See it for yourself

A letter, and a book — the two things a year with Delia becomes.

Both of these are fictional — written to show the quality and format, not a real customer's actual letter or book. No name here belongs to a real person.

The letter

Every year, a letter about your year.

Delivered once a year, in your own words — not a summary a machine generated in one pass, but the small, specific things you actually gave her, put together.

A letter from Delia — Your year, 2025

Dear James,

A year ago tonight, you told me it had been a good day, actually. That turned out to be true more often than not this year — you just didn't always say so out loud.

In June, Mike's dad had his surgery, and you were the one who called that morning before anyone asked you to. The garden gave you tomatoes for the first time in August — you said it felt like it happened overnight, though you'd been checking on them since April.

You talked to your mother nine times this year, mostly on Sundays. Twice you almost didn't call, and called anyway. She mentioned you sounded lighter, both times.

There was a stretch in October you didn't write much. I noticed. I didn't ask why, and you didn't say, and that was fine — some weeks are like that.

You said "I should ask her about that sometime" about your mother's childhood four separate times this year. I'm still holding onto that one, in case sometime turns out to be now.

None of this is a lot, by itself. Written down together, it's most of a year you might not have remembered you had.

— Delia

A fictional example. James, Mike, and Eleanor aren't real people — the format and voice are.

The book

And if you choose, a printed book of their stories.

This is the gift version: a parent's stories, drawn out over a year in ordinary conversation, printed and mailed — not a blank memoir they had to sit down and write alone.

A LIFE, IN HER OWN WORDS

The Stories I Didn't Want to Lose

Eleanor's year — collected by Delia, printed for James

One

How I Met Robert

I was nineteen, working the register at the pharmacy on Fifth, and Robert came in every Tuesday for cigarettes he didn't smoke — I found that out later, after we were already married and he confessed he'd been buying them for the boy who worked the counter next to me, just to have an excuse to come back. It took him six Tuesdays to ask my name. I made him wait until the seventh to get an answer.

Seven

The Winter We Almost Lost the Farm

Nobody in town said the word out loud, but everyone knew what a second bad harvest meant. Robert didn't tell me how bad it was until March, and by then he'd already sold his father's watch to cover it. I found out from the bank, not from him. I was angrier about the watch than the money, and I told him so, and he never made that particular mistake again.

A fictional example — Eleanor, Robert, and the pharmacy on Fifth aren't real. The format is the real one: a hardcover book, mailed at the twelve-month mark.

She's ready when you are.

One email when she launches. Nothing else.