Nine years ago, I watched you hold Gianna for the first time. And I learned something that day I didn’t really know before — that love can go deeper than I thought it could. The way you looked at her, the way your whole world quietly rearranged itself around a seven-pound little girl — that was the first time I truly understood who you were.

Then Alanna came a year later, and I watched it happen all over again. Your heart didn’t split — it doubled. And then Trey, three years ago, and somehow it tripled. You have never once acted like it was a lot. You just keep making room. That is the miracle of you.

I get to see what most people never get to see. I see you at 3 a.m. when nobody is asking you to be anything but tired, and you’re still soft. I see how Alanna is already trying to walk the way you walk. I see Gianna watching you at the stove and quietly learning what a woman does when she loves her people. I see Trey run across the room for you — always for you — because he already knows where home is.

You made us a family. Four people who wouldn’t exist like this without you. You are the center of our house and the reason our children are who they are. Whatever I’ve done right as a father — it’s because I’m married to the right mother.

Happy Mother’s Day, baby. I love you more than these words can hold. Always will.