A Table for Her at the Cheesecake Factory

October 12th always seems to catch me off guard.

Even four years later, I still wake up on this day with a heaviness I can’t quite shake. This morning was no different. My bed felt like it had grown roots, anchoring me in place, unwilling to let me rise. The weight of memory, of grief, of love, it all pressed down before I even opened my eyes.

But then came the sound of little feet. My kids, with their boundless energy and tender hearts, knew what day it was. They didn’t need to say much. They just knew. They know that I can’t say no to them. And they know, deep in their bones, that their late grandmother, Sheila Annette Lee, is watching over them.

So today, we’re going to the Cheesecake Factory. It was one of her favorite places.

Not because of the menu (though she did love a good slice of cheesecake), but because it was a place where we gathered. Where we laughed. Where she told stories that made us cry from laughter and sometimes from the truth they carried. It was a place where she reminded us that family is sacred, that time together is a gift, and that love is best served warm and shared.

My children never got to know her the way I did. But they know her through me. Through the way I hold their hands a little tighter on hard days. Through the prayers we say before dinner. Through the way I remind them to speak with kindness, to lead with love, and to stand tall in who they are.

They’ve decided that every October 12th, we’ll go to the Cheesecake Factory. Not just to eat, but to celebrate her. To tell stories. To laugh. To cry if we need to. To remember.

And so, today, even though it started with sorrow, it will end with joy. Because Sheila Annette Lee lives on in me, in them, and in every bite of cheesecake we share in her honor.