System Update Deleting My Fiancé

There was an emergency at the office, so I had to ask my fianc, Wyatt, to pick up my parents from the train station. It was their first time visiting the city.

Half an hour later, he sent a single-character reply: K.

A faint sense of unease settled in my chest, but I brushed it aside.

It wasnt until I got home after work to find the apartment completely dark and empty that the dread turned into a cold certainty. I rushed back out, heading straight for the station.

It was ninety-five degrees outside.

Three heavy wooden crates of home-grown sweet potatoes had split open, scattering the purple tubers all over the concrete walkway. My father, suffering from severe heat exhaustion, was slumped against a stone planter, while my mother used the plastic cap of a water bottle to feed him tiny, careful sips of water.

Wyatt had never shown up.

Instead, he had simply sent my father a text:

Im tied up. Just download the new AI assistant app and look up the bus route.

But my father used a twenty-dollar prepaid flip phone.

He was holding the scuffed, plastic brick to his ear, his voice trembling and incredibly small as he spoke to the automated voicemail greeting over and over again:

"How do we get to my daughter's place? Please, just tell me where to go."

When they saw me running toward them, my parents tried to force a smile, though their eyes were bloodshot and watery. My mother nervously pulled at the frayed hem of her cardigan. "Don't be mad at Wyatt, sweetie. It's our fault. We're just too old for this high-tech stuff. We caused trouble."

Shaking, I opened my phone.

Wyatt's childhood friend, Chelsea, had just posted an update. In the photo, Wyatt was gently helping her parents into a sleek, rented luxury RV.

[Mentioned offhand that my dad gets car sick, so Wyatt took the afternoon off and rented an RV to pick them up from the airport. Sweeter than a real son.]

I knelt down and took my father's shaking, calloused hand. The scratched screen of his phone was still lit up, displaying the outgoing call log to Wyatt.

Forty-three calls. Every single one had been declined.

I swallowed my tears, my voice terrifyingly calm.

"Dad, the AI isn't the problem."

"It's the man. He's rotten to the core."

My fathers IV ran until nine at night.

He lay on the ER cot, his face pale and waxy, his dry lips parting slightly with a tremor.

"Caitlin, this must have cost a fortune. I brought cash."

He reached with shaking fingers toward the waistband of his trousers, trying to unbutton a hidden pocket my mother had hand-sewn into the lining.

I pressed my hand over his, my throat feeling as though it had been scraped with sandpaper.

"It didn't cost much, Dad. I already paid for it."

In reality, I had Wyatt's credit card in my wallet, but I instinctively used my own savings. From the moment that forty-third call went unanswered at the station, I knew I didn't want to owe him a single cent ever again.

When I finally brought my parents back to the apartment, Wyatt was already home.

He was lounging on the sofa in his cashmere sweatpants, his AirPods firmly in his ears. Hearing the front door click, he looked up, his eyes lingering on my parents wrinkled, sweat-stained clothes for a fraction of a second.

"Hey, you made it. Must be brutal outside."

His voice was polite, perfectly smooth, and entirely hollow.

Then he pointed toward the entryway.

"Slippers are on the second shelf of the shoe rack. And Helen, Robert's boots have quite a bit of dried mud on the soles. Could you put them in a plastic bag once he takes them off? That entryway rug is custom-woven wool. It's incredibly difficult to spot-clean."

My mother, who had been about to step onto the mat, froze mid-motion.

She looked down at my fathers dusty work boots, panicked, and took two steps back, retreating entirely into the concrete hallway outside our front door.

"Oh... oh, of course. I understand."

She knelt on the hard floor of the corridor, pulling the heavy boots off my fathers feet herself. She wiped the soles with the clean hem of her shirt before she dared carry them inside.

My father stood awkwardly in the entryway, rubbing his hands together. He reached into his worn canvas duffel bag and pulled out a heavy glass jar.

"Wyatt, I harvested this clover honey myself. Caitlin told us you lecture a lot at the university and your throat gets dry. This will help."

He held it out with both hands, offering it like a peace offering.

Wyatt took out one AirPod. He didn't reach for the jar. Instead, he gave a small, indulgent smile.

"Thanks, Robert, but I only drink single-origin espresso. No sugar."

He paused, adjusting his posture.

"Besides, raw, unpasteurized honey from private, unregulated hives carries a pretty high risk of botulism and heavy metal contamination. If I get sick, I miss work. You should probably just keep it for yourselves."

My fathers hands froze in mid-air.

A deep, agonizing flash of humiliation crossed his weathered face. Slowly, he pulled the jar back, tucking it into the absolute bottom of his bag. His voice was barely a whisper.

"Oh... I see. I don't know much about science. I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

Wyatt tapped his AirPod back in, turning his attention back to his iPad screen.

"It's fine. Just use your phone to search things if you're unsure. Caitlin, why don't you take them to get showered? They have... that damp, crowded transit smell on them."

His tone was entirely natural, as if he were simply pointing out a draft in the room.

I stood in the shadows of the hallway, digging my fingernails into my palms until they drew blood.

Minutes later, his phone rang.

Wyatt immediately pulled out his AirPods, put the call on speaker, and his voice transformed. It became warm, patient, and incredibly attentive.

"Mr. Clifford! Yes, that smart neck massager was from me."

"You can't find the power button? No problem, let me walk you through it."

"Feel that raised metal button on the left? Hold it down for three seconds, then slide it up. That's level one."

Chelseas father laughed warmly on the other end.

"Oh, Wyatt, you kids and your high-tech gadgets. My old bones can barely keep up. Thanks for your patience."

Wyatt chuckled, his tone entirely devoid of any irritation.

"Come on, Mr. Clifford. It's no trouble at all. It's our job to help our elders navigate these things. Don't think twice about it."

I stood in the hallway, watching my father creep along the edge of the baseboards toward the guest room, avoiding the wool rug as if it were a minefield.

It's our job to help our elders navigate these things.

Then what was telling my father to ask an AI?

The next day was Saturday.

I wanted to take my father to a local clinic to follow up on his heart rate after the heatstroke.

As we stepped out of the guest room, I found Wyatt standing in the living room holding a sleek black smart speaker. He plugged it into the outlet right outside the guest room door and turned to my parents.

"Helen, Robert, I'm usually swamped with work, and Caitlin has her own schedule. You probably don't know how to run the smart systems in this apartment."

He tapped the top of the speaker.

"I set up this home assistant for you. If you want to turn on the TV, use the washing machine, or don't know how long to microwave something, just talk to it. It's smarter than a person, and it won't get annoyed no matter how many times you ask."

My mother's eyes lit up with a mixture of fear and awe. "Oh, that's amazing. Thank you so much, Wyatt. We promise not to be a burden."

Wyatt nodded, satisfied, and checked his watch.

"I have to head out. Probably won't be back for dinner. Help yourselves."

As the door clicked shut, I saw a text flash on his screen from Chelsea:

[Wyatt, my dad wants to try that new Michelin-starred spot downtown, but I heard bookings are blocked out a month in advance!]

Wyatt's reply was instant:

[Already taken care of. I used a connection through the dean to get a private room. I'll pick you all up at eleven.]

I stood frozen in the hallway, the blood in my veins turning to ice.

I had asked Wyatt about that exact restaurant a month ago, mentioning how rare it was for my parents to visit and how much I wanted to treat them to a nice meal there.

Wyatt hadn't even looked up from his screen then.

Places like that are about the ambiance and the upcharge. Your parents prefer simple food; they wouldn't appreciate it anyway. It's a waste of money.

At eleven o'clock that night, I got up to get a glass of water and noticed the guest room door was slightly ajar.

The room was pitch black. By the faint glow of the hallway light, I saw my father kneeling on the carpet in front of the smart speaker. He was wearing his reading glassesthe ones with a broken temple held together by blue painter's tape. In his hand was the manual Wyatt had tossed on the counter earlier.

My mother had accidentally spilled some soup on the sofa cushion and had tried to wash it, but couldn't get the smart washing machine door to unlock.

My father leaned close to the speaker, his voice a low, heavy-accented whisper.

"Uh... hi, AI. Excuse me... how do we open the... washer?"

The speaker pulsed with a cool blue light. An artificial, robotic voice responded:

[I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Please repeat your command in a clear voice.]

My father broke into a sweat, clearing his throat and trying to enunciate perfectly.

"AI. Washing... machine. How... open?"

The speaker replied: [Searching for: "How to wash a machine." Here is what I found...]

My father stared at the glowing blue light, completely lost.

He sat back on the floor, defeated. Then, slowly, he raised his calloused hand and slapped himself across the face.

A sharp, flesh-on-flesh crack cut through the quiet of the apartment.

"Stupid..." he whispered, his voice cracking with tears. "Even a machine looks down on you. How is Caitlin supposed to hold her head up in this family?"

I stood outside the door, biting my hand to keep from sobbing, tears streaming down my face.

This was Wyatt's pride and joyhis high-tech solution to every inconvenience. It was a mirror, reflecting his deep-seated arrogance and my parents' painful humility.

Sunday afternoon brought uninvited guests.

Wyatt didn't give me any warning; he simply walked in with Chelsea and her parents.

"Mr. Clifford wanted to see the river view, and my place has the best angle," Wyatt explained naturally as he kicked off his shoes and took Chelsea's mother's designer handbag.

Chelsea clung to her fathers arm, her voice sweet and high. "Wyatt, I hope we aren't interrupting anything with Caitlin. My dad's arthritis has been flaring up from all the walking, so we're moving a bit slow."

I came out of the kitchen with a plate of sliced fruit and met Wyatts eyes. His gaze landed on the plate, his brow furrowing slightly.

"Caitlin, go grab that German physical therapy device from my study drawer for Mr. Clifford."

I froze. "That's for my dad."

I had bought it just yesterday. Because of my father's heat exhaustion at the station, his lower back and legs had been aching. I had ordered it through a friend from an overseas medical supplier, spending nearly a thousand dollars. The box hadn't even been opened.

Wyatts face darkened with familiar, condescending impatience.

"Your dads spent his whole life doing heavy farm labor; his joints are chronically worn out. A precision device like that won't do anything for him. Mr. Clifford has acute inflammation from the cold weather. It's different."

He lowered his voice.

"And when I bought this place, Mr. Clifford pulled some strings to get me a builder's discount. We owe him. Go get it."

He was so reasonable, so clinical, weighing every human interaction like a transaction.

My father, who had just come in from the balcony after hanging up the laundry, heard us. Panic flickered in his eyes. He quickly set the laundry basket on a chair and stepped forward.

"Caitlin, I don't need that thing! My back is tough, let's not waste the electricity." He gave Chelsea's father a warm, placating smile, bowing slightly as he handed over the boxed device. "Here, sir, please use it. My son-in-law bought the best; its bound to work wonders."

Chelseas father took the box with two fingers, giving a dry, dismissive nod.

Wyatt knelt on the carpet, carefully peeling open the packaging. He attached the therapy pads to Mr. Clifford's knees, adjusting the settings with extreme care. "How's that, Mr. Clifford? Is it too intense?"

"It's perfect, Wyatt. You always think of everything," Chelsea's mother beamed.

My father stood there, rubbing his hands together, looking completely out of place. To ease the awkwardness, he reached for a microfiber cloth on the kitchen counter. "I'll... I'll wipe down the coffee table. You folks chat."

"Robert," Wyatt called out, not even looking up from his remote.

"That coffee table is sintered stone. You can't use a wet cloth on it; it leaves streaks. If you have nothing to do, feel free to rest in the guest room. The Roomba will handle the cleaning."

My father froze, the cloth clutched in his hand. He looked like a child caught doing something wrong. Slowly, he hid the cloth behind his back, bowed his head, and crept back to the guest room along the wall.

As the door clicked shut, I heard Wyatt murmur to Chelsea: "Older folks always need to feel useful, but honestly, it just slows everything down."

The paring knife clattered onto the kitchen counter. I took a deep breath, turned, and walked into the guest room.

The next morning, my father began coughing violently in the bathroom.

I pushed the door open to find a splash of dark crimson in the sink. The severe heatstroke from the station had triggered a latent cardiovascular crisis.

"Caitlin, don't tell Wyatt..." my father whispered, clutching his chest, terrified of being an inconvenience.

My hands shook as I texted Wyatt: My dad is coughing up blood. Can you contact someone to get him into an emergency specialist slot?

Wyatt replied instantly. But it wasn't a message. It was a block of AI-generated text.

[Based on your description, coughing up blood may indicate a severe cardiovascular event. It is recommended to visit the nearest tertiary hospital. You can book an appointment via the hospital's portal. The steps are as follows: Step 1, download the app...]

Looking at that sterile, automated reply, my heart died.

I closed the app, wiped my tears, and called an Uber to take my father to the State Medical Center.

The diagnosis was grim: he needed an immediate coronary angioplasty and stent.

"Our cardiology unit is world-class, but Dr. Mercer is the only surgeon who can perform this delicate of a procedure this week," the doctor said, reviewing the scans. "His schedule is booked through next month. Your father can't wait that long. You should see if you have any personal connections."

Dr. Mercer was Wyatts university mentor. Wyatt visited him every holiday, and they were incredibly close.

I dialed Wyatt's number. It rang for a long time before he answered.

"Wyatt, my dad needs emergency heart surgery. Can you call Dr. Mercer? The doctors say it's urgent."

Silence on the line. Then, "Caitlin, aren't you overreacting? I sent you the booking instructions. It's normal for older people to have heart issues. They can manage it with medication."

"The doctor said he needs surgery now! He's coughing up blood!" I raised my voice.

Wyatt sighed. "Look, stop yelling. I already used Dr. Mercer's emergency slot for this week."

My body went rigid, the blood rushing in my ears. "Used it? On who?"

"Chelseas uncle," Wyatt said, his voice completely matter-of-fact. "He runs an import-export business. His time is literally money. He had a mild arrhythmia, so I gave him the slot."

My hand shook so hard I could barely hold the phone. "An arrhythmia? My father is spitting up blood! He is fighting for his life!"

"Caitlin!" Wyatts tone grew icy.

"Stop using emotional blackmail. Resources have to be used where they matter. Chelseas uncle can secure corporate sponsorship for my research grant next semester. What can your father do?"

"He's an old farmer. Even if he gets the surgery, what social value does he have other than eating up resources for a few more years?"

The sterile, cold air of the hospital hallway crawled up my spine. I opened my mouth, but suddenly, the words dried up.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" Wyatt seemed to realize he had gone too far, and his voice softened a fraction.

"Look, I'll send you a link. I integrated the latest system into it. Have your dad check it periodically to see if there's a cancellation. We live in a digital age; he needs to learn to adapt."

The line went dead.

And in that moment, any lingering hope I had for us was gone.

That afternoon, after settling my parents into a temporary ward, I went back to the apartment. Wyatt wasn't there. I pulled out my largest suitcase and packed our lives into it.

We didn't own much anyway.

When everything was packed, I walked over to the sintered stone coffee table. I slipped off my diamond engagement ring and set it gently on the polished surface.

Then, I closed the door behind me. No slamming. No sound.