When I’m only half moved into the new apartment, my oldest friend C comes to visit with her six month old daughter S. I wait by the baggage carousel with two peppermint teas, and C texts me, “On our way now had to wait for the stroller.” When she appears, she’s wearing black yoga pants and running shoes, and she waves with both hands but with her arms at her sides and her palms facing the floor, like she’s so excited she needs both hands to show it but also like it’s a secret wave, just for us. Everything about her is familiar. S is slung across C’s body, and I expect her to be the only unfamiliar thing, but then I see her, and it turns out she’s familiar too. “This is your baby,” I say, and we cry and laugh and hug at the same time, crushing her perfect baby between us.