For those who lament the seemingly self-absorbed behaviors of the American millennial, I offer a story of hope, one founded on the virtue of the cell phone, as paradoxical as that may seem.

Like most parents, I swallowed my heart when I dropped off my youngest to begin her freshmen year in college. This wasn’t my first rodeo. My son was starting his junior year at another university, so, naturally, I thought I had this baby-bird departure thing figured out. Then I looked into my daughter’s wide eyes as she stood in her dorm hallway. She looked so ready to fly.

“Don’t worry, Mama,” she said hugging me once more, her voice breaking ever so slightly. “I’ll be OK. I’ll be safe.”

How young they all look, I thought, driving away from campus, gingerly navigating around baby birds on scooters and sidewalks as they talked on their cell phones.

“Pay attention!” I said aloud.

Gilly’s first month went well. She made new friends, many whom I got to know via Facetime, a technological cell phone phenomenon I eventually learned to master.

Maddie, Kaley, Taylor, Bailey U., Gio, Hunter, Marshall, Ashley and a dozen others who graciously welcomed Gilly’s mom into their bright and vibrant circle.

“Mama Mangz!” they’d shout as their fuzzy faces appeared on my phone’s screen.

“Do you like my costume?”

Suddenly, I was a costume-design consultant. A toga? Thumbs down. Super Hero costume? Thumbs up. Then I became Dr. Laura.

“What? He won’t pay for dinner?” I asked insistently on the phone. “Drop him!”

How lovely they’d include me, I’d often think — me, a middle-aged mama sitting on the couch wearing her Golden Girls sweatpants outfit, offering pithy advice.

Then, they helped me in ways I never imagined nor wanted.

One night just over a year ago, Mike and I had just sat down to enjoy our new empty nesters’ dinner of Italian take-out. My cell phone buzzed as I was mid-bite into my lasagna. When I saw Gilly’s name on the Caller ID, I answered and listened as she told me she’d had a good day. She raved about her cool poetry professor and how Taylor, her roommate, was so nice. Mike waited patiently for his turn to say hi. Gilly was telling me about her classes.

Then it happened.

Gilly let out a piercing moan, like a frightened, wounded animal trying to find shelter from the pain. The screeching howl was so profound, it stunned me for second.

The phone went silent.

I screamed into the phone.

I yelled her name again then handed the phone to Mike as if he could make her answer. Mike kept yelling her name into the phone, but I knew what had happened. The ugly beast of Gilly’s epilepsy had resurfaced after a blissful quiet period of two years of being seizure free.

Somewhere in a city an hour away my daughter was having a grand mal seizure. I did not know where she was or who was with her, if anyone.

I tried not to imagine my sweet, daughter alone and unconscious, I called Taylor, Gilly’s roommate. Taylor answered telling me she was at her sorority house and thought Gilly may still be in their dorm room.

“I’m running back right now!” Taylor said, already breathing into the phone in a fast sprint. “I’ll find her.”

And she did. And stayed by her as the EMTs lifted her into the ambulance.

So did several others of Gilly’s friends during that time of darkness when Gilly had repeated seizures.

And you know what? That’s not even half of it.

Gilly’s friends became essential members of “Team Gilly.” They took turns sleeping by her side. Driving her to dinner, the store, the library. Picking her up after her night classes to make sure she was never alone. They even celebrated her birthday with an innocent night of pizza and soda — no kegs for an epileptic — and stayed into the night to play one more round of cards.

It’s been a journey since Taylor shattered Usain Bolt’s record to rescue Gilly. She is better now. And yet, just a few weeks ago, she was boarding a bus to go to her first sorority dance.

That’s when my cell phone began to buzz.

“Hey, Mama Mangz, we got Gilly covered,” Kaley texted.

“Love you, Mama Mangz, checking in on behalf of Team Gilly,” texted Emily with a photo of one gorgeous girl and her date.

“I’ll make sure she takes her meds tonight,” another chimed in.

The team has grown, too. Add Andrew and Bailey L. and Will and Daniel and Erik and Caitlyn and Hailley and Emily and Louie to the list of “Really Cool Young Folk,” as my mother would say.

It’s not just how they care about my daughter, but how they care about the rest of the world. Ashley in Haiti. Bailey U. across the pond. Bailey L. helping those in need right here. Andrew G. in D.C. They volunteer. They work. Sometimes two jobs at once. They take damn hard classes. Spend college breaks in underprivileged countries.

They are remarkable. Compassionate. Engaged. Authentic. The realest of reals. If these millennials are any indication of our future, we’re in good hands.

When they are ready to fly, it will be spectacular.

And we’ll be OK.