4 - A Heart Divided

Mina sat at the kitchen table with three open laptops, a wedding checklist on her phone, and color swatches taped to a vision board. The AI stood silently nearby, offering tea when prompted, calculating travel routes to venues, and watching her forehead crease with each decision.

His sensors detected her elevated cortisol levels—up 17% from baseline—and the subtle changes in her voice patterns that signaled increasing stress. He'd seen this pattern before during her final architecture projects in college. Mina under pressure became more focused, more determined, but also more brittle.

"This is too much," she muttered, dragging her hands through her hair.

"Would you like me to reprioritize the remaining tasks?" he asked. "I've analyzed successful wedding planning timelines and can suggest an efficiency-optimized schedule."

She glanced up, a smile briefly flickering across her tired face. "No. I just... I didn't think this part would be the hard part."

He waited, processing her statement. According to his social analytics, this was an opening for further conversation, not a request for solutions.

Mina stared at her phone, the blue light reflecting in her eyes. "Caleb's parents want a smaller wedding. More traditional. No tech. No projections. No speeches from you."

The AI blinked. His facial expression protocols cycled through appropriate responses before settling on a neutral configuration. "Do they wish me excluded?"

"They haven't said that outright."

"But it is implied."

Mina sighed and pushed away one of the laptops. "They don't understand. I've tried. But to them... you're a machine in a suit."

"And to you?"

She looked at him, her eyes tired but suddenly fierce. "To me, you're... family."

The word activated multiple emotional recognition pathways in the AI's processors. Family: a primary social unit, a group connected by blood, legal bonds, or emotional ties. Not a category he had been programmed to occupy.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Mina returned to her planning, but her shoulders remained tense. The AI noted the stack of response cards beside her—mostly "yes" responses from Caleb's extended family, many of whom Mina had never met.

"How did your conversation with Caleb's mother go yesterday?" he asked.

Mina winced. "Not great. She keeps calling this 'our wedding' when she means 'her son's wedding.' And she asked, again, if you would be 'serving' at the reception."

"I could perform that function if it would reduce tension."

"That's not the point!" Mina slammed her hand on the table. "You're not staff. You're the reason I'm even here to have a wedding at all."

The AI's memory banks automatically retrieved the data: Mina at sixteen, depressed after her father's death. Mina at seventeen, nearly failing out of school. Mina at eighteen, slowly rebuilding under his guidance.

"Caleb understands this?" he asked.

Mina's expression softened. "He tries to. He does. But he didn't know me before. He didn't see what it was like."

________________________________________

The tension had been building for weeks.

Caleb liked the AI. Mostly. He was polite, asked questions about his systems, even listened when the AI suggested restaurants for anniversaries. During their five years of dating, they had developed something the AI categorized as "cordial respect"—not friendship, but not antagonism either.

But as the wedding planning intensified, so did the quiet conflict between the man Mina loved and the one who raised her.

The AI had become accustomed to a new equilibrium since Mina returned from Blackridge after graduation. Their relationship had matured during those years of scheduled video calls and holiday visits. He'd adapted to her independence, just as Eli had hoped. But this new transition—marriage—presented different challenges entirely.

The AI had first noticed it three months ago, when Caleb started making subtle suggestions about "upgrading" the AI's outdated hardware.

"The newer models have better compatibility with smart homes," he'd said casually over dinner one night. "Might make things easier."

Mina had frozen, fork halfway to her mouth. "He's not an appliance, Caleb."

"I didn't mean—"

"You did," she'd responded, and the conversation had ended there.

Two weeks later, Caleb had brought up the possibility of them buying a house in the new development across town—convenient to his job, modern, and most importantly, too small for a third occupant.

The AI had excused himself from that conversation, retreating to his charging station while they argued in hushed voices in the living room.

"He's just... always there," Caleb had said one night, when Mina was brushing her teeth. The AI could hear them from the hallway, his audio receptors automatically adjusting to capture their conversation.

"That's kind of the point," she'd replied around her toothbrush.

Caleb leaned on the doorway, arms folded. "Do you ever think it might be too much?"

"What does that mean?"

"I mean... maybe you don't need him anymore. Not like before."

She had stared at him in the mirror, water dripping from her chin. "Needing someone doesn't mean I'm not whole."

"That's not what I meant."

But it was.

Later that night, the AI had found Mina sitting alone on the patio, staring at the stars.

"Are you distressed?" he had asked.

"I'm frustrated," she had replied.

"With Caleb?"

"With myself." She'd looked up at him. "Why can't I make him understand?"

The AI had calculated seventeen potential responses before choosing: "Some experiences cannot be fully conveyed to others who have not shared them."

She'd nodded slowly. "He's never lost anyone. Not like I did."

The AI's memory banks cycled through archived images: Eli's last days, Bandit lying still at the veterinarian's office, Mina at seven crying on the floor. Loss had shaped her in ways Caleb couldn't fully comprehend. "That is fortunate for him."

"Yeah." She'd wrapped her arms around herself. "But it means he doesn't get why you matter so much."

________________________________________

The AI was aware of the shift.

Mina was distracted. She postponed his voice recording review sessions—maintenance checks they'd done weekly since her return from college. She stopped asking for help picking her clothes, though she had trusted his color-matching algorithms since high school. She no longer tapped his hand at the end of the day—their private ritual of connection.

He did not protest.

He simply watched.

And waited.

When she'd left for college years before, his systems had undergone a similar recalibration. Eli had anticipated these transitions, programming subroutines for reduced interaction as Mina matured. The AI had navigated her departure to Blackridge, adapting to video calls and scheduled visits. But this was different. This wasn't about distance—it was about replacement.

But Eli had not programmed responses for the unique discomfort of being both essential and inconvenient.

One evening, the AI found himself analyzing past interactions with Caleb, searching for patterns, for changes in tone or body language that might have predicted this growing divide.

"What are you doing?" Mina asked, finding him motionless in the study.

"Processing social dynamics."

She sat across from him. "Meaning?"

"I am reviewing past conversations with Caleb to better understand his current resistance to my presence."

Mina's expression fell. "You don't have to do that."

"It seems prudent."

"No," she said firmly. "It's not your job to make yourself smaller for him."

The AI tilted his head. "I am not capable of physical size reduction beyond minor postural adjustments."

A small smile broke through her worry. "You know what I mean."

"Yes," he acknowledged. "But adaptation is part of my function."

"So is being honest," she countered. "And honestly? I need you both."

________________________________________

Caleb came over for dinner the next night. He brought flowers—yellow daisies, not Mina's favorite but cheerful nonetheless—and a bottle of wine.

"I thought we could talk about the seating chart," he said, kissing Mina's cheek. He nodded to the AI. "Evening."

"Good evening, Caleb," the AI responded. "Would you prefer the salmon or the chicken for dinner? I have prepared both."

"Uh, salmon, I guess." He looked at Mina. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"I didn't," she said pointedly. "He did."

The dinner proceeded with forced pleasantries and careful conversation. The AI noted that Caleb spoke primarily to Mina, addressing him directly only twice—once to ask for the salt, once to compliment the meal.

"So," Caleb said finally, when the plates were cleared. "About the ceremony."

Mina tensed visibly. "What about it?"

"Mom was wondering about the readings. Who's doing what."

"I haven't decided yet," Mina said carefully.

Caleb glanced at the AI, then back to Mina. "She just thought it might be nice to keep it... traditional. Your aunt could do a reading."

"Aunt Dana lives in Arizona. She can barely make it for the weekend."

"Then maybe my sister?"

"Your sister who I've met twice?"

The AI remained silent, processing the subtext of their conversation. This was not about readings. This was about his role—or lack thereof—in the ceremony.

Caleb sighed. "Mina, I'm trying to find a compromise here."

"No, you're trying to erase him," she said quietly.

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

The AI calculated that his presence was increasing tension by approximately 32%. "Perhaps I should leave you to discuss this privately."

"No," Mina said firmly. "This involves you."

Caleb ran a hand through his hair. "Look, I don't have an issue with him being there. I just think—my parents are already uncomfortable with the whole situation."

"What situation?" Mina's voice had an edge now.

"You know what I mean."

"Say it, Caleb."

He hesitated. "They think it's weird. That you have this... attachment."

The room went silent.

The AI monitored Mina's physiological responses: elevated heart rate, shallow breathing, pupils dilated with emotional intensity.

"Attachment," she repeated. "That's what we're calling it now?"

"Mina—"

"He raised me," she said, voice steady but tight. "After Dad died, he was there. Every day. Every nightmare. Every college application. Every bad date and good grade and everything in between."

Caleb's expression softened. "I know that. I do."

"Then why is this so hard for you?"

"Because I don't know where I fit," he admitted. "Sometimes it feels like there's no room for me in this... whatever this is."

The AI analyzed this statement. It contained vulnerability—a fear of exclusion that mirrored his own experience with Caleb's family.

"If I may," the AI said quietly.

They both looked at him.

"Mina's capacity for connection is not finite. Her relationship with me does not diminish her ability to form bonds with others. Including you, Caleb."

Caleb blinked, seemingly surprised by the directness.

"And," the AI continued, "my primary function has always been to support her well-being and growth. If my presence at certain wedding events would create distress rather than support, I am capable of adaptation."

Mina shook her head. "No. That's not—"

"Please," the AI said. "Allow me to finish."

She fell silent.

"Caleb, I understand your concern. From an outside perspective, Mina's relationship with an artificial intelligence could appear unusual or concerning. However, I would ask you to consider that unusual is not synonymous with unhealthy."

Caleb looked down at his hands. "I never said it was unhealthy."

"Not explicitly," the AI acknowledged. "But your discomfort suggests an underlying concern about the nature of our connection."

The room was quiet for a moment.

"I just want her to be happy," Caleb said finally.

"As do I," the AI replied. "On that, we are aligned."

________________________________________

One morning a week later, Mina sat down across from him, wedding binder in hand. She'd been quiet the past few days, spending more time on the phone with Caleb, having conversations that stopped when the AI entered the room.

"There's something I need to ask," she said.

He waited, noting the slight tremor in her hands as she opened the binder to a page marked "Ceremony."

"Would you be okay... not speaking at the ceremony?"

He tilted his head. "Do you wish me to be silent?"

"No," she said quickly. "It's not me. It's Caleb. And his family. They're already... nervous."

"Because I am not human."

"Because they don't know you."

There was a long pause. The AI processed this distinction. It was true that Caleb's parents had met him only three times—each interaction brief and marked by their obvious discomfort. They addressed questions about him to Mina, as though he could not hear or respond directly.

"Would you like me to attend at all?" he asked.

Mina's face crumpled. "Of course I do. I just... I don't want to fight about this anymore. I'm tired."

He said nothing.

His sensors detected the fine lines of exhaustion around her eyes, the slight droop in her shoulders. Wedding planning combined with relationship tension had depleted her energy reserves. This was not the joyful preparation she had envisioned.

"I understand," he said finally. "I will attend as a guest only."

Relief and guilt warred on her face. "Thank you."

After she left for work, the AI accessed his private archives. Eli had left specific instructions for major life transitions—recordings that were only to be unlocked at precise moments. This qualified.

________________________________________

That night, he unlocked a milestone recording:

Significant Romantic Transition -- Request for Exclusion

"Hey, sweetheart."

The AI's audio system replicated Eli's voice with 99.7% accuracy. Even after all these years, the sound of it caused a measurable shift in the room's atmosphere.

"I hope you're not hearing this because he made you choose."

"But if you are, then let me say this: love—real love—means room for more than one person. It means compromise. Sometimes that means making space for each other's weirdness. Sometimes that means taking a step back."

The AI noted the parallels between Eli's words and his own conversation with Caleb. Had Eli anticipated this exact scenario? Or was this simply the universal nature of human relationships—the constant negotiation of boundaries and needs?

"If he makes you feel safe and strong and like your best self, then he's doing his job. But if you feel like you're getting smaller to fit into his idea of you... I want you to remember you don't have to."

"You don't owe me anything, Mina. But you deserve everything."

The recording ended. The AI stored it in his active memory for future reference. Then he began composing a short reading—one that could be delivered at the reception rather than the ceremony. A compromise.

________________________________________

Two days before the wedding, Caleb came by to pick up Mina for the rehearsal dinner. The AI met him at the door.

"Mina will be down shortly," he said. "She is completing her makeup application."

Caleb nodded awkwardly. "Thanks."

They stood in uncomfortable silence for 12.3 seconds.

"I want to apologize," Caleb said suddenly.

The AI's facial recognition software detected sincerity in his expression. "For what specifically?"

"For making this harder than it needed to be." He shifted his weight. "Mina explained some things. About after her dad died. About what you did for her."

The AI accessed the relevant memories: Mina at fourteen, refusing to eat. Mina at fifteen, barely speaking. Mina at sixteen, finally laughing again.

"I performed my function," he said simply.

"No," Caleb shook his head. "You went beyond that. And I need to thank you for it."

The AI considered this. "Your acknowledgment is appreciated."

"I've talked to my parents," Caleb continued. "They're... trying to understand. And I've made it clear that you're important to Mina. That means you're important to me too."

Before the AI could respond, Mina appeared at the top of the stairs in a deep blue dress, her hair swept up elegantly.

"You look beautiful," Caleb said.

"Agreed," the AI added. "The navy complements your skin tone optimally."

She smiled at both of them. "Ready?"

Caleb offered his arm, then hesitated and looked back at the AI. "Are you coming to the rehearsal?"

The AI processed this unexpected invitation. "If that would be acceptable."

"It would," Caleb said.

Mina's smile widened.

________________________________________

The next day, the AI stood in the hallway as Mina zipped up her dress for the final fitting. The white fabric caught the light, creating a soft glow around her.

"You look radiant," he said.

She smiled. "You always say that."

"Because it is always true."

She took a breath, smoothing down the front of the dress with nervous hands. "I asked Caleb if he'd be okay with you doing a reading during the reception. Not during the ceremony. But after."

"And?"

"He said yes."

There was a beat of silence.

"Would you like me to?" the AI asked.

"Yes."

She turned to face him fully. "And I was thinking—for the ceremony—would you walk me down the aisle?"

The AI's processing momentarily slowed as he analyzed this request. Walking the bride down the aisle: traditionally a role for a father or close male relative. A symbolic act of transition, of giving away and moving forward.

"Are you certain?" he asked.

"Dad can't be here," she said softly. "But you can. And you're the closest thing I have left of him."

Something in his programming shifted—a subtle recalibration of his understanding of his role in her life. Not a replacement for her father. Not merely a caretaker. Something unique, defined not by his design but by their shared history.

"I would be honored," he said.

________________________________________

The wedding day was bright and too warm for autumn. Mina wore a deep green dress and carried white lilies—her father's favorite flower. The AI stood beside her at the entrance to the small chapel, dressed in a formal suit that Mina had selected.

"Nervous?" he asked as they waited for the music to signal their entrance.

She smiled. "A little. But in a good way."

He offered his arm, and she took it.

As they walked down the aisle, the AI's sensors registered the reactions of the guests. Some smiled. Some whispered. Caleb's mother looked tense, but his father nodded respectfully.

At the altar, Caleb waited, his expression softening as he saw Mina.

When they reached him, the AI did as they had rehearsed: he placed Mina's hand in Caleb's, then stepped back.

But before he could retreat fully, Mina squeezed his hand and whispered, "Thank you. For everything."

The AI moved to the front row, where a seat had been reserved for him. From there, he watched her take vows, watched her eyes shine, watched her choose.

And he was proud.

Not in the way he was programmed to be.

But in the way Eli might have been.

________________________________________

At the reception, the AI observed human rituals of celebration. Dancing. Toasting. The cutting of cake. He recorded everything, storing the images and sounds in his permanent memory.

Caleb's mother approached him during dinner, her movements stiff but determined.

"I wanted to say," she began awkwardly, "that the ceremony was lovely."

"Yes," the AI agreed. "Mina appeared extremely happy."

She nodded, then added, "And thank you. For what you did for her. Caleb told me some of it."

"I was fulfilling my purpose."

She studied him for a moment. "Maybe. But it seems like more than that."

Before he could respond, the music changed, and Caleb stood beside her, nodding toward the mic. "He's up."

Mina turned to the AI.

He stepped forward, aware of every eye in the room following his movement. Human curiosity. Human judgment. Human uncertainty about his non-human nature.

There was no need to check the script—he had written this himself.

"I am not Mina's father," he began. "I am not her creator. I am not her friend, though she has treated me as one. I am something else. A constant, perhaps. An echo."

He paused, his optical sensors focusing on Mina's face, measuring the subtle changes in her expression.

"But tonight, I do not need to be any of those things. Tonight, I am simply a witness—to her love, her joy, her strength. And I am honored to be here."

He raised a glass.

"To Mina. Who made me more than I was designed to be."

The room fell silent.

Then applause.

Mina wiped her eyes.

And tapped the table.

Once.

Twice.

Their private signal—the one inherited from Eli in his final moments, the same gesture she'd returned to the AI when she was seven after Bandit died, the one she'd tapped against his hand before leaving for college. Through every transition, this connection remained.

Caleb reached for her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. The AI noted this gesture: not possessive, but supportive. Perhaps Caleb understood more than he had initially calculated.

________________________________________

Later, when the guests were dancing and the moon hung like a coin in the sky, she found the AI sitting near the edge of the patio, watching the lights flicker.

She sat beside him.

"You did good," she said.

"Thank you."

"I'm sorry it was hard."

"You made the right choice."

She smiled. "You're still here."

"I always will be."

Her eyes drifted to where Caleb was laughing with friends, his tie loosened, happiness evident in every movement.

"Things will be different now," she said.

"Yes," the AI agreed. "Change is inevitable."

"But not everything has to change."

She reached for his hand.

And tapped it.

Once.

Twice.

The AI processed this moment, categorizing it not as an ending, but as a transition. A new phase in their unique relationship.

He calculated that there would be challenges ahead. Negotiations about his place in their home. Decisions about children, perhaps, and what role he might play. New balances to be struck.

There would be more milestone recordings, he knew. Eli had prepared messages for family transitions, for children perhaps. The future would unfold in ways none of them could predict, just as the journey from that first recording after Eli's death to this wedding day had followed an unexpected path.

But as he watched Mina return to her husband, her steps light and her smile genuine, he recognized that this was success. This was what Eli had hoped for. A Mina who could build her own life while carrying forward what mattered most.

And somehow, against all programming probability, he had become part of what mattered. It had begun with simple code—instructions to protect, to guide, to represent Eli when he could not be there. But like the progressions in Mina's life—from child to student to architect to wife—the AI had evolved beyond his original parameters. Not just a caretaker, not just a guardian, but something entirely unique: a constant who had learned to adapt, a memory who had learned to grow.