My mother is eighty-six. Other than needing a walker, she’s in good shape. Two months ago my father fell, confining him to bed on the top floor of their three-story townhouse. With my encouragement, my parents put a deposit on an apartment in Grand Oaks, a posh “assisted living” complex for well-to-do Washingtonians. But as . . . → Read More: Stumbling on Happiness, by Daniel Gilbert
|
||||
|
|
||||
Comments are closed 
