25 years, my son's marriage. I should have felt nothing but happiness about it. Instead, I kept thinking about that 150 number and wondering exactly who these business contacts were and why on earth they needed to be there to watch a father congratulate his son. The batik shirt had been hanging in the same spot in my closet for probably 3 years, and I still remembered exactly why I bought it. Ramy picked the fabric herself back before she got sick at a little shop in Cirebon we stopped at during a trip we weren't even planning to take.
We'd gotten lost looking for a rest stop and ended up in some market instead. She held the cloth up against my chest right there in the shop and said, "This one, Pak. This is your color." I hadn't worn it in a while, special occasions only, and there hadn't been many of those lately. Saturday morning, I laid it out on the bed and just looked at it for a minute. Then I got the iron out, which is not something I do gracefully at 68, but I managed.
I wanted it done right. My son's 25th anniversary. I wasn't going to show up looking like I'd rolled out of bed. While I ironed, I found myself running through what I wanted to say to him. Not a speech, nothing formal, just something.
A few words when I got the chance. Maybe during a quiet moment before the toasts started. Adrian, I said out loud to the empty room, trying it out. 25 years. Your mother would be so proud of the man you've become.
That sounded stiff. I tried again. Son, I know things have been busy for you. But today, seeing you and Cisca celebrate this, it means more to me than you probably know. Better.
Still not quite right, but better. I kept turning it over while I finished with the shirt. The kind of quiet, hopeful mood I hadn't felt in longer than I wanted to admit. It's a strange thing being excited about something small like a dinner. You forget you're capable of it until it happens again.
Around noon, I heard a knock at the gate. It was Pak Slamet from two houses down, standing there in his gardening hat, looking like he'd walked over mid chore. Pak Bambang, I heard you've got a big event tonight. Word travels fast, I said, though it didn't surprise me. Pak Slamet knew everything that happened on our street before it finished happening.
My son's going that way, too. Dropping off some catering equipment near the Grand Preanger. I told him to swing by. He can take you. Save you the trouble of a taxi.
It was kind of him. Genuinely kind. The way neighbors used to be kind to each other before everyone got so busy. But something in me wanted to say no. I appreciate that, Pak Slamet.
I really do. But I think I'll manage on my own tonight. He raised an eyebrow. You sure? It's no trouble.
I'm sure. Old habits. I like arriving places under my own steam, if that makes sense. I smiled so it wouldn't sound ungrateful. Besides, if I show up in your son's catering van, I might get put to work carrying trays.
He laughed at that, said something about how I never did change and went on his way. But after he left, I stood by the gate a second, thinking about why I'd really said no. It wasn't about the ride. It was about walking into that hotel into a room full of Adrian's business contacts and Cisca's polished friends on my own terms, not dropped off like some elderly relative who needed handling. I wanted to walk in like a man who still had some standing in this world, even if nobody in that room remembered what I used to build.
Maybe that's pride talking. Maybe it's foolish at my age. But it mattered to me. By 6:30, I was dressed, the batik shirt pressed, and sitting right on my shoulders the way it used to, hair combed back the way Ramy always liked it. I called a taxi, told them the address, and while I waited by the door, I reached for my keys off the little table in the hallway.
That's when my eyes landed on the watch. I hadn't planned on wearing it tonight. It doesn't exactly match the batik shirt, and it's not really jewelry, more like a habit I keep to myself at home. But my hand went to it anyway, resting there on the table where I'd set it that morning after my coffee. I picked it up and just held it for a moment, running my thumb over the worn leather strap.
I couldn't explain the feeling that came over me right then. It wasn't sadness, not exactly, more like a nervousness that had no business being there. I was going to my own son's anniversary party. There was nothing to be nervous about. Still, I found myself slipping the watch into my shirt pocket instead of leaving it behind, like I needed to bring some part of her with me tonight, whether I understood why or not.
The taxi honked outside. The lobby of the Grand Preanger looked like something out of a magazine. Marble floors polished so clean I could see my own reflection looking back up at me. Chandeliers hanging so low I felt like I should duck. I stood there a second after paying the driver just taking it in.
150 guests, Adrian said, looking at this place. I believed it. I smoothed down my batik shirt, straightened my collar, and walked toward the ballroom entrance where two young men in dark suits stood at a small podium with a guest list. Behind them, I could hear music drifting out, glasses clinking, that low hum of a party already in full swing. Good evening, I said, stepping up.
I'm here for the Kusuma anniversary event. The one on the left, younger of the two, gave me a polite but blank look. "Name, sir?" "Bambang Sastro." He scanned his list, ran his finger down at once, then again slower.
My name wasn't jumping out at him clearly. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't see it here. Are you a guest of the family, or...?"
"I'm the groom's father," I said. "Simple as that." Both of them looked up at that. Not rudely exactly, but there was a beat of surprise on their faces that told me everything.
They hadn't expected the father of the groom to look like, well, like me. A man in an ironed batik shirt arriving alone. No driver waiting behind him. No entourage. One moment, sir, the second one said, and stepped away to radio someone.
I stood there at the podium while he did that. Guests kept arriving behind me. Women in gowns that probably cost more than my monthly pension. Men in suits that fit like they'd been made for them because they probably had been. A couple walked past me straight through, waved at by the staff, no questions asked.
I caught a glance from one of the women, quick and assessing, the kind you give someone standing somewhere you don't expect them to be. I kept my hands folded in front of me and waited. It wasn't the first time in my life I'd been made to wait. I told myself that it didn't make it feel any less strange. After a couple of minutes, the young man came back.
Sorry for the wait, sir. You're confirmed. Go right in. Thank you, I said, and meant it. No hard feelings toward him.
He was just doing his job. It wasn't his fault my name hadn't made it onto whatever list Adrian's people had put together. Still, walking through those doors, I felt something settled differently in my chest than the excitement I'd carried in the taxi. Small thing, barely worth mentioning, but it was there. Inside, the ballroom was even more than the lobby had promised. Round tables dressed in white cloth, gold accents on every chair, a stage set up at the far end with a banner that read Adrian and Cisca.
25 years in elegant script. String lights, a live band tuning up in the corner. It looked like something planned by people who did this for a living, because it probably was. I stood near the entrance for a second, scanning the room for a familiar face, Adrian, or even just someone from my side of the family, someone who'd remember me from before all this. That's when I spotted Cisca.
She was near one of the side tables, clipboard in hand, directing two staff members where to place some kind of floral centerpiece. Even from across the room, I could tell she was in her element. Sharp, precise, the kind of person who runs an event like she's running a company. She said something to one of the staff, pointed, and they scrambled to adjust. For a second, I actually admired it. Whatever else was true, my daughter-in-law knew how to put together an evening like this.
Then she looked up and her eyes found mine across the room. It was quick. So quick I might have imagined it if I hadn't been watching closely. But right as she recognized me, something flickered across her face.
Not a smile forming, but one adjusting, like she'd been caught off guard by something she should have already accounted for. By the time it settled back into place, she was smiling wide, waving me over with the clipboard still tucked under her arm, calling out, "Pak Bambang! You made it!"
Her voice was pitched perfectly for the room to hear. But I'd seen that first flicker, and I couldn't quite shake the feeling that whatever caused it, it wasn't happiness to see me. Cisca pulled me into a quick hug, the kind that doesn't actually touch much beyond shoulders. Then a staff member in a black vest appeared at her elbow almost instantly.
"Ryan." "Of course," the young man said and gestured for me to follow. I figured I'd be seated somewhere near the front, close to where Adrian and Cisca's table would be, maybe near the other elders in the family. That's usually how it works. You put the parents somewhere visible, somewhere people can come pay respects. Instead, Ryan led me the long way around the ballroom, past table after table, each one filling up with well-dressed guests already deep in conversation, laughing, clinking glasses.
We walked and walked past the stage, past the dance floor, until we reached a table tucked near a side exit, close enough to the kitchen doors that I could hear dishes clattering every time they swung open. "Here you are, sir," Ryan said, pulling out a chair for me. I looked around. Table 22, according to the little gold card in the center, two other people were already seated. An older woman I didn't recognize and a man who looked to be about my age. Both of them nursing drinks and glancing around like they weren't quite sure why they'd been placed there either.
"Thank you," I said, and sat down, telling myself it was probably just how these things worked now. Big events, assigned seating by some software, nothing personal in it. Maybe Adrian's team just didn't know where to put family that wasn't part of the official wedding party photos. I tried to make conversation with my tablemates. The woman turned out to be a distant relative of Cisca's visiting from Semarang, who admitted with a small laugh that she barely knew anyone here either.