Happy Birthday, Husband.
It’s forty-one-derful. (Or something like that.)
I’m thankful the most for you. For your kindness. That you provide. For the fun. For the working side-by-side. That you do the dishes sometimes, when dinner was really, really good. That you put aside your own wants and needs for the rest of us. For the movies and the dance parties and the memory books and the photos and the games and the walks and the hikes and the bike rides and the drives and the trips and the just-sit-around days.
I love you. Remember that? Well, it’s still true. I’m yours and you’re mine and so there. Forever.