Now his smile dropped entirely. He glanced down at his folder again, flipping through a page or two, like he was checking whether he had the right client. That's strange. The paperwork indicates a prior consultation, a signed intent form dated last month. I've signed nothing.
I meant it flatly. No room for misunderstanding. But even as I said it, something nagged at the back of my mind. Last month, hadn't there been something? A stack of papers Adrian's assistant dropped off at the house?
Something about updating records for tax purposes? I remembered signing a few forms quickly without reading closely because Adrian's assistant had been in a hurry and I trusted my own son enough not to scrutinize every page he sent my way. Had that been part of this? Some intent form buried in a stack of tax paperwork I hadn't looked at carefully enough. My stomach turned over slow and cold.
Perhaps there's been some confusion on our end, Ferman said, backpedaling now, clearly sensing he'd stepped somewhere he wasn't supposed to yet. I'll double-check with the office. My apologies for bringing it up prematurely. Cisca's voice cut across the table, bright and sharp, arriving before she did.
She appeared beside Ferman almost out of nowhere. One hand landing on his arm with a grip that looked friendly but felt even from where I sat like something closer to a warning. Ferman, there you are. I've been looking everywhere for you. Her smile was wide, aimed at me, though it didn't reach anywhere near her eyes. Sorry, Pop Bambang.
I need to borrow him for a second. There's a a seating issue near the front we need to sort out. Of course, Ferman said quickly, folder already tucking itself back under his arm, relief plain on his face at the excuse to leave. We can pick this up another time, Pak. My apologies again.
We haven't finished, I said. But Cisca was already steering him away by the elbow, her voice pitched low and fast now. Words I couldn't quite catch except for a few fragments drifting back toward me. They disappeared into the crowd near the bar. Cisca's hand still firm on his arm, her back rigid in a way that told me whatever she was saying to him wasn't gentle. I sat there alone at my half-empty table, the music still playing, guests still laughing around me like nothing strange had just happened at all.
But something had. I just didn't know yet how deep it went. I sat there for a few minutes turning it over, then decided I wasn't going to just wait around for someone to explain it to me. I got up, left the table, and started looking for Adrian. I found him near the stage, still talking with those investors, laughing at something one of them said, drink in hand, like he didn't have a care in the world.
I waited at the edge of the group until there was a break in the conversation, then caught his eye. "Adrian, can I have a word?" He excused himself, though I could see it cost him something. Some careful performance he was in the middle of. He walked over, jaw a little tighter than before. Pa.
I'm kind of in the middle of a man just approached me claiming he's from a notary's office. Said there's paperwork ready for me to sign transferring the Diponegoro house. Said it was already discussed with me. Something flickered across Adrian's face, gone almost as fast as it appeared. If I hadn't been watching closely, I might have missed it.
That's don't know what that's about, Pa. Probably some mixup with the vendor list. These events get chaotic. People show up thinking they're supposed to be somewhere else. He knew the address, Adrian.
He knew it was under my name. "I mean, that's public record, Pa. Anyone could have found it," Adrian said. "He said it was already discussed with me last month." Adrian didn't answer right away. He glanced toward the bar where Cisca had disappeared with Ferman a few minutes earlier, then back at me, and for just a second, something crossed his face that looked less like confusion and more like a man calculating how much he needed to explain.
Look, I'll figure out what happened. Okay, I'll talk to Cisca. Sort it out. It's probably some paperwork mix up from the office. Nothing to worry about.
Adrian. I kept my voice low, steady, the same tone I used to use when I needed a foreman to actually hear me instead of just nodding along. Is there something going on with the house? No, Pa. Of course not. Why would you even ask that?
But even as he said it, a memory surfaced, one I hadn't thought about in weeks. A few months back, his assistant had come by the house with a folder of documents. Just some updates for the property tax records, she'd said breezy and quick, already checking her phone while I signed where she pointed. I remember flipping past a page or two that had language I didn't fully read. Something about authorized representative and asset management, but I'd assumed it was standard government paperwork, the kind that shows up every few years asking you to reconfirm ownership details. I hadn't thought twice about it.
I trusted the assistant because I trusted Adrian, and I trusted Adrian because he was my son. Now standing here, that memory sat differently in my chest. Adrian, was there something in those tax documents your assistant brought by back in? Pa, I really have to get back to these guys. They're flying out tonight and I need to close this deal.
He put a hand briefly on my shoulder. More like closing a conversation than comforting me. We'll talk about it later. I promise. Just enjoy the party.
All right. He turned and walked back toward the investors before I could say another word. That easy laugh already sliding back into place like a mask he knew how to wear. I stood there a moment, the noise of the party pressing in around me, feeling further from my own son than I had all night. Pak Bambang.
I turned to find Cisca approaching. All smiles again, phone tucked away now, hands clasped in front of her like she'd never rushed off with a notary's assistant 10 minutes ago. We're doing a few family photos before the toasts start. Would you come with me? I want to get one of you and Adrian together.
It's important to me. Something about the offer after everything else tonight caught me off guard in a good way. Maybe I'd misjudged the whole evening. Maybe this was her trying to make it right. Of course, I said.
Where's the photographer set up? This way, she said, and took my arm gently, guiding me, not toward the little photo backdrop I'd noticed near the entrance earlier, strung with flowers and soft lighting, but in the opposite direction entirely, toward a set of double doors near the back of the ballroom. I hadn't paid much attention to before. The doors opened into a smaller room, clearly a function space the hotel used for private meetings. A long table, soft lighting, none of the ballroom noise reaching in past the closed doors.
It took my eyes a second to adjust, and when they did, I saw Notary Handoko himself standing near the head of the table, Ferman beside him with that same folder from earlier and a stack of papers already laid out, neat and waiting. There was no camera, no photographer, no backdrop of flowers. Cisca, I stopped just inside the doorway. This isn't a photo room. I know, Pak.
I'm sorry for the little white lie. She said it lightly, like it was nothing, already guiding me further inside with a gentle hand at my back. I just didn't want to make a scene out there in front of everyone. This is easier done quietly, don't you think? Adrian slipped in behind us, closing the door with a soft click, and stood near the wall instead of near me.
"Easier to do what?" Quietly? I asked, though some part of me already knew. Notary Handoko stepped forward, folder in hand, voice smooth in the way of a man used to talking people through paperwork they didn't fully want to sign. Pak Bambang. Good evening.
I understand there was some confusion earlier with my assistant. Let me explain properly. Please do. What we're proposing is actually for your protection. Cisca cut in before he could continue pulling out a chair for me at the table like this was still some kind of hospitality.
It's called a trust, a yayasan essentially. A legal arrangement where your assets are held and managed for your benefit by a designated trustee. It means you'd never have to worry about maintenance, taxes, any of the burdens of ownership at your age. My age? I stayed standing. I'm 68, Cisca, not senile.
Of course not, Pak. Nobody's saying that. Her voice stayed calm, almost soothing, the tone you'd use on a child who'd misunderstood something simple. This is just responsible planning. And frankly, given some of the memory concerns Adrian's mentioned, what memory concerns?
Adrian over by the wall said nothing. Didn't look at me. You've mentioned forgetting things. Cisca continued. Still gentle, still reasonable sounding.
Misplacing items. Adrian told me about your mother's watch. How you sometimes ask where it is, even when it's right there on your wrist. My hand went instinctively to my shirt pocket where I'd tucked the watch earlier that evening, safe against my chest the whole night. That's not memory loss.
That's a habit, I said, my voice tighter now. I know exactly where that watch is at all times. Of course you do. She smiled, the same practiced smile from earlier. But you understand at your age, families need to think ahead.
There's a legal guardianship process intended to protect elderly family members from being taken advantage of by outside parties. We just want you protected, Pak. That's all this is. Every sentence she said sounded reasonable on its own. Trust, protection, guardianship. Words that strung together by someone speaking calmly enough almost made sense.
But there was something too smooth about the way she delivered them. Like she'd rehearsed this exact conversation more than once before tonight. Practiced the pacing, practiced which words to soften and which to let land firm. I'd like to hear this from my son, I said, and turned to look at Adrian directly, waiting for him to say something, anything. To either back this up honestly or admit it was wrong.
He shifted his weight, glanced at the papers on the table, glanced at Cisca. He didn't look at me at all. I'd like to read it, I said, pulling out the chair myself now, sitting down, not because I was agreeing to anything, but because my legs needed a moment. All of it, every page, before anyone signs anything tonight. Notary Handoko exchanged a brief glance with Cisca.