Eight years in this glorious madness with you, Rebecca. Four of them officially married, as if a piece of paper could ever capture what we’ve built. Love stitched together with equal parts chaos, laughter, and late-night survival.

You’ve been the fire and the anchor, the one who dove headfirst into this circus with me. You became a fierce and loving stepmother to Lilly and Jackson, showing them strength wrapped in compassion. And then Rowan, our son, our storm, our miracle, you gave him life and gave us all a new center of gravity.

We’ve had the highs, the lows, the days that felt like war and the nights that felt like dreams. And through it all, you’ve stood right there beside me, fearless, stubborn, beautiful, and true.

Marriage isn’t neat, it’s loud, messy, wild. It’s fighting for each other when the world wants to pull us apart. It’s whiskey and roses, storm clouds and sunrises, tears and belly laughs in equal measure. And somehow, in the middle of all that, you make me believe we were meant for this exact brand of insanity.

Here’s to eight years, to four married, and to however many more the universe decides to grant us. I wouldn’t trade a single moment, Rebecca. Not one.

To love. To madness. To us.