My life is a miracle, and I belong here.

Count back four generations and you get sixteen people who had to survive long enough to meet each other, in the right order, through whatever their century was doing. None of them were trying to produce you.

Belonging is harder to feel than improbability is to prove. One is arithmetic; the other is a feeling, and it goes missing in rooms where you suspect everyone else received an invitation. They didn't. Everyone there arrived by the same unlikely route, and the place was set before any of you knew anything about it.