That Summer

by Jennifer Weiner

“I have insomnia,” Daisy wrote. “Me and every other middle-aged woman.”

Maybe when you first experience a place as a six-year-old, you become six again, every time you return.

We help our clients transform and evolve in our fast-moving modern age and embrace transformation and disruption as a continuous way of working.

She could sort through her photos, which she’d been meaning to do forever;

‘Give a man a fish, he eats for one meal; teach a man to fish, and he’ll never go hungry.’ I made her do the whole thing.”

“Hal and Jeremy, they wanted to put me in one of those places,” Vernon said. Bingo, thought Daisy. “ ‘Assisted living,’ they call it. You start out in a house or an apartment, and six months later you’re in an old folks’ home. Well, I don’t need any assistance. I can look after myself.”

single person who eats out three or four nights a week can save up to five hundred dollars a month by cooking those meals at home.”

“She’s a teenager. You know what I say—kids get a pass on stuff they do before they turn twenty-one.”

He’s always been one of those born-on-third-base-and-thinks-he-hit-a-triple types.

Beatrice’s very favorite treat, olives, wrapped in a cheesy dough and deep-fried. As irritating as Beatrice found her mom, as much as she pitied her, she could still recognize her culinary skills, and acknowledge that the fried breaded olives were the most delicious thing in the world.

remembering the flannel Lanz of Vienna, with a ruffled yoke and lace trim at the sleeves, a birthday gift from her parents. She’d loved that nightgown.