There can be magic in the touch of a hand that loves you. It brings comfort and a silent promise that says, “I am here and you are not alone.”

I memorized every detail about my children. As babies, they reached for me whenever they were hungry or tired or just needed to be held. Sometimes, if they woke in the night, just the touch of my hand would ease them back to sleep. They clung to me when they took their first steps and we held hands when crossing streets and walking from the car to their classroom on their first day of school.

As they grew older and more independent, I noticed that they didn't hold my hand much any more. I told myself it was part of growing up, and I should just be glad they could do things on their own now.

But when you've been needed so much for such a long time, it's hard to step back and feel unnecessary.

Then one day, I was visiting my oldest son in New York, where he was working as an actor on a TV show. As we were about to cross a busy street that was filled with traffic, he grabbed my hand and shouted, “Hang on to me, Mom,” then led me safely across.

At that moment, I realized two things. First, my boy had become a man. Second, it was clear that our roles had changed. We still needed each other, but in different ways than before.

That scene has replayed in various ways with each of my three children. They have all taught me to lean on them just as they once leaned on me, and that we can always lean on each other. We live miles apart, but stay in touch every day. There is magic and comfort and healing in the touch of a hand that loves you, even if it “touches” you from afar.

I'm Alice. When 1 was young, my mother made the same dish five nights a week because we were low on cash. She boiled potatoes, carrots, and sometimes, other vegetables on the kitchen stove. Only small amounts of the roast beef that she cooked once a week were added to the bowls. She called it stew(炖菜).

I would hear other children talk about hamburgers, fries, and milkshakes from fast food restaurants, which were expensive at the time. I wished we could eat like that once in a while, but my parents couldn't afford it.

But I look back and I think how blessed I was. My mom took the time to prepare the stew nearly every night. Her portions were right——focusing on the vegetables and not on the meat——and we weren't eating the fat and salt we would have had in take-out food.

I had a lot fewer head colds and flus than my classmates then. If 1 did get sick, I'd be home for a day or two, not a whole week like many of them. Though I became ill more often in my thirties, I have to admit I'd been eating lots of fast food, making up for not getting it as a child. But when I went back to prepare homemade meals without those extra fat and salt, I started to feel healthier.

Today I often find myself enjoying a bowl of my mother's stew. I realize how lucky I was to have a mother who would like to take the time to prepare the slew for her family five evenings a week. That stew was made with love and it has left me with a memory that will warm me forever.

Raised in a motherless home, my father was extremely hard on us children. His attitude didn't soften as I grew into adulthood and went to college. I had to ride the bus whenever I came home. Though the bus stopped about two miles from home, Dad never met me, even in severe weather. If I grumbled, he'd say in his loudest father-voice, "That's what your legs are for!"

The walk didn't bother me as much as the fear of walking alone along the highway and country roads. I also felt less valued because my father didn't seem concerned about my safety. But that feeling was canceled one spring evening.

It had been a particularly difficult week at college after long hours in labs. I was eager for home. When the bus reached the stop, I stepped off and dragged my suitcase to begin the long journey home.

A row of hedge edged the driveway that climbed the hill to our house. Once I had turned off the highway to start the last lap of my journey, I always had a sense of relief to see the hedge because it meant that I was almost home. On that particular evening, the hedge had just come into view when I saw something gray moving along the top of the hedge, moving toward the house. Upon closer observation, I realized it was the top of my father's head. Then I knew, each time I came home, he had stood behind the hedge, watching, until he knew I had arrived safely. I swallowed hard against the tears. He did care, after all.

On later visits, that spot of gray became my watchtower. I could hardly wait until I was close enough to watch for its secret movement above the greenery. On reaching home, I would find my father sitting innocently in his chair. "So! My son, it's you!" he'd say, his face lengthening into pretended surprise.

I replied, "Yes, Dad, it's me. I'm home. "