Michael and I met at a wine show in Auckland in the early 2000s. He was a winemaker and I was importing new French oak wine barrels. I was wandering around catching up with clients, when suddenly, at one of the stands, there was this tall Dutch guy beaming at me and offering me a glass of his merlot. His open, friendly manner was so infectious – and the wine was good too. Over the following months we kept in touch and struck up a good friendship. It wasn’t until a year later, after we caught up again at a wine festival, that we actually started dating. We had both been married before, had young children and for the first four years of our relationship we were based in different parts of New Zealand – I was in Auckland and Michael was near Wellington. There was a lot of travel involved in those first years but we made it work, sometimes driving through the night to see each other. The first year we were together we travelled to Europe to see our families in the Netherlands and England, and we took the opportunity to spend a few days in London. I’d grown up in Kent and lived in London for several years when I was in my early 20s. And while it is certainly a vibrant, exciting city where wonderful adventures happen, it can also be a ruthless and desolate place where vulnerable people easily fall through the cracks. I had felt terrible loneliness there until I had the good fortune to get to meet a group of Kiwi travellers. When the opportunity came to travel to New Zealand to visit some of them, I didn’t hesitate, and saved up for a year to make the trip for Christmas. I ended up never leaving. But being back in London brought up all those feelings of sadness again, and although Michael couldn’t understand how that felt, he could see there was something going on. We were travelling on the underground Piccadilly line, which runs very deep beneath the London streets. As we were waiting for the train, a moth was flying around the platform. I felt so sorry for it, stuck in the stifling tunnels, trapped for ever. We caught the train, got out at Covent Garden and moved slowly with the crowds up, up, up to the street above. As we left the station, Michael stopped. He held out his hand and gently opened it. Out flew the moth, up into the sky. I was blown away, I had no idea he had rescued it. He too had felt compassion for such a tiny creature, and although I don’t think he quite realised at the time, his small act of kindness represented something so much more for me. My heart opened to him. I knew in that moment what a wonderful, kind man he was, and that I loved him. Michael has shown this quality many times over the years. Perhaps it’s his Dutchness, but he’s never afraid of speaking up for what’s right, calling out a bully or going out of his way to support people in need. He can have a room full of complete strangers feeling at ease within seconds and is not afraid to make himself the butt of the joke to get everyone laughing. We’ve been married for 20 years, with a mixed family of seven kids who have grown up too fast – the youngest has just turned 18. I just can’t imagine life without Michael. He’s my best friend, my soulmate and he’s shown me what true, unconditional love in a family really is. And of course, we still happily share a glass of wine or two together. Tell us the moment you knew Do you have a romantic realisation you"d like to share? From quiet domestic scenes to dramatic revelations, Guardian Australia wants to hear about the moment you knew you were in love. Please share your story if you are 18 or over, anonymously if you wish. For more information please see our terms of service and privacy policy.