My Dearest Love,

On this special day, I am here in the home you created.

Everything is where it should be—the furniture, the bougainvilleas, the warm lights and, of course, the unnecessarily necessary 85-inch television.

Everything except you.

The apartment carries your presence in every corner. Strangely, that only makes your absence feel greater. The rooms are quieter. The lights seem a little less warm. Home is still here, but the person who makes it feel alive is somewhere among the mountains—fast asleep with a headache after spending the entire day smelling, studying and taking far too many “little” sips of tea.

Every year, on this day, I try to find a new way to write about you. After all these years, this should have become easier.

It has not.

Perhaps that is because you cannot be neatly described in a few beautiful paragraphs. Just when I think I understand one side of you, another begins to reveal itself—quietly, through the little signs you may think have gone unnoticed. But after loving you this long, I have learned to read between the lines: the determined woman at work, the mother at home, the homemaker who gave our apartment its soul, and the gardener who gives every plant the attention usually reserved for a favourite child.

I am not saying the plants rank above me.

I am simply saying they are watered more regularly.

This year, more than anything, I have watched you build.

At work, years of effort finally found the recognition they deserved. Others may notice only what changed on paper. I see the early mornings, the responsibilities that followed you home and the quiet determination that carried you there.

When the news came, I was not surprised.

I was simply proud.

Then, in February, we moved into our new apartment.

I say “our apartment,” but since this is a special letter—and therefore a legally binding historical document—let us record the facts accurately.

You chose the colours.

You shaped the design.

You imagined the kitchen.

You selected the furniture.

You decided how every room should look, feel and function.

My contribution to this great architectural undertaking was one clear, bold and unwavering creative vision:

An 85-inch television.

Some men ask for a reading corner. Some ask for a home office.

I asked for something visible from neighbouring islands.

Even that exists because of you. Thank you for getting it for me despite knowing exactly what would happen. You installed a private cinema in our living room and gave its most loyal customer unlimited access.

But today, even eighty-five inches do not seem large enough to fill the space you have left behind.

Because it is everything around that enormous screen that makes this apartment feel like home.

That is your work.

You notice details the rest of us would happily walk past for years—the flowers on the kitchen island, the arrangement beside the accent chair, the way every lamp changes the mood of a room. In daylight, the flowers seem to belong to the sun. At night, beneath the warm lights, they become softer, calmer and almost cinematic.

You have worked out the lighting better than many film crews. No expensive equipment. No assistants. No retakes. Just flowers, lamps and the quiet confidence of a woman who already knows she is right.

You did not merely decorate an apartment. You gave empty rooms warmth, character and belonging. What began as walls, measurements, furniture catalogues and questions to which there was apparently only one correct answer has become a haven.

Your haven.

And then there is the balcony.

Under your care, it has become a garden above the city. Your bougainvilleas receive excellent accommodation, daily inspections and highly personalised care.

Frankly, they have a better management package than most resorts.

There is something about the bougainvillea that always makes me think of you. It withstands heat, wind and difficult weather, yet responds by producing colour. It does not wait for perfect conditions before it blooms.

Neither do you.

At work, you turn responsibility into achievement.

At home, you turn empty space into belonging.

On the balcony, you turn concrete into a garden.

And in my life, you turn ordinary days into something worth remembering.

People notice the finished results: the recognition, the beautiful apartment, the flowers and the blooming plants. I notice the care behind them—the thought, effort and persistence. I see the part of you that remains in every detail.

Today, I hope you pause long enough to see what I see.

Look at how far you have come. Look at the place you earned through years of effort. Look at the beautiful home you created. Look at the life growing on your balcony.

None of it happened by accident.

It carries your fingerprints.

And so does my life.

I hope your present location is kind to you. May those distant heights hold you gently, the crisp air brings a smile, and every lovely sight return a little of the joy you have created for everyone else.

May this year bring you more rest, more laughter and more reasons to feel proud of yourself. May your bougainvilleas continue to bloom, and may you occasionally forgive the man staring at the enormous television for not hearing what you said the first three times.

In my defence, eighty-five inches require intense concentration.

I may be watching the screen.

But I still notice more than you think.

Happy Birthday, my love.

Come home soon.

Always,