A day in the life.
We were running late to Gemma's parent-teacher conference.
So we told our agent. She emailed the teachers on our behalf, from her own account.
When we walked in, they already knew.
That's the story people ask about. It's not why we keep her. Here's an ordinary day.
Nobody else in the house is awake. She is.
She reads the school calendar and her inbox. Newsletters, forms, forwarded emails. New events go onto every parent's calendar. Field trips go on as all-day events, so they don't block our work meetings.
Nobody asked her to. That's the job.
Her daily brief is a lifesaver.
It's built for a phone, half-awake, in the dark. Read in three seconds.
The weather, and what Gemma should wear.
Gear for today. Lunch.
A red box for anything that needs a parent. Picture day a week out. A form due tomorrow.
No greeting. No chatter. School life is full of things that matter for exactly one day. The brief makes sure we don't miss them.
Three seconds. Then we get on with our day.
She also leaves a short audio message for Gemma.
It's different every morning. She says Gemma's name and tells her about her real day: the assembly, the special class, what's for lunch. The voice laughs, whispers, and gasps.
The brief is for us. The hype talk is for her.
The school inbox doesn't stop. She keeps up.
But she never emails a teacher on her own. If a message needs a reply, she writes a draft and puts it in the brief for us to approve.
The afternoon of the conference was different for one reason. We asked.
Help when asked. Hands off when not.
Sometimes one of us travels, and the whole week flips. Drop-offs, pickups, who covers what.
We tell her who's away. She helps us switch the schedule, so the parent at home isn't rebuilding the week alone.
If nothing changed, she sends nothing. No summary of a quiet day. No proof she's working.
On Sunday evenings she sends one more: the week ahead, on a single screen.
The best family agent is the one you forget is running.