Each Sunday we send her one gentle question. She replies in her own words, or her own voice. You keep every answer, bound, searchable, hers forever.
“What's a smell that instantly brings you back home?”
No app to download. No camera to set up. Just an email she already knows how to open, and either a few lines to type or a tap to record. We handle the rest.
A short, thoughtful prompt, the kind she’d want to answer. Easy to skip, easy to come back to.
Type a few sentences. Or hit record and just talk like she’s calling you. Whatever feels natural.
Your private family archive. Read on a quiet night, share with your siblings, or just let it keep growing.
No more cornering her at Thanksgiving. We send one gentle question every Sunday morning. She answers when she’s ready, in her own words. You keep every reply.
We don’t rewrite. We don’t polish. The way she tells the story is the story. Every “oh, that reminds me,” every pause and laugh, kept exactly as she gave it.
She wrote letters. To her sister in California, to the priest at St. Anne’s, to people whose names I’d hear once and never again. The kitchen table was always covered in airmail paper, that pale blue you could see through. She kept a tin of her favorite pens in the drawer above the silverware, and she’d sit down after we were in bed and write for an hour.
I think she missed her sister most. They didn’t see each other but maybe four times in twenty years. And still she wrote, every Sunday night, like it was a job. I think that’s where I got it. The keeping in touch. The not letting people slip away.
Your first question goes out this Sunday. Cancel any time. Your archive is yours, forever, even if you stop.
If something isn’t here, write to us. A real person, usually a memoirist named Hana or Wes, answers within the day.
She doesn't have to be. The whole experience is one email and a tap. There's no app, no login to remember, no “profile.” If she can read an email, she can answer.
For voice replies, she taps a button and talks. That's the whole interface. We've onboarded mothers in their nineties.
You and your mom do. Always. We’re custodians, not owners.
Export everything as PDF, audio files, or a print-ready manuscript at any time. Even if you cancel, your archive stays accessible and downloadable forever.
Yes, that’s actually the most common setup. Up to five family members per archive, all reading the same replies. Mom answers once; everyone gets it.
Annual plans also include extended family invites, grandchildren, siblings, anyone you choose.
If you want her to. Each reply has a little “read by” row in her email digest, so she can see her kids actually opening them. We’ve heard this matters more than the questions themselves.
You can also stay anonymous if you’d rather. Up to you.
Written by memoirists and oral historians, never generated. Questions are warm, specific, and varied. Childhood, parents, regrets she's made peace with, what she'd tell her younger self, recipes she swears by.
You can also suggest your own questions or skip ones that feel wrong for her.
All of the above. The product is built for moms, but the format works for anyone you love. We have grandfathers, aunts, godmothers, and one ninety-three-year-old great-grandmother in the system.
This is the part we take most seriously. The archive transfers automatically to a successor you designate, usually a child or grandchild, with full access in perpetuity.
We also offer free hardcover Volume printing for the family in the year of loss. It’s on us.