We delivered an AI Custody Week Manager for a Summerville aircraft inspector who shares two children week-on, week-off with their mother in Mount Pleasant -- one that files every shared expense for reimbursement the day it posts, pays her requests on its own, and lands every game, appointment and grocery order in the right week, while holding every schedule change for him alone.

His week starts at six on Sunday evening in a church parking lot on Bacons Bridge Road, where two children and two duffel bags move from one back seat to the other. He has made that handoff 186 times since the divorce was final in the spring of 2023. His son is thirteen and his daughter is nine. Their mother lives in Mount Pleasant.

He lives in Summerville, forty minutes away when 526 is clear. He is a quality inspector at an aircraft plant in North Charleston and works four tens, Monday through Thursday. The custody order runs twenty-six pages. Week on, week off.

Holidays alternate by odd and even years. Uninsured medical, dental and activity costs split sixty-forty, his sixty, and either parent may ask for the other's share within thirty days of paying, with a receipt, through the co-parenting app the court ordered them to use. On top of that sit two schools on two calendars, a travel soccer team, an orthodontist in Mount Pleasant and a pediatrician in Summerville. Every one of those things happens in somebody's week, and it has to land in the right one.

Last January he spread a year of bank statements across the kitchen table. He had paid $4,870 in costs the order splits and had asked for her share on $1,210 of it. The rest had aged past thirty days while the receipts rode around in the console of his truck, which came to about $1,460 he would never see. Going the other way, he had paid two of her requests late.

The app timestamps everything, and lawyers read timestamps. What we built runs on his own laptop, under his own Google account, as Gemini with Spark. It holds one calendar with both households folded into it, because the children do not live two lives and neither does he. It wakes on its own.

Every transaction that posts to his checking account or either card, as it posts. Every email from either school, the soccer club, the orthodontist and the pediatrician. Every new entry in the co-parenting app. And Thursday evening before each of his weeks begins.

When a charge posts, it decides whether the order splits it. If it does, it finds the itemized receipt in his email, or the photo he took at the counter, works out her forty percent, and files the request in the app the same day, in the order's own language and nothing more. When she files one, it checks the charge against the order and the receipt and pays his sixty percent from his account within two days. It puts every practice, game and appointment into the right week and posts it to the shared calendar.

It moved his daughter's dental cleaning to his Friday off. On Thursday night it orders groceries for Sunday delivery at four, built from what the kids actually ate the last time, and it renews the permission slips nobody remembered were due. There are three lines it does not cross. It never agrees to any change in the parenting schedule; every swap request goes to him.

It pays her requests on its own up to $300 and holds anything larger, or anything it reads as outside the order. And it never writes a word in the app beyond dates, places and money. No adjectives. In September he spent six days in Everett, Washington, training at another plant, during her week.

While he was gone, the orthodontist charged $385 to his card for a replacement retainer, and within the hour it had filed for her $154 with the itemized receipt attached. She filed for his share of a $96 art class and it paid $57. 60 the next morning. The soccer club posted its October tournament in Greenville, two games on his weekend, and it put them on the calendar and held a refundable hotel room near the fields.

It booked both children's flu shots in Summerville for the Tuesday after the handoff. And when she asked to trade Thanksgiving week, it held that one request, untouched, at the top of the evening note. That note arrives every night at nine. It lists what was filed, what was paid and what moved, and on most nights its last line says nothing needs him.

He read the Thanksgiving question at a gate in Seattle, answered it from his phone and boarded. Since May it has filed 47 reimbursement requests, every one inside thirty days, and recovered $1,388 he would have let lapse. Every request of hers has been paid within two days. The kitchen-table January is not coming back.

"I used to spend the first night of every week catching up on what I had missed," he said. "Now I just pick them up."