Everything your family needs, in one place you can all reach.

It was built for one family first. Mine.

Both of my parents have dementia. I am the one caring for them. Over three years I learned what nobody tells you in advance: that caring for a parent is mostly paperwork, and that the paperwork lives in nine different places, and that every one of those places asks you to prove all over again who you are and what you are allowed to do.

I learned that a power of attorney means everything at one counter and nothing at the next. That an assessment you cannot schedule yourself can hold up the whole thing for six weeks. That the one document you need is always in the folder you left at the other house. And that doing all of it a second time, for a second parent, is not easier -- almost nothing transfers.

I built Norte because I needed it. Everything in it is there because it was missing on a day that mattered.

Most software guesses. Norte tells you when it doesn't know.

Every piece of software you've used in a hospital waiting room is confident. It fills a box, shows a percentage, gives you a number. Most of the time it's guessing, and you can't tell which times.

Norte answers in one of three ways, and it always says which one you're getting. An empty space in Norte means this hasn't been recorded — never you've failed to finish something.

The intake you wish you got.

You know the first meeting. Ninety minutes reconstructing what the family already knows but cannot lay hands on, and a follow-up list of eleven documents that arrives in four separate emails over three weeks.

When a family arrives on Norte, you get the vault, the medical page, the standing analysis and the timeline — organised, dated, and marked where it is incomplete rather than quietly padded. You see only what that family granted you, for only as long as they granted it, and every time you open something it is written down.

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