In late middle- or early high school, c. 2007 or so, my family had only one internet-connected computer in the house and five people who needed to use it regularly. In an effort to curb the amount of time his kids spent wasting their lives staring at a screen, my dad set up a user account on the mac which was password protected, so that we had to ask permission to use it and he could choose to tell us no.

My younger brother and I HATED this system. We were determined to figure out the password so that the computer could be used in the time before our dad came home from work without him knowing. We tore apart the office area, hoping that it was written down somewhere, guessed at the password a million times over -- nothing.
Eventually we came up with a plan which could either make or break us. We spirited the family's digital camera out of its drawer and I hid behind the couch that had its back to the computer and office chair. My brother innocently called our dad down to let him onto the computer, which he agreed to do. And as he sat down, I sprung up silently from the couch and zoomed in with the camera in record mode, to capture his keystrokes as he logged in. I couldn't have been more than three inches from his shoulder. It's amazing, looking back, that he didn't notice me.

Anyway, we were thrilled and brought the video to a secondary computer downstairs to analyze in all its grainy, low-light, mid-2000s-resolution glory. We made a few guesses, tried them the next tie we were home alone, and eventually figured it out. We had borderline unfettered access to the computer for months after that, but I think he cut it out with the passwords before too long because that was about the time our parents' marriage started really falling apart and maybe he decided we needed the distraction.