On a brisk evening in early December, Amanda Morales’s oldest daughter is perched at the edge of a bunk bed inside a cavernous century-old Gothic Revival church in upper Manhattan. She is just 10 years old, round-faced and shy, and she is writing her life story.

“Once upon a time there was a girl named Dulce. She had a mom who was going to be deported,” the fifth-grader types haltingly in Script MT bold font. “Because of Mr. Trump,” she adds.

Dulce briefly sets aside the family’s laptop—donated only hours earlier—to retrieve a toy ball from her younger sister, Daniela, and return it to their teary-eyed baby brother, David, who had been squirming at Dulce’s side. The small room, which is technically the church’s library, is strewn with children’s clothes and toys.

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