The man beside her was a supplier Adrian's company used for materials. He knew Adrian professionally but had never met me. "You're Adrian's father?" he asked, surprised when I mentioned it. "That's right." "Huh."
He looked genuinely puzzled by that, glancing toward the front where a table sat with what I assumed were Cisca's parents, dressed elegantly, greeting guests as they arrived, like they were hosting the whole thing themselves. I would have figured you'd be sitting up there. Different arrangement, I guess. I said and left it at that. A few minutes later, a young woman I didn't know, one of Cisca's friends, judging by her dress and the confidence with which she moved through the room, stopped by our table to say hello to the Semarang relative.
On her way past, she glanced at me with polite curiosity. "And you are?" Before I could answer, Ryan, who was refilling water glasses nearby, spoke up. "This is a family acquaintance, ma'am." Family acquaintance.
I let it pass. Corrected nothing. What was I going to do? Make a scene over how a waiter introduced me at my own son's anniversary party? I told myself Ryan probably didn't even know who I was, hadn't been told, was just filling in a blank the way any staff member would for an unfamiliar guest.
Not his fault, not anyone's fault, really. Still, something about hearing it out loud, acquaintance, not father, sat strange in my stomach. I watched from a distance as more guests arrived, greeted at the door by Adrian and Cisca personally, hugs and cheek kisses and photographs. I hadn't gotten one of those greetings. I'd found my son's wife by accident across a room and been walked to the back before I ever got close enough to shake his hand.
I decided not to dwell on it. These things happen at big events. The hosts get pulled in a hundred directions and somewhere in the chaos, small courtesies get missed. I've thrown parties myself years back, company anniversaries and project completions. I know how easy it is to lose track of people in a crowd like this.
A server approached our table not long after. Balancing a tray of plates for us. He set one down in front of the Semarang relative, one in front of the supplier. Both proper dinner plates, plated nicely, the kind of presentation that matched the rest of the room. Then he set mine down. It wasn't a plate at all.
It was one of those clear plastic containers you get from a catering service, the kind with the little compartments. A rubber band still stretched around it in one corner where it had been packed. And right there on the lid in black marker, someone had written a single word. Bambang. I stared at it for a second, not quite understanding what I was looking at.
The server had already moved on to the next table before I could even ask him about it. I peeled the rubber band off slowly, set it down beside the container, and opened the lid. Rice, some grilled chicken, a bit of vegetable, all perfectly fine food. Nothing wrong with it. But everyone else at my table had porcelain plates with the same meal arranged like art, garnished, warm.
Mine had come in a box with my name and marker, like something you'd hand out at a construction site lunch line. I looked up, half expecting someone to notice, to say something, to fix it. Nobody did. My tablemates were deep in their own conversation about traffic on the toll road. The kitchen doors kept swinging.
I told myself again that it didn't mean anything. Maybe they ran short on the good plates. Maybe the kitchen made a mistake with the seating chart. There were a hundred boring explanations and I didn't have proof of anything else. So, I picked up my fork and started eating.
"Pak Bambang." I looked up to see a man standing beside my table, maybe in his 40s, dressed sharp but not unfamiliar. It took me a second and then it clicked. Yousef? I stood up genuinely happy for the first time all evening.
Yousef Hardman, is that you? It's me, Pak. He grinned, shook my hand with both of his. I almost didn't recognize you from across the room. Well, I did.
I just wasn't expecting to see you all the way back here. Yousef used to be one of my site supervisors years back. One of the good ones. Sharp, reliable, the kind of guy who'd call you at midnight if something on the job needed fixing instead of waiting till morning and letting it become a bigger problem. He'd left the company a while before I retired. Went on to start his own supply business.
It looked like it was treating him well. "Sit, sit," I said, though there wasn't really a spare seat, so he crouched down next to the table instead, one hand on the back of my chair. "How have you been, Pak? Really, it's been years."
"Getting by," I said. "Gardening more than I ever thought I would. You look good. Business treating you right?" "Can't complain."
He glanced around the ballroom, taking it in. "Quite the event, huh? I didn't realize Adrian's company had grown this much." Something in the way he said it caught my attention. Not quite a compliment. More like an observation with a question folded inside it.
"You supply for him now?" I asked. "Used to, more than I do now." He lowered his voice slightly, leaning in a bit closer, the way people do when they're about to say something they probably shouldn't. "Pak, don't take this the wrong way, but word around the industry is his company's been late on a few payments lately."
"Nothing crazy, but enough that a couple of suppliers have started asking around, you know, quietly." I sat with that for a second. Late payments happen. Cash flow is never perfect in this business. "Sure, sure."
"I just... I don't know. It's probably nothing. Big party like this, you'd think everything's fine." He shrugged like he regretted bringing it up. "Forget I said anything, Pak."
Probably just talk. I nodded, though it didn't sit easy in me. I knew that business better than most people in this room. I knew what it looked like when a company was struggling underneath a shiny surface. The parties get bigger right when the books get worse because you can't let the investors see anything but confidence.
"Anyway," Yousef said, straightening up. "I should get back to my table before my wife thinks I ran off. Good seeing you, Pak. Really." "You too, Yousef."
"Take care of yourself." He gave my shoulder a light pat and disappeared back into the crowd. And I sat there, turning his words over, wondering if it meant anything or if I was reading too much into idle party gossip. Either way, I couldn't quite shake it. I picked my fork back up, trying to settle my thoughts, when I noticed Cisca approaching from across the ballroom, weaving between tables with a server trailing just behind her, carrying a large tray with several bowls of soup balanced carefully on top.
She was walking fast, clipboard still tucked under one arm, checking something on her phone with the other hand, not really watching where she stepped. She passed close to our table, closer than she needed to, honestly, given how much open space there was on the other side, and her shoulder caught the server's arm just as he was adjusting his grip on the tray. I saw it happen almost in slow motion. The tray tilted. One of the bowls slid.
And before I could even push my chair back, hot soup came pouring straight down the front of my batik shirt. The heat hit me before the shock did. Soup soaking straight through the batik shirt and onto my undershirt. Warm enough to sting but not burn. Thank God.
I pushed back from the table fast, plate clattering, and a couple of nearby guests turned to look. "Oh my gosh, I am so sorry," the server started, already grabbing napkins off a nearby tray, hands shaking a little. "It's all right. It's all right," I said, taking the napkins from him, dabbing at my chest. "Accidents happen." Cisca stood there for a second, hand pressed to her mouth in what looked like genuine surprise.
Pak Bambang. Oh, no. Are you okay? I didn't even see you there. I was looking at my phone.
"I'm fine," I said, and I meant it mostly. My shirt was ruined for the night, but nothing on me was actually hurt. "Let me get you something to clean up with. I'll have someone bring a fresh shirt from the hotel gift shop. They should have something."
"No need," I said. "It'll dry. Really, don't fuss over it." She gave a tight little nod, said something to the server about being more careful in a voice sharp enough that a couple of nearby tables glanced over and then was gone again, back into the crowd, phone already back in her hand. I sat there for a moment, soup soaked napkins in a small pile beside my plate, feeling every bit of the eyes still lingering on me from surrounding tables.
Nobody said anything unkind. Nobody had to. I could feel exactly what this looked like from the outside. The old man in the corner dripping soup, being fussed over for 10 seconds before everyone moved on with their night. I tried to laugh it off.
Genuinely tried. "Well," I said to the Semarang relative next to me, forcing a small chuckle. "That's one way to season a shirt." She smiled politely, but didn't really laugh, which told me the joke landed about as well as I expected. That's when I saw Adrian cutting through the crowd toward our table, weaving fast between guests, drink in hand. Pa, what happened?
He looked at my shirt at the mess on the table, his expression more embarrassed than concerned, like he was doing quick math on how visible this was to his guests. Your wife had a small accident with a soup tray. Nothing serious. He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small packet of tissues, the kind you'd find in someone's car. Not exactly hotel service and set it on the table in front of me here. Sorry about that, Pa.
I looked at the tissues then at him. Sorry about that. Not I'll go check on you. Not let me get you a new shirt. Not even an actual apology on Cisca's behalf.