About
Families who meant to ask, but didn’t, and now can’t.
Tell Me Again exists because of a common, quiet failure: families who meant to ask, but didn’t, and now can’t. The products that try to solve it mostly put the work in the wrong place. People answer questions far more readily than they write memoirs, and they answer specific questions more readily than open ones. A blank page asks for the wrong thing, and most of these products are a blank page with a good cover.
Others make the book itself the obstacle — a size or format that is either overwhelming or too hard to read and write in.
What we do
The person behind it
Melisa
Founder
- Hospital cancer care
- Child protection
- 15+ years in complex care
- Hospital care coordination
For fifteen years I worked in hospital cancer care and child protection — rooms where a family is running out of time, or where a childhood is being reassembled from paperwork. I watched the same thing happen over and over. Someone would say, afterwards, I never asked her about that. Not because they didn’t want to. Because there is never a good moment, and nobody knows how to start.
So that is what this is. Not a scrapbook and not an interview — an excuse. Twenty-five questions somebody else chose, printed in a book with their name on the cover, so that nobody in the family has to be the one who brings it up. The questions do the asking.
When I was nearly five, a relative ordered me a personalised book. It had about five facts in it: my name, my cousin Shannon, my dog Tip, where I lived, and that I liked pizza. I took it to show and tell. I wasn’t proud of the story — there wasn’t one. I was proud that I was in a book, because at that age being in a book seemed to mean you were somebody. Fifty-five years on, I would feel exactly the same. That is the whole business, really. Not the content. The being named.
What we make
One thing, made properly.
A book in somebody’s own words, with their name on the cover: a coil-bound workbook they fill in by hand, or a hardback a family will still have in fifty years. No app, no login, no subscription, and nothing that expires.
Their words, not ours.
We fix what would trip a reader and leave everything that sounds like them.
Yours alone.
No gallery, no shared login, no relative reading along uninvited.
Not yet, but soon?
We’ll be here when you change your mind
Almost nobody does this the first time they think about it. Something arrives that makes it urgent — a diagnosis, a birthday, a house being cleared — and by then the wondering has usually been going on for a while. Leave your address and we’ll write once, when there is something new. Not a newsletter. One email. If you never hear from us again, that is the arrangement working.