Dad deleted my coding portfolio the night before my dream job interview. Women can't code stop embarrassing us. He said, mom, agreed tech is for real. Men like your brother. They had no idea what I backed up. The blue light from my laptop screen went dark at 11:47 PM One moment, I was reviewing my portfolio for tomorrow's interview at Tech Nova.
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The next I was staring at a black screen with a single line of text system files corrupted, unable to recover data. My hands froze over the keyboard. This couldn't be happening, not tonight, not when I was 12 hours away from the interview. That could change everything. No, I whispered frantically trying to restart nothing.
The laptop was completely wiped, having trouble. I spun around to find my father, standing in my doorway, arms crossed, familiar smirk playing on his lips. The one he wore when he'd wanted something. What did you do? My voice came out strangled. Women can't code, he said. Simply stop embarrassing us. I did you a favor.
You destroyed my portfolio. Three years of work. Your little hobby projects. He shrugged. Trust me, aria, no serious tech company wants to hire a woman who thinks she can play with the boys. You are wasting everyone's time. Mom appeared beside him. Nodding approvingly Tech is for real. Men like your brother.
Maybe now you'll focus on finding a nice marketing job, something appropriate. My brother Kevin, who had gotten a computer science degree with dad's full support and a job at a startup that failed within six months, who now sold insurance and called himself an entrepreneur, couldn't code a Hello World program if his life depended on it.
That portfolio had everything I said, my voice shaking, my machine learning projects, the app with 50,000 downloads, the open source contributions, toys. Dad interrupted little girl toys. The interviewer would've laughed you out of the room. I saved you the humiliation. You sabotaged me, parented you. He corrected something I should have done years ago when you started this ridiculous phase.
Women in tech are diversity hires, nothing more. You want to be the token female on a team of men who got there on merit. I have merit. I graduated Summa come loudly. I won three hacker thorns. Microsoft offered me an internship, but you turned down to chase the startup fantasy mom added. See, you make poor decisions protecting you from yourself.
They left me there staring at my dead laptop. Satisfied. They had saved me from my own ambitions. They had no idea what I backed up. They were about to learn something about women in tech. We are not just code as problem solvers, and we always have backups. I waited until their bedroom door closed, then pulled out my phone.
My hands were steady. Now Fury, replacing despair. Three years of dealing with their technological sabotage had taught me one thing. Never trust a single point of failure. First, I logged into my GitHub. Everything was there. Every project, every commit, every line of code they thought they destroyed, version controlled and timestamped.
Next AWS, my deployed applications were still running metrics, still collecting user data, still flowing. The app they called a toy had processed 10,000 transactions just this week. Then Google Drive screenshots of every achievement, every certificate, every recommendation letter, including the one from Professor Martinez that said I was the most talented programmer he taught in 20 years.
Finally the crown jewel, my backup laptop hidden in my friend KO's apartment because I'd learned the hard way that nothing was safe in this house, identical to the one dad had wiped updated just yesterday, but I wasn't done. No, they wanted to play dirty. I show them what a woman who can code could really do.
I opened my security app, the one I built after dad accidentally deleted my junior year project for two years. It had been quietly documenting every login to my devices, every file access, every deletion. There it was 10:32 PM Dad's user account, logging into my laptop using the password he didn't know I he knew.
Systematic deletion of directories. Installation of a corrupting virus. All logged, all traceable. The best part. Key logger I'd installed on the family computer after mom lost my scholarship applications, it had captured something beautiful. An email from dad to his boss, sent from the family computer three hours ago.
Need to leave early tomorrow for golf. Will say I'm in client meetings. Another email from two weeks ago, expense report attached for the Vegas conference conference he'd actually spent in Atlantic City with his college buddies. One more crown jewel. Don't worry about the Henderson account discrepancies.
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