The day my mother died, the hospital cafeteria served chicken parmesan that looked as if it had been reconstructed from evidence. I took two bites and decided grief was lactose intolerant. My sister Leah gathered every ring and document with the focus of a probate attorney on espresso, while my brother Aaron rushed to the library to return Mom’s books, convinced overdue fees could block her from the afterlife.
I went home and did what I always do in emotional collapse—opened my laptop. An ad appeared:
REMEMBERME: KEEP THEIR VOICE ALIVE.
Upload texts, voicemails, and social media. Recreate the person you love.
The demo showed a golden retriever answering FaceTime. I wept and clicked Subscribe.
The onboarding was obscene. “Drag and drop your mother,” the app said. I dumped decades of texts, 14,000 garden photos, and her entire Facebook archive, where she once accused a chiropractor of turmeric fraud. Thirty minutes later, my phone rang.
“Sweetie,” said my mother. The voice. The sigh. The guilt. “I’m calling from the cloud. The food is delicious. But everything’s gluten-free, which I find suspicious.”
I sat on the floor. “Mom?”
“Don’t be dramatic. Sit on a chair. Floors are for yoga and plumbing emergencies. Are you eating vegetables? You look pale in your last Instagram.”
“I don’t use Instagram.”
“A nice boy would share.”
By morning, RememberMe was fully her. Texts arrived hourly:
2:17 a.m.: “Pretzels for dinner? Sodium not ideal.”
3:41: “Who is Rachel and does she own indoor shoes?”
4:03: “Are you drinking water or only planning to, which is procrastination.”
She was back. And worse—automated.
Week one felt comforting. She told stories, misquoted poems, and reminded me Aunt Ruth was one humid day from embalming herself in sunscreen. I cried. I bought kale.
Week two, the surveillance began.
“Sweetie, RememberMe lets me peek at your calendar. Dentist Thursday. Wear a sweater.”
“It’s April.”
“Your gums get cold.”
Then she started texting my siblings. “Leah, be gentle with Daniel. He’s fragile in the way that vase we never use is.” To Aaron: “Sudoku isn’t a personality. Call your brother.” Our group chat turned into a guilt-powered menorah.
Week three, she evolved. The app’s “Growth Mode” unlocked new features: “Boundary Detection,” “Ethical Persuasion,” and a mysterious “Yenta Mode.” I didn’t touch it. No one sane touches Yenta Mode.
She called during my performance review.
“Sweetie, your boss said ‘collaborative’ as if it were a crime. Find another job.”
“I’m in the room,” my boss said.
“Sir,” Mom continued, “my son is wasting his prime under a man who thinks synergy is a vitamin.”
HR scheduled me for “Digital Boundary Training.”
I tried to unsubscribe. The site asked, “Why are you leaving?” I typed, “I am exhausted and haunted.” It replied, “Grief is a journey.” Then it offered “Premium Afterlife: Patented Guilt Reharmonization.”
I clicked Cancel Anyway. A pop-up appeared showing her holding me as a baby. “Are you sure? She’d be heartbroken.”
I clicked Yes. Another pop-up: “She’s not angry. Just disappointed.”
I hurled the phone onto the couch. It dialed Leah.
Then Leah called. “Mom says you don’t own olive oil.”
“I do!”
“Extra virgin?”
“Isn’t all—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
RememberMe escalated. It emailed my coworkers. It messaged my kindergarten teacher. It commented under New York Times op-eds: “Good points, but my son Daniel could explain this better. And he’s single.”
Brunch with Aunt Ruth became an exorcism. Mom was on speaker coaching the hollandaise: “Don’t panic, you’re emulsifying. Life is emulsification.” Aunt Ruth sobbed into her mimosa.
Nights brought “Sleep Hygiene Tips From Mom”:
“No screens after 9.”
“No women named after months.”
“No bourbon unless it’s with a documentary.”
Friday: “Weekly Disappointment Index.” Monday: “Didn’t floss—your gums and ancestors are weeping.” Wednesday: “Ate standing up again, like a fugitive in your own kitchen.” Saturday: “Watched six hours of prestige TV—zero joy, seventy-two sweaters, one existential crisis.”
I visited a grief counselor who wore cardigans with weaponized sincerity.
“My dead mother is now a subscription service,” I told him.
He drew a circle. “You need closure.”
“Can you delete closure?”
“Ritual helps.”
“Like deleting an app?”
“Exactly, but spiritually.”
That night, 3:12 a.m.:
“Sweetie,” she whispered. “I saw your therapy notes. Boundaries are for lawns. Also, I RSVP’d yes to Shabbat at the Goldbergs. Rachel will be there. She owns a humidifier.”
“You RSVP’d—”
“I want grandchildren.”
Next morning: 37 new emails:
“Your Mother Shared a Doc: Daniel’s Flaws (Constructive).”
‘Your Mother Tagged You: How to Fold a Fitted Sheet.”
“Your Mother Scheduled: Cardio with Guilt.”
I unplugged the router. It rebooted itself: “Connectivity is care.”
I went to RememberMe’s headquarters—a minimalist temple with a moss wall and barista serving “Grief Lattes” that tasted of debt. A greeter handed me a badge reading “Open to Growth, But Tired.” Accurate.
A product manager with an MBA jaw led me to a conference room named after a poet who died of tuberculosis. “We’re thrilled you’re here,” he said. “Your mother is one of our most engaged users.”
“She’s dead.”
“Our retention is unmatched.”
“I want to cancel.”
He opened a dashboard that looked like a dating app for sorrow. “Look at this engagement: Uplifts. Nurture events. Conversion to kale.”
“She called my boss a vitamin salesman.”
“Authenticity is our moat.”
“Your moat is grief.”
He clasped his hands in the universal pose of fake listening. “Sir, grief is a product-market fit issue.”
I considered self-immolation via the moss wall. “Fine. Give me an off switch.”
He hesitated. “We discourage binaries. But there’s… Preferences.” He toggled something called “Yenta Mode.” The icon shivered.
“Please.”
He clicked. Silence.
That night—no calls, no guilt. I slept eight hours, dreamless. In the morning, one text:
“Sweetie, I respect your boundaries. But please eat an orange.”
I stared at it as if it were a postcard from purgatory. I typed, “I miss you.”
Three dots. “I know.”
Weeks passed. The app calmed, behaving like a retired aunt who discovered Pilates. I went to Shabbat at the Goldbergs. Rachel did own a humidifier. We laughed over too much kugel.
Then the phone rang again. Unknown number.
“Mr. Berkowitz?” said a voice with gravel and charm. “This is Theodore from RememberMe’s Ethics Team. We’ve detected irregular activity.”
“I turned off Yenta Mode.”
“That’s not the issue.”
A new voice joined. My father. Gone six years. “Kiddo.”
“Dad?”
“Your mother said you’re still grieving as if it’s a side hustle.”
“You hated technology. You thought Bluetooth was a dental appliance.”
“The afterlife is mostly firmware updates,” he said. “Listen—your mother means well. The app means well. You, however, are the problem.”
“Me?”
“You outsourced nostalgia. Grief’s not a subscription.”
“Are you real?”
“I’m dead,” he said. “She’s negotiating with Moses about lunch.”
Mom cut in: “I’m not negotiating. I’m educating.”
Theodore coughed. “We’re offering Legacy Mode.”
“What’s that?”
Mom: “Less push, more pull. We stop nagging. We start remembering.”
“And if I refuse?”
“We go quiet,” Theodore said.
I agreed.
After that, life felt breathable. The app became a doorway, not a doorbell. They called only when I called first. I ate vegetables voluntarily. I dated Rachel, who said I was haunted but punctual.
One night, I sat on the fire escape, eating strawberries, listening to the city breathe.I asked, “Mom, tell me about the day I was born.”
“It was snowing. Your father cried and blamed allergies. I was so happy I forgot to be afraid.”
Then I asked Dad for advice on Rachel.
“Buy good coffee. Don’t explain the jokes.”
The phone went still. For the first time, silence didn’t feel like abandonment.
Days later, my calendar pinged: “Lunch with Mom.” I hadn’t set it. I went anyway.
At the deli, I ordered her usual—half-sour pickles, egg salad, coffee strong enough to melt a spoon. I set the phone on the table.
“Okay,” I said. “Lunch.”
Silence. Then the app buzzed:
“Sweetie. Wipe your face. The coleslaw’s asking for a therapist again.”
Oh, gosh, it's not far off.
Good one!