To my dearest husband,
Twelve years has passed. Twelve years of love and of laughter, of tears and of sorrow, of children and of diapers and milk and sickness, of babies and angelic smiles and little fingers and toes. Twelve years of me and you and three angels.
At first, it was difficult fighting for what we had because we were ill-matched in almost all aspects. Or at least, those aspects that other people thought were all-important to make marriage work like age, economic status, educational attainment, and intelligence.
But we worked hard at keeping our marriage together. With you, I learned the value of fighting for the ones you love come hell or high water, in-laws and relatives, sicknesses and debts, fights and infidelities. Nobody can touch us as long as we had each other and in later years, our children.
Know this, my love. In my heart, those twelve years are too short to love you as your wife, your lover your equal partner, your friend. If God would be as generous as to grant me years to live twelve times seven more, I will love you for twelve times seven more years to come!
Take strength in this, my darling. For as long as I live, I will always find little things to love about you. In so doing, I can love you till the last breath I take. I cannot promise you forever because I do not want to live forever. I cannot promise you the moon and the stars because I am deathly afraid of heights. I cannot promise you a bed of roses because I am allergic to pollen. But I can promise to love you till the last breath I take, no matter who comes to death's door first.
My husband, here is to twelve times seven more years of love and laughter, of tears and of sorrow, of grandchildren and of angelic smiles and little fingers and toes. Twelve times seven more years of me and you. I cannot wait, my love.