Randall Park

We searched, we Googled, navigated dead hyperlinks, called toll-free numbers, and sat on hold for hours simply to ask about setting up a password to our children's accounts.

And at long last, a few of us succeeded in placing blocks on our children's usage.

Our children found ways around them easily.

We became vigilant.

We canceled the connection to our apartments, opened our fuse boxes, shut off the electricity, and sat in candlelight with our furious children.

They yelled at us, but we informed them we weren't going to relent.

This was for their own good.

We were their parents, we said, and we stood strong against them.

It was only then, once we mounted our counteroffensive and held our ground, that our children retaliated.

How they gained access to our passwords, we have no clue.

But here was a list of our past search histories, the emails we sent when we complained about bosses or neighbors or parents or friends.

Here were the porn sites we visited, the sexts we sent our partners.

Here were the databases upon databases of our most shameful secrets tallied and collated.

Our children stood in our living room.

Did we understand how easy it would be for them to share this with the world, they asked.

They could make our private lives public with nothing more than Wi-Fi and a single blink of an eye.

You can't do this, we told them.

Of course we can, they said, looking at us as if we were toddlers.

Please, don't do this, we said.

And they smiled.