That afternoon, the scent of fresh flowers mixed with the aroma of food drifting from the kitchen filled the newly opened restaurant. Warm light from the hanging lamps bathed the room, making the celebration feel even more alive.
In the middle of the crowd, Dira stood near the door, watching her husband, Arga, give his opening speech.
Applause broke out now and then as Arga called out the names of people he wanted to thank.
“Thank you to Budi, for taking care of the interior…”
“Thank you to Rina, for handling the promotion…”
“Thank you to…”
Dira smiled.
She waited.
Waited for her name.
Waited for that simple “thank you.”
But… until the final round of applause, it never came.
Behind the smooth flow of the entire event was her mind, constantly solving problems.
Her hands, running here and there.
Her exhaustion, hidden behind a quiet smile.
And yet… all of it disappeared as if it never existed.
When the event ended, Dira walked over to Arga, still wearing the same smile—though something inside her was quietly aching.
“Why didn’t you mention my name when you gave your thanks?” she asked softly.
No anger in her tone, just curiosity.
“Forgot,” Arga replied curtly.
And as if that wasn’t enough, he gave her a sharp look.
“Why are you being so sensitive?” His voice rose.
Dira fell silent.
Sometimes, what hurts the most is not just being forgotten…
but being scolded for remembering.
She lowered her gaze and gave a faint smile—one no longer warm.
A smile that quietly held a decision.
Years later, Dira sat on the porch of her small home, enjoying a calm afternoon.
No more speeches where her name would never be called.
No more forgetfulness she had to forgive.
It was a good thing.
Because Arga… was only part of the past.
Photo by Meral Avdanlı on Unsplash
