Blessed

I roll over and make myself comfortable, nudging my feverish baby over as I do so.

“When my alarm goes off,” I mumble, trying not to sound grumpy after a long night up with the baby.

I become aware of the angle of the sunlight in the room. Something’s not right. But my alarm hasn’t gone off.

“Ask Abba what time it is,” I say, and bury my head deeper into my pillow. She patters off. Alarms must be more accurate than the sun. Or not.