They live onin every story.Keep them all.
Send one link to everyone who loved them. Their memories, photos and voices come back as one book you will keep forever.
- Family joins from a link, no app
- Hear their voices, not just read them
- Cancel any time
One link is the whole invitation.
Whoever opens it can talk, type, or send a photograph - from any phone, without making an account (unless you make the memoir private, and then they sign in first). It feels like being asked a question by family, because it is.
- 1memoir.family/j/k4m9-qd2t…
You start it
Who it is for, a photograph, and one thing that should never be forgotten. Unless you make the memoir private, you are the only person who ever makes an account.
- 22:41
They add to it
Send one link however you like. They record a voice note, type a few lines, or send a photograph - no app, and no password unless you make the memoir private.
- 3
found in the attic, in her hand
It becomes a book
Transcribed, placed in the years it describes, and yours to read. You decide what stays in, and when - if ever - it is published.
Two people remember it differently. Both are kept.
Most of what a family disagrees about is worth keeping. Nothing is merged, corrected or quietly dropped. The book prints both accounts on facing pages, and says who said which.
No memory is ever written by AI. Every memory is in the words of the person who shared it. AI only suggests what goes around them (titles, chapters, the opening and closing pages) and you approve each one.
Talk, don’t type.
Most people will tell a story they would never write down. Your family records a voice note on their phone; it arrives transcribed, with the original recording kept alongside it.
See which years are told - and which are waiting.
Every memory lands on the years it describes. The quiet stretches show up on their own, and you can send a question about them to whoever was there.
When it’s ready, you publish it.
Publishing opens the book to its readers. While it is published nobody can change a word: not you, not us, not a well-meaning uncle. To change something, you unpublish it first.
What stays open is everything around the book. Readers still leave notes, still mark the memories they remember too, still sign the guestbook years from now.
The people who remember them won’t always be here to ask.
Most families mean to write it down someday. One link gathers it from everyone now, while they can still tell it in their own words.
Begin a memoirOne plan. Everything included.
No tiers to compare, and no charge per person. Invite everyone who has something to say.
Everything, for the whole family
- One invite linkFor everyone who knew them: family, friends, colleagues, neighbours
- Voice, text and photographsAdded from any phone. Nobody else makes an account.
- A question libraryWritten prompts for each person, so nobody faces a blank page
- AI chapters and a timelineSuggested by AI. You accept, change or skip each one.
- A private memoir pageRead by private link, never listed on search engines. Notes and a guestbook that never close.
- PDF exportComing soonA downloadable copy that is yours permanently
Things people ask before they start.
Not unless you make the memoir private. By default, everyone you invite gets in through your link, on whatever phone or computer they already use, and you are the only person who signs up. If you make it private, they sign in first with Google or their email, and only the emails on your list get in.
You, and the family on it. Once someone has added a memory under their name, they can read what the others have added and leave a note. Nobody outside the family sees anything until you publish.
Both accounts are kept. Nothing is merged or corrected - the book prints them side by side and says who said which, because most of what a family disagrees about is worth keeping.
Every memory and every original recording stays yours, whatever happens to the subscription.
Only when you publish it, after you have read it through. Until then it is private, and you can unpublish it again to make changes.