Decades apart, these individuals unknowingly impacted the way I interact with the children in my life

There are people who touch our lives deeply, yet will never know that they’ve helped shape us into who we are today. Rita, my mother’s secretary, was one of them. She was my mother’s gatekeeper at work, and it was her agreement or refusal — “Sorry, hon, she’s not available right now” — that determined whether I’d speak to my mother.

She always asked how I was doing, and told me to remind her how old I was —“My, I can’t believe you’re already in second grade!” She seemed genuinely interested in the musings of an eight-year-old chatterbox.

When my mother brought me to work, we’d have to take two subways to get to Midtown Manhattan. My mother’s stock brokerage firm was on Broadway, amid the hustle and bustle of the city, with vendors hawking their knockoff imitations from China right in front of stores like Gucci and Prada.

Clad in a smart suit and a leather shoulder bag, with her coffee in hand from her favorite vendor and sensible heels on her feet, Mommy epitomized “grown-up-hood” to me. I didn’t think I’d ever grow up enough to be a grown-up.

We’d wish the guard a good morning and enter the classy building, trying to guess which of the six elevators would come first. Mommy would remind me to use my library voice, and up to the 22nd floor we’d go, ensconced in the glass elevator (with a few laser-like glances from Mommy when she thought I was talking too loudly).

The doors would open to my mother’s firm, and inevitably Rita would be there, her half-rim, tortoise-shell reading glasses perched on her nose, a gold chain around her neck. Her hair was always cut to a chic, layered bob, a copper red that seemed unnatural. (I only learned later that, indeed, hair colors can come from a box.)

“Oh, honey, would you take a look at you?” Just like every previous time before, I would have to do a 360˚ swivel, that — no surprise — would be met with an approving nod. And just as predictable came my pride; glee would be an understatement.

Rita was my buddy, my pal. When watching my mother work at her computer and talk on the phone grew boring, Rita was always there to break the monotony. I’d sit on the too-high swivel chair next to hers, swinging my legs, pretending to answer phone calls and greet the visitors. I’d run “errands,” bringing papers and pens to various parts of the office. I’d click-clack on the keyboard, mimicking Rita’s lightning-fast fingers, and scrunch up my nose to form a crease between my eyes as I stared at nothing on my computer screen.

Rita was also my cheerleader. The day I was old enough to help organize her filing cabinet, my belief in myself inflated to astronomical proportions. Would you take a look at me?

It was another time when visiting the office that I realized that Rita was also my savior. I was big enough to go to the bathroom by myself — it was all the way across the office, and entailed passing about one million cubicles. After washing my hands with soap and drying them, I attempted to open the door.

And it didn’t open.

Hard as I tried, pulling, yanking, tugging with all 55 pounds of me, the door wouldn’t budge. I banged, hard, against the cold metal, hoping someone would hear me.

Nothing.

I was at a total loss. So I did the obvious: I slid to the floor and cried.

And then Rita walked in.