It was an overcast, but warm day, in the Bronx. I was three years old, and I sat by a bedroom window of our third floor apartment. The rusted, iron safety grate that was installed on the outside of the window was loose and rattled in the breeze, and I was nervous that someone would lean on it and fall out onto the street below. I was not looking at the street, however. I was looking up at the cloudy sky. My mother was standing behind me. Without turning to look at her, I said, “Mommy, I’m not your child. I’m God’s child.” She was taken aback and deeply hurt. She said, “What do you mean? Of course you’re my child!” I told her that even though I had taken birth from her belly, I was really God’s child. She was so upset, she called my father at work. He came home early to reprimand me. “What do you mean, you are not your mother’s child? Your mother is so upset.” It made no sense to me. I was God’s child.