The guide to your family archive

Capture a memory as video or audio — the original is kept untouched while your plan is active, and always downloadable.

Before a long flight home, Priya sat with her grandfather and recorded him telling the story of the shop he opened in 1971.

A real conversation that listens and asks the next question — not a list of prompts.

"Tell me about your wedding" gets a one-line answer.

We call your storytellers each week. They just talk. No app, no login. (Coming soon.)

Maria's dad is 84, in Guadalajara, and has never opened an app in his life.

Prompts that spark a recording when you don't know what to ask.

The family kept meaning to "get Grandpa's stories" but never knew where to start.

Sit with them over video — and the visit becomes a story, automatically.

Every other Sunday, Ana calls her grandfather in Manila.

Every story, in your family's languages — as a separate track, never overwriting the original.

Nonna told her stories in Sicilian dialect.

Turn handwritten cards into a searchable, translatable family cookbook.

Great-grandma's tamale recipe lived on a stained index card only one aunt could read.

Albums, and a name on every face — so a photograph still means something in fifty years.

Elena spent an evening tagging her grandmother's shoebox of photographs while her grandmother was still able to name everyone.

Every place your family has lived, on one map — the whole migration in a glance.

Oaxaca to Tijuana to San Antonio to Houston, in four generations.

Bring your DNA results in and attach them to the people they belong to.

A half-brother nobody knew about turned up as a match.

A reel that weaves your recordings into one film to watch together.

At Grandma's 80th, instead of a slideshow, the family dimmed the lights and played a ten-minute film of her own stories in her own voice.

The right memory resurfaces on anniversaries and birthdays.

On what would have been Grandpa's 90th, the family's phones lit up with the story he'd told about the day he arrived by boat — surfaced automatically.

Set a story to be delivered on a future date.

Before her treatment, a mother recorded a message for her daughter's 18th birthday — eleven years away.

Every recipe you have saved, bound into a real book you turn the pages of — in her words, with her photos.

Marisol scanned her mother's recipe cards the winter after she died — the handwriting, the splashes, the notes in the margin.

Your family's stories gathered into chapters that write themselves — and grow every time someone records.

The Alvarez storybook opens in 1950s Oaxaca and ends with a grandchild born last spring.

A year of your family, gathered into one card you can send to everyone.

Instead of a photo card in December, the Reyes family sends a link: eleven new stories, Abuela's flan, and the recording of Sol's first word.

Everyone films a message on their phone; Kinrelic stitches them into one film for the birthday.

For their father's 80th, four siblings on three continents each sent ninety seconds.

Ask a question and hear the answer in their own recorded words — never invented, only found.

A granddaughter asks how her grandfather proposed.

Names as leaves on a real tree — tap anyone to hear their stories.

The kids thought the family tree was homework — until they tapped a name and their great-aunt's voice came out of it.

Choose whose life you're actively preserving. Seats scale with your plan.

The family put both grandparents and a great-aunt on Family's 8 seats — three living voices being captured every week — while dozens of relatives fill out the tree around them without costing a thing.

Download your original recordings anytime, on any plan.

The family wanted to know the videos of Grandpa were theirs to keep — so they exported a copy to their own drive.

A gentle place for someone who has died — their stories, their recipes, their voice.

The week after the funeral, the family had one link to send to everyone who asked whether there was anything of his voice left.

Everyone's contact details in one place — family and the friends who feel like family.

Sending the annual card took ten minutes instead of an evening, because every address was already there.

Deleted something? It waits in Trash for 30 days. One click brings it back.

A grandson tidying up removed what he thought was a duplicate.

A plain record of every change, so nothing happens to the archive in the dark.

Two siblings disagreed about whether a story had been edited.