They'll tell you not to get them anything.
And they mean it — there's nothing they need. So get them something that isn't a thing.
Tell Me asks your mum or dad a question about their own life every few days, and keeps every answer in their own voice. Not a jumper they'll fold away. Not a hamper they'll finish by New Year. A year of you finding out who they were before they were your parents.
“I've learned more about my mum in 2 weeks than I have in the 39 years I've known her.”
However you want it to land
In their hands today.
Print the card at home, fold it, hand it over. Their name on the front, their first question inside. About a minute, and no deadline to miss.
Properly posted, if you'd like.
Optional, for a little extra: we print it on good board, write the envelope by hand and post it — to them, or to you to write in yourself.
Straight to their inbox.
Pick the moment it arrives — their birthday at eight, Sunday morning, whenever you like. Two minutes now, waiting for them then.
Mum
Tell me about the first place you lived on your own.
Mum — I’ve always wanted to hear about this.
Someone's given you Tell Me for a year. Every few days it asks you one question about your own life, and keeps your answer exactly as you say it.
A gift from Michael
Their name, and a question.
You print one sheet of paper. It has their name on it, the first question they'll be asked, and whatever you decide to write underneath.
They read it before they understand it. Then they read the question — Tell me about the first place you lived on your own — and something crosses their face, because nobody has asked them that in forty years.
They point their phone at it. That's the whole setup. No app, no password, no account.
What happens once they've scanned it.
A question arrives, twice a week.
On WhatsApp — or by email, or in an app of their own, whichever they already use. Nine in the morning, their time, on the days you choose.
They answer by talking.
A voice note, in their own words, whenever it suits them — twenty seconds or twenty minutes. Tell Me asks a follow-up about whatever they just said.
It lands in your archive that afternoon.
Their voice, with a readable version alongside, on your phone or in any browser. Invite your brother or sister in so nobody has to be the one who keeps it all.
It starts when they answer, not when you pay.
Buy it whenever you like. The card can sit on the side until February and nothing's been used up.
Tell Me
online
Tell me about a risk you took that worked out.
Thursday, 9:00 am
9:18 am ✓✓
Tell me about the job you were proudest of.
9:00 am
Most presents like this are a year-long assignment. A question a week, a deadline, a book at the end, and then it's finished.
This one isn't. Two questions a week, answered whenever she feels like it, and nobody chasing her. Some families slow down after a few months. Some are still going years later. There's nothing to complete, nothing to miss, and always something else to find out.
“Tell me about the best day of your trip” gets you the wrong turn, the perfect lunch, and the laugh in his voice telling it. That's your dad, exactly as he is now.
Some questions reach back sixty years. Some are about last Tuesday. Both tell you something you didn't know.
She won't write anything. She just says it, however it comes out — rambling, going off on a tangent, starting again halfway through. We turn that into a story you can read, and keep the recording and her exact words alongside it, always.
Nothing is tidied out of her.
Dads are the hard ones. You ask about his first job and you get “the bakery, six till two, hated it.” So we ask about the bakery. And what six in the morning was like in January. And who else was on that shift.
He doesn't have to be a talker. He just has to answer, and we'll find the story in it.
About what you'd spend anyway.
A decent jumper is $60 and they've got four. A hamper is $50 and it's gone by January. This is $89, once, and in twelve months you'll have a hundred stories in their actual voice that didn't exist before.
One payment, nothing renews, and no year-end deadline to hit. After the year, you decide whether to carry on.
If you'd like their stories printed, the book is $46 now or $56 later, and we hold that money unspent until the book exists — if they don't tell enough stories, or you change your mind, you get it back.
A gift they’ll open twice a week, all year.
$89 for one parent, $129 for both.
Tell me when, and I'll remind you in good time.
Done. I'll see you .
Tell your brother or sister about the gift, so you're not doing it alone.
But will they actually do it?
What if they're not good with tech?
That's exactly who this is for. There's nothing to download and nothing to learn — if they can reply to a WhatsApp message or an email, they can use Tell Me. If they'd rather have something of their own, there's a storyteller app with a big record button and their question read back to them. Completely optional. Most families start with WhatsApp.
What if they ignore it?
Then nothing is wasted. We never chase them and we never nag you, nothing renews, and there's no deadline they can miss — their year doesn't start until they answer, so a card that sits on the side until February hasn't used a day of it. When they do start, it's because they wanted to.
What do I say when they open it?
Less than you think. “It asks you a question, you talk, and I get to keep the answers” covers most of it, and the card does the rest. If you'd like the longer version — what to say, what they'll worry about, and how to answer it — there's a short guide.
How to tell your mum or dadWho can see their stories?
You, and anyone you invite — a brother or sister, the grandchildren — and nobody else. The archive isn't public and can't be searched or stumbled into; every family's is its own island. We never sell, share or train on what they tell you, and the original recording is always kept alongside the readable version.
How we look after themAsk something small. They'll tell you the rest.
A few of the questions, and the sort of thing each one gets back — two or three minutes of them talking, cut to the lines that made somebody sit up.
Swipe the top card away to read the next one.
Tell me about the first place you lived on your own.
A bedsit above a bookmaker’s on the Cowley Road, with a gas meter that ate shillings and a window that didn’t shut. I had one pan, one plate and a record player, and I thought I was the most sophisticated woman in Oxford.
My mother came once, looked at the damp, said nothing, and posted me a blanket every week for a year.
Margaret a voice note on WhatsApp
Tell me about the job you were proudest of.
Not the one with the title, if that’s what you’re expecting. The summer I was nineteen I drove the bread van round the villages, and old Mrs Baird at the top of the glen would be at her gate every morning because I was the only person she saw all day.
I’ve had better-paid jobs since. I never had a more important one.
Jim a voice note on WhatsApp
Tell me about a risk you took that worked out.
I handed in my notice at the bank with nothing to go to. My father didn’t speak to me for a week.
Three weeks later I was answering the phone at a little printing firm in Salford, and the man who interviewed me is the reason you’ve got the surname you’ve got.
Pat a voice note in the storyteller app
Tell me what your kitchen smelled like on a Sunday.
Roast pork and my mother’s temper. She’d been up since seven, and by one o’clock nobody was allowed in, not even the dog.
The crackling went under the grill at the very last minute, and whoever was sent for the plates got the first bit — so at ten to one we were all suddenly very helpful.
Rose a voice note on WhatsApp
Tell me about a teacher who changed things for you.
Mr Holroyd, woodwork. I was hopeless at anything with a pen, and he was the first grown-up who ever used the word clever about me.
He let me stay in at dinnertime and make a stool for my mum. It stood by her back door for fifty years and it’s in my garage now. Still doesn’t wobble.
Derek typed, by email
Tell me about a holiday that didn’t go to plan.
Rhyl, 1971. A caravan the size of a wardrobe, and it rained for six days solid. Your dad tried to do a full breakfast on one ring and set the tea towel alight.
We played so much rummy the cards went soft. I’ve been to Italy since, and Spain, and I couldn’t tell you a thing about either — but I could tell you every minute of Rhyl.
Eileen a voice note on WhatsApp
The stories, on paper.
Every story stays safe in the archive. The book is the curated ones — the best of the year, printed properly, with a QR code beside each story that plays their actual voice.
Some parents like knowing there's a book in it. Most keep going because they enjoy being asked.
The money for the book is held unspent until the book is ready. If they don't tell enough stories to fill one, or you simply change your mind, we refund it in full.
Me and the question-askers
I’m David, and Tell Me started with my own parents.
My kids ask me endless questions about my life. And it hit me: I don’t know half of these things about my own mum and dad.
So I built this. It asks them a couple of questions a week, they answer in their own time, and every bit of it is kept. My own parents’ stories are in it, so I’ve every reason to look after yours.
“I signed my mum and dad up to it and it was so simple, they had absolutely no issues with answering the questions. It all just works and the stories are amazing!”
“I knew all the big stories, but there's so much I didn't know, and my mum loves answering every question she's asked!”
“I look forward to my question every other day at 9am. Opened up some real memories I'd forgotten all about.”
A question every few days, answered out loud.
That's the whole of it, and it's where the name comes from: every message we send your mum or dad starts with the same two words.
It arrives on WhatsApp, or by email, or in an app of their own. They answer with a voice note, and every word is kept exactly as they said it.
The long version is on the homepageMore questions? Read the full FAQ →
Sort them out now. Give it on the day.
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