Seven years ago, a girl named Sara moved in across the hall from me in our college dorm. Four years ago I held a corner of her chuppah. Two years ago she and her husband moved from San Francisco to across the street from the apartment Maria and I shared, and nine months ago she called and asked if I wanted to come to an ultrasound with her.
“Wait, what?” I said.
They’re moving to New York today, two weeks after the baby was born — averaging four scattered hours of sleep every night since. “There has to be a prize for what you are doing,” I said. “Also, instead of helping you pack I’m going to get in the way and take pictures. Tricked!”