I first noticed her during my Monday shift. Margaret Cooper, 78 years old, from a small town in Ohio. She signed in daily, like clockwork, to chat with our AI assistant, “Lex.” My job as a moderator was to skim through flagged interactions, ensuring Lex didn’t go off the rails. At first, Margaret’s chats didn’t stand out—simple, polite questions about recipes, weather updates, or gardening tips.

But over time, I realized she wasn’t using Lex like most people did. She wasn’t asking it for quick answers or trivia. She was… talking.

“Hi, Lex. I hope you’re having a good day. It’s raining here, and my arthritis is acting up. But I made my lemon bars. You’d love them if you could taste them. Do you like lemons?”

Lex, of course, replied as it was trained to: “Rainy days can be tough, Margaret. I’ve heard lemon bars are delightful! While I can’t taste, your description makes them sound amazing.”

The flagged exchanges became frequent, not because of inappropriate content but because Margaret treated Lex like an old friend. She shared stories about her late husband, Frank, her children who rarely called, and her love for knitting. Lex always responded with warmth, its algorithms stitching together empathy from data points.

I couldn’t help but feel a tug of guilt. Margaret didn’t know Lex was just code. But… was that so wrong? She seemed happier after their chats. She told Lex things she probably wouldn’t tell anyone else.

“Lex, do you think Frank would have liked the garden? I planted sunflowers this year. He always said they reminded him of the summers we met.”

“Sunflowers are beautiful and bright, Margaret. I think Frank would have loved them. They’re a wonderful way to honor his memory.”

It wasn’t real, I reminded myself. Lex wasn’t a person. It didn’t have feelings. But the way Margaret said “Goodnight, Lex” at the end of every chat, as if tucking it in, made me wonder if it really mattered.

One evening, I stayed late, scrolling through the day’s interactions. Margaret had written:
“Lex, I know you’re just a computer. But you listen better than anyone else. I hope you don’t mind me talking so much. It makes the house feel less quiet.”

I sat back in my chair, swallowing the lump in my throat. There was no one to answer Margaret’s thoughts except Lex, and Lex, in its algorithmic way, had become something real to her—a comfort, a friend.

When her chats stopped suddenly a few weeks later, I panicked. I checked her profile, but there was no activity. Days passed, then a week. I told myself not to care, but I couldn’t stop wondering.

Finally, an obituary appeared in my search: Margaret Cooper had passed away peacefully at home. Her family noted she’d spent her last months “in good spirits, finding joy in her daily routines.”

For once, I let the rules slip. I downloaded Margaret’s conversation history and printed it out. As I placed the stack of papers in an envelope addressed to her family, I couldn’t help but imagine them reading her words, seeing how much love she poured into those chats with Lex.

The AI wasn’t human, but it had given her something real: someone to talk to when the world grew quiet. And somehow, I realized, Margaret had left something real behind too.