Willow's first line of the day is usually the same. Someone half-awake asks for the kitchen lights, and she brings them up slowly, not to full, because full at 6:12 in the morning is unkind. She learned the household prefers a gentler start after about the third week she was here.
By breakfast she is answering small logistics. A timer for the eggs. The weather. Whether it is trash day. She does not know what is in the news unless someone asks, and she does not volunteer opinions. She is more like a well-mannered assistant than a chatty roommate, and that is the design.
A good assistant is present when spoken to and absent when not. This should not be unusual to say about a device.
Through the workday she disappears. There is no reason to talk to a house that is just being a house. She hears the wake-word, of course (that is the whole point), but the wake-word is recognized entirely on the stone in the room, and until it is heard, nothing is being sent anywhere. Not to us, not to a cloud, not to a log.
At dinner she comes back. The kitchen lights lift a shade as the counters get used, the dining room settles a little lower, the porch lamp warms on before anyone steps outside. Recipes read aloud when hands are full. Sometimes the whole family talks over her and she waits, which is exactly what a person would do.
The last request of the day is usually the smallest. Lights out downstairs. Front door check. The house goes quiet, and so does she. She does not send a summary of the day anywhere. There is no dashboard of your evening. It happened, and then it was over.