When the Wi-Fi Went Out

When the Wi-Fi Went Out

It happened on a Wednesday evening — the kind where everything was moving too fast. Emails buzzing, TikToks playing, Netflix buffering, notifications popping like firecrackers. My family, though under the same roof, hadn’t really “seen” each other in days.

1. We were all in the same space… and yet, miles apart.

Dad was on his laptop finishing a client proposal, Mom was glued to her tablet watching a cooking vlog, my younger sister was Snapchatting on her phone, and I — well, I was scrolling mindlessly through Instagram, double-tapping lives I wasn’t really part of.

Then, just like that, the screen froze.

At first, we all assumed it was our own device acting up. But slowly, one by one, we looked up.

“No signal?”

“Is your Wi-Fi working?”

“Check the router.”

“Did the bill get paid?”

It was like watching confused animals sniffing around unfamiliar terrain. And then — silence.

The kind of silence we hadn’t shared in years.

Dad walked to the living room and peeked out the window. “Looks like it’s the whole block. Probably a line down.”

He wasn’t mad, just... surprised. As if someone had unplugged the rhythm of our lives.

For a few minutes, we all sat quietly, awkwardly shifting in our seats like guests at a funeral.

Then Mom lit a candle.

She didn’t say anything dramatic. Just placed it on the coffee table and smiled. “Since we can’t stare at our screens, let’s stare at the flame.”

Dad chuckled. “That sounds like something from a meditation app.”

“I deleted mine last week,” I muttered, only half-joking. “Didn’t have time to use it.”

“Exactly why you needed it,” he replied.

And then something strange happened.

We started talking.

Not about work or grades or updates or money. But real things.

Mom told us about how her grandmother used to read her stories by lantern light during load-shedding in the village. My sister giggled and said, “What’s load-shedding?”

“It’s like this,” I said, “but way more regular, and no Netflix to miss.”

We laughed.

Dad leaned back and said, “You know, I once survived a whole month with no internet during college.”

We gasped like he’d said he walked on the moon.

“What did you even do?” my sister asked.

“I read books. Played cards. Fell in love.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. “With who?”

He grinned. “The girl I married.”

That candle flickered like magic. It glowed between us like a forgotten friend, warm and quiet.

We ended up making tea and bringing out a dusty board game from a cabinet no one had opened since the early 2000s. The pieces were mismatched. The rules were fuzzy. But for two hours, we played.

And argued.

And laughed until tears rolled down Mom’s cheeks.

No phones. No pings. Just... us.

When the lights finally flickered back and the Wi-Fi router blinked to life, no one rushed to their screens.

It was almost disappointing, like the end of a dream you weren’t ready to wake up from.

My phone buzzed with messages. My sister's notifications blew up. The digital world was calling.

But we didn’t answer right away.

Dad looked around. “Maybe we should schedule a no-Wi-Fi night every week.”

“No way,” my sister said — but then paused. “Okay. Maybe.”

Mom reached for her tablet but paused. “Let’s just sit a while longer. Lights off.”

We agreed.

That night, I went to bed thinking about how easily we replace connection with convenience. How we live in the same spaces but rarely share them. How we say "I'm busy" instead of "I'm present."

And how sometimes, it takes a blackout to truly see the light.