My husband Craig and I met – against all odds – at the Melbourne county court on jury service. I was only 18 then; we have been married now for almost 30 years. They have largely been good, rich, full decades; but anyone who has been together as long as we have knows that such longevity comes at a price. The bright, shiny marriage we drove out of the dealership in 1995 has a lot of miles on the meter now, some visible scrapes, a few mismatched panels. One of the biggest is that I am a romantic, a feeler of big feels, a declarer of every possible emotion. My husband, in contrast, is the strong silent type. Mostly silent. It has led to more than a few fights, me accusing him of not caring; him replying that love isn’t – doesn’t have to be – a song and dance. Until this. Not long into Melbourne’s first Covid-19 lockdown, Craig had a bike accident. We later determined that he had hit a stationary car (illegally parked in the bike lane) while he was descending a hill, head down, at around 40km/h. Both his helmet and his bike cracked apart on impact. He was thrown out of his toe clips and on to the road, where he was found by another cyclist as he regained consciousness. “He’s not right,” the cyclist told me when I arrived at the scene. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but he’s really repetitive.” I work as a neuropsychologist: someone who assesses brain damage. I immediately took Craig, against his protests, to our local hospital. Yet when we arrived at A&E, I wasn’t allowed to accompany him inside. Covid protocols, I was told by a gowned and masked nurse. I should go home; they would call me. I started walking back to my car, but as I did my mobile rang. It was Craig, who must have relocated his phone in the back of his bike shorts. “Chook!” he called out when I answered. “What happened? I’m in hospital. Why aren’t you with me?” I explained that I had brought him there, but due to the pandemic I hadn’t been allowed in. He’d had a bike accident but the doctors would look after him and I’d be back to collect him as soon as they’d let me. He sounded mollified, and we hung up. Five minutes later he called again. This time he was crying. “Chook! Where are you? Why aren’t you with me?” My stomach twisted. Crying. My husband never cried. Not since 1995, when he did so twice: once at our wedding and again eight months later when Carlton won the premiership, a feat they haven’t managed since. “A good year,” Craig had said at the time. Would he even remember that now, or ever again? I repeated my explanation, racked with guilt, even though deserting him wasn’t my choice. “I wish you could be here Chook,” he said when I’d finished. “I need you.” He called twice more before I’d even arrived home; at least eight times before they finally took him to CT. To my enormous relief it came back clear and Craig was discharged four hours later, wholly himself again. On the way home I mentioned that he’d rung me 10 times. His eyes widened in surprise. “Really?” he queried. “Are you sure?” I held up my phone, every incoming call listed. Huh,” he said, shaking his head. “If you hadn’t shown me that I wouldn’t have believed you.” I wouldn’t have believed it either: Craig, in tears, sobbing that he needed me. Other than a short, and likely permanent, period of amnesia for the hour both before and after his crash, he has made a full recovery. I am extremely grateful for that. But I’m also grateful he had the accident, given no lasting damage was done. Though it tore up his Lycra and sent his bike to hard rubbish, it fortified our marriage. To see my stoic, silent husband with his defences down, to hear his need for me, has been restorative. Sometimes you need to be needed. Sometimes things have to be spoken out loud, not presumed, not taken for granted. His accident, in a weird way, was a renewal of our vows. I wish all marriages, especially the long ones, such moments of vulnerability; of defence-dropping, of being stripped right back to the bone. His accident may yet keep us going for another 30 years. Kylie Ladd’s novel I’ll Leave You With This is out now via Penguin Random House. Do you have a romantic realisation you would like to share? Email australia.lifestyle@theguardian.com with “The moment I knew” in the subject line to be considered for future columns