I was born in 1973. There was no television in my house, only a radio that woke up early, just like my mother, and fell silent precisely when she went to bed.

But when my parents were finally able to buy a television, which broadcast a black and white image, we felt that life at home had changed for everyone; even the "poor radio," which now remained silent for many hours, even for days.

_Pixabay

The television had "buttons," and Dad instilled in us a "special care for this electrical device," which bordered on humanizing it: "Let the television rest," "Treat it with care," "If you press the buttons too hard, I'll squeeze your ears"; And one day, I pressed the power button hard, so the TV turned on and then immediately turned off. Dad got up from the wicker chair where he was sitting, grabbed my ear tightly, looked me in the eyes, and said:

"Did that hurt?"

"Of course, Dad," I replied.

"Well, it hurts him too."

In this way, Dad anticipated those messages that appear on smart TVs that tell you: "You've been watching TV for a while. Do you want to keep watching?"

Every time I see that message, I think of Dad, so I turn off the TV for a bit and tell myself: "He gets tired too."

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