My middle daughter Piper is 13 years old.
For most of her life, if you asked her what restaurant she wanted, the answer was easy.
Grimaldi's.
Not occasionally.
Always.
For years, my family went there almost every week. It wasn't just our favorite pizza place. It became part of our family rhythm.
Some families gather around a lake house.
Some gather around a ball field.
We gathered around a coal-fired pizza.
Every year for Piper's birthday, Grimaldi's was non-negotiable. It was our daddy-daughter date spot. It was where memories were made. It was one of those places you don't realize has become part of your family's story until much later.
Then life got busy.
A couple years ago Piper's birthday came and went in June. We kept saying we'd get to Grimaldi's when our schedules calmed down.
A few weeks later we finally had an opening.
"Let's go get Piper's birthday dinner."
We pulled into the parking lot expecting pizza.
Instead, we got perspective.
The staff told us that day was their final day in business.
They were permanently closing their doors that night.
I still remember standing there thinking about how easily we could have missed it.
If we'd waited one more day, we would have arrived to locked doors.
One more week?
Gone.
One more month?
Gone.
Instead, somehow, of all the days we could have shown up, we walked in on the very last one.
It felt lucky.
But it also felt like a lesson.
The things we assume will always be there usually don't send a warning text before they disappear.
Restaurants.
Traditions.
Opportunities.
People.
Nothing guarantees us one more chance.
Fast forward two and a half years.
If my family is discussing where to eat dinner, Piper still says Grimaldi's.
Every single week.
I'm not exaggerating.
For two and a half years.
Without fail.
She knows it isn't an option.
The closest one is hours away.
Doesn't matter.
She says Grimaldi's anyway.
Maybe it's because she's the middle child.
Every parent understands that middle children sometimes get squeezed by life without anyone intending it.
My youngest son plays travel baseball, basketball, and football.
My oldest daughter plays club volleyball.
Their schedules are demanding.
Piper, meanwhile, is the sweetest kid you'll ever meet.
She doesn't ask for much.
She's thoughtful.
She's a saver.
She's grateful.
Honestly, she's probably the easiest kid in the house.
And the one thing she consistently asks for is the one thing she can't have.
Grimaldi's.
Not because of the pizza.
Because of the memories.
This past Monday I walked in the door a little after 5 PM.
For whatever reason the stars had aligned.
For the first time in what felt like forever, our schedule was open.
The next day was fall break.
Piper didn't have school.
I only had one Zoom meeting.
The closest Grimaldi's was in Mount Pleasant.
About three hours away.
So I looked at Piper and said:
"Do you want to go to Grimaldi's for dinner?"
Then I added:
"You've got five minutes to pack."
The look on her face was worth every mile we drove.
Chaos immediately broke out.
My wife had errands to run with my oldest daughter.
My son was getting ready for basketball practice.
He was also in full panic mode because he couldn't find one of his Steph Curry socks.
And when I say Steph Curry socks, understand my son treats basketball practice like he's signing a ten-day contract with the Warriors.
Jersey.
Shorts.
Shoes.
The whole thing.
Apparently one missing sock was a national emergency.
While everyone was scrambling, Piper was throwing clothes into a bag and racing to the car.
We dropped my son off at practice and hit the road.
Our GPS said we'd arrive at Grimaldi's at 8:51 PM.
Nine minutes before closing.
No pressure.
Halfway there we got a lucky traffic reroute that saved a few minutes.
I put in an online order for pickup at 8:45 PM.
We made a quick charging stop in Orangeburg.
Then somehow, against all odds, we rolled into the parking lot right on time.
8:50 PM.
We grabbed the pizza and headed to the hotel.
Mission accomplished.
Or so I thought.
When we got to the hotel, I opened the trunk and immediately realized something.
In the chaos of searching for my son's missing sock, packing clothes, coordinating schedules, and trying to leave town in five minutes...
I'd left my bag in Greenville.
Three hours away.
I had absolutely nothing except the clothes on my back.
Piper laughed.
I laughed.
What else can you do?
We ate pizza.
We talked.
We stuffed ourselves.
The next morning, I took my Zoom meeting from the hotel room.
Then at 11:00 AM we went right back to Grimaldi's for lunch.
One more meal.
One more memory.
Then we drove three hours home.
Six hours of driving.
Two meals.
One forgotten suitcase.
And a memory I'll never forget.
The older I get, the more I realize the greatest investments aren't measured in dollars.
They're measured in moments.
Most of us are waiting for a better time.
When work settles down.
When sports season ends.
When life gets less hectic.
When the calendar opens up.
But sometimes the calendar never opens up.
Sometimes the restaurant closes.
Sometimes the opportunity disappears.
Sometimes the kids grow up.
I'm thankful we made it to Grimaldi's on its last day two years ago.
But I'm even more thankful we made the trip this week.
Because one day the pizza won't matter.
The six-hour drive won't matter.
The forgotten suitcase won't matter.
What Piper will remember is that her dad heard something that mattered to her, and decided it was worth the drive.
And if I'm being honest, that's what I'll remember too.