This one’s on us.”
She rolled her eyes. “I raised you, but I didn’t raise you to waste money.” She handed the waitress her card before I could stop her.
Outside, as we waited for the valet, she looked up at the stars and pulled her sweater a little tighter around her. “I don’t know how many more of these dinners I’ll have with you all,” she said softly. “But I’m glad I had tonight.”
I looked at her, sitting tall and proud despite her years, and felt a lump rise in my throat. There’s something about watching someone you love age gracefully—holding onto the things that matter, letting go of what doesn’t—that stays with you.
And now, I think I understand. That corner seat wasn’t just about comfort. It was about seeing everything. About not missing a moment.
About love.
