Sandra Hanna

“If the internet ever gets cut off at 9 one night, come over without feeling embarrassed. I know how important that call is to you.” I recognized my dad’s handwriting right away. I asked our neighbor, “What happens at 9?” She told me her husband had been living in a care home for 3 years because he needed care she could no longer give him at home. Every night at 9, a caregiver helped him connect for a video call. Her husband was starting to forget a lot of things, but she still called him to say good night, just as she had for more than 40 years. Our neighbor had had to cut back on her expenses and canceled her internet service. When my dad found out, he told her, “Use ours. Don’t worry about it.” She tried to pay him several times, but my dad always refused. He would tell her, “I’m not going to charge you for talking to your husband.” I was speechless. My dad would greet the neighbors and help them when he could, but he was pretty reserved. He had never told me anything about this. Our neighbor added, “At first, the signal barely reached my bedroom. Your dad bought a repeater and came over to install it. Then he moved the router next to the window so I could talk to him without the call dropping.” Then I remembered something that happened almost every night. If it was 9 and I was downloading files, watching videos, or playing online, my dad would tell me, “Leave it until after 10.” I would answer him grumpily, “And why do I have to wait? The internet is ours.” He would smile and say, “It’s only an hour, son. After that, do whatever you want.” I always thought it was just one of his quirks. Sometimes I didn’t even listen to him. I didn’t know that, on the other side of the wall, there was a woman waiting to talk to the man she had shared almost her whole life with. I told our neighbor, “I’m sorry. We’ll sort this out right now.” I went with her to her house. She had a tablet on the table, next to a photograph of her wedding. When she saw me looking at the photo, she smiled and said: “Back then, he still remembered everything. Even where we met.” I didn’t know what to say. My dad had been helping her for years, and I hadn’t even known her husband lived in a care home. I entered the new password, and the connection came back. The caregiver answered the video call and held the screen up to her husband. The woman smiled and said, “Good night, darling.” He looked at her for a few seconds without saying anything. Then she began to sing softly a song they both knew. The man smiled. I don’t know if he recognized her. I don’t even know if he remembered the song. But she kept singing, and he stayed looking at the screen with a smile. I stayed there for a few minutes and then left without making a sound. When I got back to our house, I saw the router next to the window. How many times had I told my dad to put it in the hallway, where the signal reached our bedrooms better? Now I understood why he had never wanted to move it. I texted our neighbor: “Keep using the Wi-Fi like before. And if I ever change the password, I’ll let you know.” She replied, “Thank you, son. Your dad used to say that no one should spend their final years unable to say good night to the person they love.” I read the message several times and ended up crying. Ever since my dad died, I thought I knew all his habits. That morning I discovered that some of his quirks were small favors he had been doing for years without expecting anything in return. What hurts me most is remembering the times I got angry because he asked me to give up the internet for an hour. For me, it was an inconvenience. For that woman, it was the chance to hear her husband’s voice before going to sleep. And of all the things my dad left in that house, that router next to the window ended up being one of the most important Now, when it’s 9 at night, I try not to download anything Just in case, on the other side of the wall, there’s still someone waiting to say good night

After losing my dad, I changed the Wi-Fi password at our family home. The next morning, our elderly neighbor knocked on the door. She told me, embarrassed: “Sorry to bother you, son. Last night I couldn’t say good night to my husband… could you help me with the internet?” I was about to give her the new password, but she pulled a folded piece of paper out of her bag. It had the old password written in my dad’s handwriting, and underneath it said… ↓