I still replay that day in my head. Every single agonizing detail, like a broken record stuck on the worst part of my life. It was a Tuesday, late afternoon. The sun was dipping, casting long, lazy shadows across the lawn. I was on my porch, pretending to read, but really just enjoying the quiet. That’s when my new neighbor walked over.They’d moved in a few weeks prior – quiet, kept to themselves. I’d offered a polite wave, a quick nod. Standard neighborly stuff. Never thought much more of it. Until that Tuesday.
They stood at the edge of my lawn, looking a little nervous, a little embarrassed. “Excuse me,” they started, voice soft, almost a whisper. “I know this is a huge ask, and I totally understand if you say no… but my internet still isn’t set up. Is there any chance I could get your Wi-Fi password, just for a few days? I really need to connect.”
My stomach instantly tightened. A huge ask? Yeah, you could say that. My mind raced. Wi-Fi? To a complete stranger? My private network? All my devices connected, all my personal information… It felt like an invasion. My first thought was a very firm, very protective NO.

A man giving a toast | Source: Midjourney
I’m a private person. Always have been. My home is my sanctuary, and my internet, well, that’s an extension of my home, isn’t it? I’ve heard horror stories. People hacking your network, slowing down your speed, God knows what else. And “just for a few days” often turns into weeks, then months. I’d been burned before, letting people borrow things, offer favors. It always ended badly. My generosity, or perceived generosity, had always been exploited.
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound regretful, not utterly dismissive. “I’m really sorry. I can’t. I just… I don’t share my Wi-Fi. Security reasons, you know?” I gave a little shrug, as if it was a universally understood, non-negotiable rule.
They nodded slowly, looking down at their feet. Their shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. “Oh. Right. Yes, of course. I understand.” They looked up, their eyes meeting mine for just a second. I saw a flicker there – disappointment, yes, but something else too. Resignation? They gave a small, polite smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes, then turned and walked back across the lawn to their house.
I watched them go, a tiny prickle of discomfort starting in my chest. I did the right thing, I told myself. Protect your assets. Protect your privacy. But the image of their slumped shoulders lingered.
The next few days were a strange mixture of relief and a growing, nagging guilt. I’d see them sometimes, sitting on their porch, nursing a lukewarm coffee. They’d have an old, beaten-up phone in their hand, endlessly scrolling, or just staring at the screen with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher. Are they trying to catch a public signal? I’d wonder, then immediately dismiss it. Not my problem.
But it started to become my problem, in a way. I’d catch myself glancing over, noticing things. They rarely left the house. No car in the driveway. No visitors. Are they okay? I’d think. Then, Stop it. You’re overthinking. They’re probably just new, settling in.

A tray of chocolate covered strawberries | Source: Midjourney
The prickle in my chest turned into a dull ache. I’d be watching TV, enjoying my high-speed internet, and I’d suddenly picture them, alone, staring at a dead phone screen. It was just Wi-Fi. A few numbers and letters. What was the real harm? My privacy, my security, I’d remind myself, but the conviction was weakening.
One evening, about a week and a half after the request, I saw them sitting on their porch again. The streetlights had just come on, bathing everything in an orange glow. They were clutching their phone, almost desperately, their thumb swiping, then stopping, then swiping again. It looked like they were trying to connect to something, anything. I saw their face in the dim light, and it looked… desperate.
My heart twisted. I should just go over there. Offer it. Just for a day. Say I changed my mind. The words were on the tip of my tongue, the impulse strong. But then the fear kicked in again. What if it’s a trick? What if they’re just trying to take advantage? I hesitated. I watched them for a long moment, then turned away, pretending I hadn’t seen anything. I convinced myself I was doing what was best for me.
The next morning, I woke up to a strange quiet. The neighbor’s curtains were still drawn. Their porch was empty. No big deal, I thought. But then I heard it. A faint, muffled cry. From their house. My blood ran cold.
I dismissed it. Imagining things. Maybe they have a pet?
Then came the sirens. Not just one, but two police cars, followed by an ambulance. They converged on the neighbor’s house, lights flashing, painting my quiet street in an urgent, terrifying blue and red. My stomach dropped. I rushed to my window.
The door was kicked in. Officers rushed inside. I saw paramedics, their faces grim, carrying a stretcher. And on that stretcher, covered by a sheet, was a small, still form.

An art studio | Source: Midjourney
I stood there, frozen, watching the horror unfold. Later, much later, after the police had left and the street returned to its eerie silence, I saw them again. My neighbor. This time, they were being escorted out by an officer, their face pale, streaked with tears, their eyes vacant, staring straight ahead. They were handcuffed.
I couldn’t breathe.
The news spread like wildfire through the small neighborhood whispers. It came to me from another neighbor, their voice hushed, eyes wide with shock.
They had a child. A very young child, barely a toddler, hidden away. The child had been sick, gravely ill. For days. My neighbor had been trying to get help. Trying to find a way out of an abusive situation, trying to secure a place in a shelter, trying to connect with a crisis hotline. They needed internet access to send photos of injuries, to fill out emergency forms, to make calls that required a stable connection, to find a local doctor who would take emergency patients without insurance. To get HELP.
My stomach lurched. ALL CAPS played in my head. They weren’t trying to stream movies. THEY WERE TRYING TO SAVE THEIR CHILD. AND THEMSELVES.
They couldn’t use a public Wi-Fi network for fear of being tracked. They had no data, no money for an internet cafe. My Wi-Fi was their last, desperate hope.
The child… the child didn’t make it. The official cause was neglect, but everyone knew. They’d been trying to escape, trying to get help, but the delay, the lack of a reliable connection… it had been too long.
My neighbor, still recovering from their own injuries, was arrested. For the death of their child. The official charges were devastating.
I stand here now, looking at my router, blinking its steady blue light. My secure, private, high-speed internet. Every time I see it, I see their face. I see the slumped shoulders. I see the desperation in their eyes.
I didn’t let them use my Wi-Fi. I chose my privacy. My security. And because of that, a child died. And a parent, trying desperately to save them, is now in jail.
I said no to Wi-Fi. And it cost a life.
I should have just given them the password. I should have. I should have. I should have just said yes. And that truth… that unbearable, crushing truth… it’s a password I’m forced to carry now, forever burned into my soul.