When it comes to spending big on a meal, Daryl and I have a tradition. For birthdays, anniversaries, and other milestones, we treat ourselves to high-end local restaurants—places like Madure or Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse. They’re not cheap, but the cuisine, company, and ambiance always feel worth the splurge. We go not just to eat, but to celebrate life together.
But the most I ever spent—or almost spent—on a meal was back in June of 2007. It was a dinner at the Benihana in Kennesaw, Georgia, and it still lingers in my memory for reasons far deeper than the bill.
My then-wife, Vicki, had just earned her master’s degree in education from Kennesaw State. Her parents were in town, and I offered to take everyone out to dinner to celebrate. There were seven of us gathered around the teppanyaki grill that night. I remember glancing around the table, soaking in the sizzle of the hibachi, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—and quietly doing math in my head. Seven people at Benihana? That was going to be a steep tab.
Apparently, my stepfather caught the look on my face, because when the check came, he picked it up without a word. I’ve always appreciated that gesture. But even if the bill had landed squarely in my lap, it would have been worth it—because that night turned out to be the last truly happy memory I shared with my mom.
She’d been fighting a recurrence of breast cancer for two years. We didn’t know it at the time, but the window of joy was closing fast. That evening, as conversation buzzed around the table, I overheard her telling someone that her cancer markers were finally dropping—possibly to the point where her doctors might soon use the word remission. Hope hung in the air.
Then I asked her a question:
“Mom, please tell me you’re going to your 50-year high school reunion in Carthage.”
She smiled and said she’d already let them know she was coming.
That moment stayed with me. Just a few days later, we found out her cancer had become aggressive again—this time spreading to her thyroid and brain. She passed away six or seven weeks after that dinner. We just marked the 18-year anniversary of her death and funeral this past week.
Looking back, I’m so thankful for that meal. It wasn’t just dinner—it was a rare, golden moment of happiness in the middle of a painful season. A celebration of an academic achievement, yes—but also of family, and hope, and love, and presence. I would’ve gladly paid double just to freeze that night in time.
Copyright © 2025 Doug DeBolt.
