A Guardianship is one person's memory, kept: their name and their story, their day, the people who love them, and a guardian who notices when a stranger pretends to be family.
And he doesn't come alone. It's a team of two: Solomon keeps their world. Nana teaches them to hold it.
The things that make them, them, read aloud in Solomon's warm voice (Arthur), as many times as they like. He never makes anyone feel foolish for asking again.
"Good morning, Mary. Today is Tuesday. Doctor's appointment at 2 in the afternoon." One calm plan for the day, spoken plainly.
Family-approved reassurance for hard days: their own people's words, in a patient voice, on demand.
Who to call, which number, what the doctor's office said. Saved once, held forever, read back on request, even with no signal.
Eight gentle chapters, told a little at a time, in their own words. "Tell me my story" plays it back whole.
If they choose to allow it, Echo listens with them on speakerphone and checks a caller's claims against their real family: "they say they're your grandson, but that's not your grandson's name." Off until they say yes.
They choose who can see or help, category by category, in plain words: Can't see. Can see. Can help. There is no master key, not for family, not for anyone. Every look is visible to them: "Emily looked at my appointments." Help should never cost the helper.
Six patient lessons in Nana's own voice: answer a call, send a text, save a contact, spot a scam text, check something with PRINCE, reach the Trusted Circle. Big print, read aloud on request, endless repeats. The tenth time counts just as much as the first, and there is no such thing as a silly question.
Her favorite lesson, because catching tricks is what she does: the rush, the gift cards, the code, the fake family demanding secrecy, the almost-right link. Learned once in plain words, recognized forever.
The lessons are live now: open Nana's classroom. Solomon's page has her door too.
If a payment ever lapses, nothing is deleted and Solomon does not go silent. He keeps telling them about themselves, keeps their story, keeps their saved things. New sharing and premium protection pause until the family sorts it out. The memory of a human being is never held for ransom.
Their information is theirs. It is never sold, never used to train anything, never shown to anyone they didn't choose. When "Tell me about myself" speaks, it speaks their exact saved words. Solomon never invents a memory, and Nana never invents a button: when phones differ, she says so instead of guessing.