About five years ago I started at a new school when my family moved to Iowa. I was just a little excited, but I worried I would never fit in with (适应) the other sixth graders.

Lucy, a girl in my class, who I thought was not ready for change, didn’t like me from the start. In fact, I was sure she hated me. I could tell she thought I was a fool.

My teacher made us sit by each other for the last term. Lucy was surprised that I didn’t wear make­up (化妆). I didn’t exactly look like the coolest girl. But, I kept smiling at her, though she rolled her eyes, and I kept telling her she looked beautiful, even when she was angry.

Finally, Lucy let me talk to her, even in sight of her “cool” friends. She started telling me how beautiful I looked. I still remember that first time when she smiled at me saying that, and I smiled right back, telling her thanks. Lucy invited me over to her house for a party, and talked to me all the time instead of her other friends.

I may move to Arizona after that, but I will never forget Lucy. She was a great friend. I still smiled at Lucy when she made fun of me. I’m not stupid, I didn’t think she was right in doing those things, but I still put up with (忍受) it. And we became great friends.

About two weeks ago, I read a sentence by Abraham Lincoln: “Am I not destroying my enemies when I make friends of them?” Immediately, I smiled, thinking of Lucy.

Just how bad of a mother am I, I silently wondered, as I watched my 13-year-old son deep in conversation with Siri. Gus has autism (自闭症), and Siri, Apple's “intelligent personal assistant” on the iPhone, is currently his BFF(Best Friend Forever). Obsessed with weather formations, Gus had spent the past hour exploring the difference between isolated and scaltered thunderstorms—an hour during which, thank God, I didn't have to discuss with him myself. After a while I heard this:

Gus:“You're a really nice computer.”

Siri:“It's nice to be appreciated.”

Gus:“You're always asking if you can help me.Is there anything you want?” Siri: “Thank you, but I have very few wants.”

Gus: “OK. Well, good night!”

Siri: “See you later!”

That is Siri. She does not let my communicatively impaired son get away with anything. When Gus discovered there was someone who would not only find information for him related to his various obsessions but would also be willing to tirelessly discuss these subjects, he was hooked.

She is also wonderful for someone who does not pick up on social cues: Siri's responses are not entirely predictable, but they are predictably kind—even when Gus is rude. I heard him talking to Siri about music, and Siri offered some suggestions. “I don't like that kind of music.” Gus snapped(厉声说). Siri replied, “You're certainly entitled to your opinion.” Siri's politeness reminded Gus what he owed Siri. “Thank you for that music, though.” Gus said.

My son's practice conversations with Siri are starting to translate into increased facility with actual humans. Yesterday I had the longest ever conversation with him. Admittedly, it was about different species of turtles which might not have been my choice of topic, but it was back and forth, and followed a logic. For most of my son's 13 years of existence, this has not been the case.

Indeed, many of us wanted an imaginary friend when we were young, and now we can all have one not entirely imaginary anytime we wish to. In a world where the commonly held wisdom is that technology isolates us, it's worth considering another side of the story.

The developers of intelligent assistants recognize their potential usefulness for those with speech and communication problems, and some are currently pondering new ways in which the assistants can help. “For example, the assistant would be able to track eye movements and help the autistic learn to look you in the eye while talking." said William Mark, vice president of the company from whom Apple purchased the technology behind Siri. “See, that's the wonderful thing about technology. Getting results requires a lot of repetition. Machines are very, very patient."

I remember walking across campus to my dad's office every day after school for over a decade. Upon my arrival，I would find my dad siting at his desk，surrounded by piles of papers and books. Although the empty chair sitting beside him was probably for a colleague in need of guidance or a college student seeking scheduling help，I always believed that empty chair was for me.

Dad would look up from whatever he was doing and greet me with a smile. Then，as if just at the same time，he'd place the cap on the black felt-tip pen that he used to grade papers or drat notes. The pen cap gesture was my signal. It meant my dad wanted to hear about my day. Sometimes I told him a few things；other times I went on and on about something exciting or dramatic that had happened at school. My dad would listen，nod，and sometimes add his two cents. Without fail，my dad would smile as if hearing about my day was the best part of his day.

This was the routine. From my first grade through the senior year in high school，I had after-school chats with my dad. I can't remember a time when he said he couldn't talk right now，even when he was working on his paper，dealing with challenging issues，or facing budget cuts.

My dad wasn't perfect. He lost his temper sometimes. He worked too much. He experienced periods of depression. But even through the rough patches，my dad was always there for me. He was never too busy or too distracted to hear his son's thoughts and opinions.

So though the critics say that giving a child our undivided attention creates a child who thinks the world spins around him or her，I believe otherwise: Having a parent who listens creates a child who believes he or she has a voice that matters in this world.