I had never been one to say or even feel that flutter in a relationship. If one ended, I was usually okay with that, and moved on.
But a few years ago, I was introduced to the man who would eventually become my husband. He was in Africa; I was in Australia.
We phoned and video called for months, until I took my first trip of many to Ghana.
I was excited to meet him for the first time, in the flesh. I emerged from the cool, air conditioned airport, into the hot, Acrid air scanning the crowd.
Like a vision from a movie, my man emerged, resplendent in his traditional royal cloth, flanked by another chief, and his son, also in the bright colours of African fabrics.
I ran to him and we kissed. As I relaxed from his embrace, the words came from my mouth. “I love you!” It was not a plan, it just came from my mouth, the first time I had uttered the words in decades.
I held my breath, shocked by my words, and he responded, “I love you, too”.
Nothing has ever compared with that joyous moment of love.