Sonny calls and gets them talking about the life they lived before you. Every conversation is saved in their own voice, so your family keeps their stories forever.
If the first call isn't something you'd treasure, we'll redo it free or refund you. No questions.
They just answer the phone. No app, no recording themselves, nothing to learn. Sonny asks about their life the way an old friend would, and actually listens.
Childhood, how they fell in love, the year everything changed, the things they never thought to tell you. Sonny remembers every call and goes deeper on the next.
Every conversation is saved in their own voice, with a written version, on a private keepsake page that's yours to keep and share with the whole family.
The usual way to capture the stories of someone you love is to send them a prompt every week and ask them to record themselves, alone, on a phone or a laptop. Most people never finish. And what comes back is software's polished version of their words.
Sonny is the opposite. They do nothing but pick up the phone and talk. It's a real conversation, not an assignment. And you keep their actual voice, the pauses, the laugh, the way they tell it.
Not a transcript of them. Them.
I built Sonny because of a Tuesday I can't forget.
I'd called my grandmother, Roz, just to check in. She told me she was fine, the way she always does. We talked for a while, and then we hung up. And it hit me that I'd just spent twenty minutes with her and hadn't once asked her to tell me about the life she'd actually lived. About when she and Poppy Sam first moved to Florida. The stories I love most. The ones I know she loves telling.
It wasn't that I didn't care. It's that "how are you" never gets you there. Stories like hers quietly disappear, not because anyone stops loving them, but because no one asks the right question and writes the answer down.
So I built Sonny. Not to replace my calls, but to make sure those stories get told and kept while she's here to tell them. Sonny calls her. They talk. She tells the stories she loves to tell. And now my family has them, in her voice, for good.
Three chapters, in her own voice
That’s the one I’m going to marry.
He was standing by the jukebox at Dominic’s, and I told my sister, that’s the one I’m going to marry. She laughed at me, but I knew. That same summer your grandfather drove us all down to the shore in that old Buick, the one with the seat that always stuck, and we never made it home before midnight. We’d stop for clams on the way back and he’d let me pick the music. I still hear those songs and I’m seventeen again, sunburned and certain about everything. We didn’t have a dime between us. We had the whole night and a full tank, and somehow that felt like more than enough.
By the time the third baby came we had moved twice. I still remember the kitchen in the Florida house, yellow everything, the curtains, the little table, even the phone on the wall. Your aunt planted a lemon tree out back that never once gave us a lemon, but she watered it every single morning like it owed her something. We were tired in those years, the good kind of tired. The house was always loud. Somebody was always at the door, somebody was always hungry. I’d give a lot to stand in that yellow kitchen one more morning and hear all of it again.
The grandkids think I’ve always been this old, but I was their age once, dancing in the kitchen with the radio up too loud. I want them to know that. I want them to know I was brave and a little bit foolish, and that I’d do most of it again without changing a thing. Tell them their great-grandmother loved a good story and a slow song, and that she remembered every one of their birthdays even when her own knees forgot how to dance. That’s the part I want kept, more than any of the rest of it.
Theirs to tell. Yours to keep.
Their life stories, in their own voice, saved forever.
A private keepsake page to share with siblings, kids, and grandkids.
The things you never knew to ask about, surfaced and kept.
A friendly voice that calls when it suits them.
Someone genuinely curious about their life who remembers and asks for more.
No apps, no logins, nothing to learn. They just answer the phone.
The feeling of being asked, and really heard.
Pay once. No subscription.
Most first calls capture 2 to 3 stories, told the way only they can tell them.
No apps. They just answer the phone.
Start Their Story