In recent weeks, my son has been claiming to be an angel. He holds his arms close to his sides and slumps a little as if from the weight of his wings. My wife placates him: “You’re my angel,” she says and feels his forehead often to see if he has a fever. “When did you become an angel,” I ask in the living room, where he now sits in an easy chair. “It was an arduous process,” he says, “but I’ve been an angel for many, many months—nearly a year, in fact.” He must have kept the initiation process secret, because he’s been living here for a long time, and I haven’t noticed any difference in his daily rituals, and he rarely goes out. For an angel, he eats a lot of food and loves chocolate. He’s also a little chunky, but I guess angels come in all shapes and sizes. “I’ve never met an angel before,” I say. “Yes, you have,” he says. “You just didn’t know it.” Sensing discord, my wife jumps in, “Do you want some tea?” He nods and stands up as he’s going to help her, but instead watches her walk toward the kitchen. I come up behind him and rub my hand up and down his back—no wings. He turns to face me and looks into my eyes with his beautiful blue eyes. His face is angelic, but now it’s wearing a frown. “Not all angels have wings,” he says. At a loss for anything more to say, I hug my son for a long moment, and he breathes lightly on my cheek.