3am. It’s become his hour. Doesn’t matter that we’ve just moved house. That we, his parents, are weeks behind on sleep. That the corridor looks different. Sounds different. No more creaky floorboards, but a whole lot more mileage between his room and ours. Maybe that’s the point. This kid with mussed-up bed hair that makes him look so cool and so young all at once, he climbs out of his ‘down-bed’ that he shares with his sister, and trips his way over toys and bedding to the light. And his high, distinct three year old voice calls it out loud and clear: ‘Mam-ma’.