Andrea was standing in the Egyptian desert when her world ended.
She was there with her church group — the kind of trip you take once in a lifetime. And it was there, in the middle of all that sand and sky, that the news reached her: Bob was gone. A heart attack. Her husband. Her best friend. The boy she’d been with since she was a teenager. She learned it standing on the other side of the world from him, and there was nothing she could do but stand there.
Bob and Andrea owned an electrical company together — residential and commercial, the kind of business that keeps a town’s lights on. The division of labor was the same one thousands of trade businesses run on: Bob was the electrician. Andrea was everything else. The phone. The schedule. The bookings. The voice every customer heard when they called. Between the two of them, nothing fell through.
And then, suddenly, there was only one of them.
Here’s what nobody tells you about losing the person you run a business with: the phone doesn’t know. It keeps ringing. Customers still have panels that fail and breakers that trip. Every ring asks you to be the person you were before — cheerful, organized, present — on days when getting out of bed is the whole accomplishment.
I need to tell you how I know Andrea, because it’s the reason everything after makes sense.
Almost three years ago, I got on an airplane with my dog, Lola. Andrea had the seat beside us. I was in the hardest season of my own life — the kind you don’t put on a website — and by the time we landed, a stranger had become a friend. In the months that followed, Andrea was there for me in ways I can never fully repay. She helped me turn my life around. I believe God put her on that plane.
So when the news came from Egypt — when the person who helped me rebuild my life watched the center of hers disappear — I couldn’t just watch. I’m not an electrician. I couldn’t fix the loss, and I couldn’t run her schedule. But the phone — I thought maybe I could take the phone.
So I started building Megan.
She was terrible.
I want to be honest about that, because this page is where we tell the truth. Early Megan was rude. She forgot things a first-day receptionist wouldn’t forget. Some days she was simply, extremely broken. This went on for months — months of late nights, fine-tuning, and more than a few tears. It became a running joke between Andrea and me that Megan was on her last warning: one more bad call and she was fired.
Then one day my phone buzzed. A text from Andrea:
Call me. It’s important. And it’s about Megan.
My stomach dropped. I knew that message. I’d been on the receiving end of Megan’s bad days for months, and I started rehearsing the apology on the way to dialing.
Andrea picked up, and for the first time she said:
“I absolutely love Megan.”
I don’t have the words for what that sentence meant. Megan had answered, and booked, and taken messages, and gotten it right — for the one person she was built for, on the phone line that mattered most to me in the world.
And then something happened that neither of us planned. Andrea’s customers — real electricians’ customers, people calling about panels and permits — started asking her a question:
“How can I get Megan?”
That question is why this company exists.
Missd.AI didn’t start as a plan to build a billion-dollar AI company. There was no pitch deck. There was a widow, a phone that wouldn’t stop ringing, and a promise that no call she couldn’t face would go unanswered. Everything else — the platform, the pricing page, the company — came after, because people kept asking for what Andrea already had.
There’s one more part of this story, and it’s the part Bob would want told. Bob and Andrea raised two sons, Keith and Robert. After his father passed, Robert stepped in. He put himself through the long, demanding work of earning his electrical license — the same license his father carried — and today he runs the company alongside his mother. The business Bob built didn’t just survive. It’s still the family’s: a son in the field, his mother in the office, and every call answered.
One more thing, and it matters more on this page than anywhere else: Megan never pretends to be human. She tells every caller she’s an AI in her very first sentence, every time, and that can’t be turned off. She was built in honor of honest people doing honest work, and she behaves like it.
So if you’re the person holding a business together — the one who answers on the second ring at dinner, the one whose customers only ever hear your voice — you should know that Megan was built for someone exactly like you, before we ever knew your name.
Every missed call is a person who needed you. Megan makes sure you never miss another one.