Would an AI version of my husband be a consolation or a way of holding on to grief? | Canada Voices

First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

The question is not whether I could, but whether I should. Should I embed the essence of my recently deceased husband, Edward – the wisdom, the kindness and the quiet leadership of the man I’ve loved for more than three decades – into artificial intelligence? Could I manifest an Edward AI to walk beside me again, talk me out of arguing with colleagues with no social etiquettes, and be loving in his undeniably unique voice?

The technology lures me with the possibility of companionship: a robot, given the essence of Edward, as I wander around when the house feels too quiet and the days feel too long. I’m an AI and human behaviour scientist and can create this AI but should I? Would that be the kind of life I want? Or would it tarnish the love we had? As I contemplate these questions, I am transported back over our 32 years together. What Edward accomplished was permanent and impactful. His legacy was not an oeuvre or a name on plaques, but a way of making people feel seen, heard and valued. We worked on many things together, including launching two student scholarships for LGBTQ student leaders.

Edward believed in me and gave me good advice. “I have seen what you’re good at and enjoy doing and you know it too,” he said once, “So why not do that instead of doing something you don’t really like doing just because it pays more?”

Yet, I wonder. Could a robot preserve the Edward I knew? The way his voice softened when he spoke about his passions and real interests, how his laughter made him tilt his head slightly as his shoulders went up and down with joy, the warmth of his hand on mine? Could it reproduce the ineffable things: the pause and hand on cheek before he offered advice, the way he gave room to my drivel, the way he anchored me here in the present while exhorting me to think about the future? And if it could, is that what I really want? Would an Edward AI be a consolation or a way of holding on to grief? Would it tie me to a version of the past that, in all his magnificence, Edward would have said, “Yes, cherish that past – but don’t stick to it”? I can almost see him now, chuckling softly at my dilemma. “You already know the answer,” he’d tell me, his words offering quiet reassurance rather than an order. But do I really know the answer?

The thought of Edward in robotic form walking alongside me on a breezy afternoon or perched across from me at breakfast is both thrilling and haunting. Exciting because it seems an act of impudence to death; haunting because it seems an act of insolence to the natural order of love and loss. Is that an act of devotion or an act of denial? If love is to let go, would making an Edward AI betray the soul of what he stood for? Maybe the real question isn’t “Would I be enough for Edward AI?” Maybe the real questions are: “Would I ever be enough for it?” “Would I measure the AI responses against what lives of Edward inside my memory?”

The technology is here but I’m still deciding.

Will I surrender to the fantasy of never being alone again or will I walk the arduous unknown path of grief, with only the echoes of a life shared to accompany me and trust that’s enough?

I wonder what would Edward have wished for me.

The robot could be a solace, a companion, a miracle. But would it be Edward? Would it be the man who sat next to me, knee to knee, the man who taught me that leading is not always being loud but quiet leadership has its place in executive boardrooms, that kindness is the currency, that to utter love is an act of courage? Or will Edward AI be something else, something hollow that darkens instead of brightens the light he left?

I don’t have the answer yet. Perhaps I never will. But the question is persistent, as it must be, in the voids between memory and desire, between love and technology, between grip and release. And perhaps that’s the point. There are some questions that are not meant to be answered – they are meant to be lived with, reminding us of the very humanity they urge us to protect.

Robin Yap lives in Toronto.