Each Sunday we send him one gentle question. He replies in his own words, or his own voice. You keep every answer, bound, searchable, his forever.
“What's a smell that instantly brings you back home?”
No app to download. No camera to set up. Just an email he 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 he’d want to answer. Easy to skip, easy to come back to.
Type a few sentences. Or hit record and just talk like he’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 him at Thanksgiving. We send one gentle question every Sunday morning. He answers when he’s ready, in his own words. You keep every reply.
We don’t rewrite. We don’t polish. The way he tells the story is the story. Every “oh, that reminds me,” every pause and laugh, kept exactly as he gave it.
He fixed things. The neighbor’s mower, my bike chain, the back door that never sat right in its frame. The garage was always half taken apart, some engine in pieces on a towel. He kept a tin of his favorite sockets in the drawer above the workbench, and he’d go out there after we were in bed and tinker for an hour.
I think he missed his own father most. They didn’t talk but maybe four times in twenty years. And still he kept at that workbench, every Sunday night, like it was a job. I think that’s where I got it. The fixing. The not letting things fall apart.
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.
He 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 he can read an email, he can answer.
For voice replies, he taps a button and talks. That's the whole interface. We've onboarded fathers in their nineties.
You and your dad 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. Dad answers once; everyone gets it.
Annual plans also include extended family invites, grandchildren, siblings, anyone you choose.
If you want him to. Each reply has a little “read by” row in his email digest, so he can see his 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 he's made peace with, what he'd tell his younger self, the tricks of his trade he swears by.
You can also suggest your own questions or skip ones that feel wrong for him.
All of the above. The product is built for dads, but the format works for anyone you love. We have grandmothers, uncles, godfathers, and one ninety-three-year-old great-grandfather 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.