Chapter 7 — The Password Without Me

Even so, one could hardly call us close. Every two or three weeks, I would drop a single message into the family chat, casually mentioning whatever project was currently occupying my time. Mother would reply with a brief, "Take care of your health." Father occasionally sent a simple sun emoji. My younger brother never uttered a single word in the group, though my older sister confided in me that whenever I sent photographs of Norway, he would zoom in and study them for a long time. When the Lunar New Year arrived, Mother asked if I intended to come home. I told her my academic schedule made it impossible. She simply said, "Understood." I stared at that single word for a long time. She did not press the matter. She did not ask how I could possibly stay away for the New Year. She did not use moral obligation to guilt me into returning. This was the greatest measure of respect she was capable of offering me. In March, my younger brother sent me a voice message. Fourteen seconds long.

"Sister, I passed the physical fitness test. I ran the hundred meters in eleven point three seconds."

He paused for a brief moment.

"Ah, is it cold over there where you are?"

I replied with a text:

"Well done. It is not cold anymore. Spring has arrived here."

He sent back a thumbs-up emoji. I no longer harbored any hatred toward them. It took me an entire year to come to terms with this reality. It was not forgiveness. The word forgiveness carries too much weight; it implies that the other party has committed a transgression requiring mercy. Nor was it reconciliation. There were never any formal heart-to-hearts between us, no sweeping confessions or cleared-up misunderstandings. It was simply that time and distance had diluted those heavy emotions. They were my family, and I was their daughter—that fundamental truth would never change. Yet I would never again return beneath that roof in search of validation or affection. I no longer needed them to see me. Seeing myself was quite enough.

Before classes resumed in late August, the dormitory replaced its old router. A small white box was fastened to the wall right beside the bookshelf. Maja called out to me from the living room:

"Du Do, what is the new Wi-Fi password?"

"Let me handle it."

I opened the management page and typed a string of characters into the password field. It was not anyone's birthday. It was not the initials of anyone's name. It was not some secret code left behind by anyone from my past. It was the postal code of Bergen, combined with my dormitory room number, followed by the month I first arrived in this city. A password that belonged entirely to me.

The setup was complete. The signal bars were full. The connection was stable. It would never drop. Back in that house, I had spent eighteen years trying to crack a password no one was ever willing to give me. Now, my own network was something I built myself, maintained myself, and used for myself.

Outside the window, the rain continued to fall. Bergen was always raining. But my roof did not leak. I wrapped myself tightly in a blanket and opened my laptop. The Wi-Fi icon in the bottom right corner of the screen glowed quietly. Full bars. Unbroken.