You will hate it every morning. The way it drills straight through whatever you were dreaming, that same three-note shriek you set because it was the only one loud enough. You slap it. You lie there for the stolen four minutes before it does it again. You are so sure this is the worst part of the day.
Here is what you cannot see from where you are. In the next room, someone small is still asleep, breathing that slow untroubled breath, and the reason you are getting up is her. The whole loud clumsy machinery of the morning, the shriek, the fumbling for slippers, the coffee that never tastes as good as it smells, all of it is the sound of a house with everyone in it.
You will move somewhere quieter eventually. The mornings get soft and shapeless and yours. And I will miss the noise. I will miss having a reason that could not be ignored, a small tyrant on the nightstand insisting the day needs me.
So when it goes off tomorrow, do not resent it so much. Let it win the first round. Get up when it tells you to. There is a whole ordinary day on the other side of that sound, and I have counted them, and there were never as many as we thought.