I dated George for four years. When the time came for him to leave me, he told me, “Not every relationship leads to marriage. Ask your mom if she married the first man she ever dated.”

For many months, that statement echoed in my head. I carried it with me, and it lingered on the walls within which I lived. For four years, I thought we were on the road to marriage. The scenery around us wasn’t all that bright, but sometimes the flowers bloomed, the sun broke through the thick clouds, and they brightened our existence. In those moments, I swore it was love, and I believed we would land where marriage would be waiting for us.

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We had many fights. Fights are part of loving someone, so I didn’t think much of them. Today we would fight, tomorrow we would kiss, but one little fight later, he was gone. I broke into so many pieces that it was hard to gather myself. I cried until my tears made my vision blurry. Even in those moments, I still wanted him to call me his. I begged him to come back to me.

I’m a woman. I don’t blame myself for loving someone or wanting to bear a man’s name. Our existence often comes to that point where we lose our last name in love. I didn’t want to wait until age wasn’t on my side, so I made George my everything. When he left, he left a gap so wide that I needed therapy to fill it. Healing didn’t come in a day, but it did come.

My therapist once told me, “If marriage is what you want, once a man proposes to you, tell him. Make sure you’re on the same page with him before you start the journey.”

I took that advice seriously but added my own twist to it. When I asked those who proposed to me if they would marry me, I wanted the answer to be instant. If they blinked, hesitated, or thought about what to say, they were out.

Kweku came along. When he proposed, I asked him, “Is it marriage you’re talking about here?” He took a deep breath before saying, “It depends on how the relationship goes.” I said no to his proposal. I didn’t explain why. In my heart, I didn’t want a man who wasn’t sure.

Other men came along. Some said, “Isn’t it too early to talk about marriage? We haven’t even started dating.” Others put it differently: “Let’s see what God will do in the end.” Eric said it sweetly, “If it’s written in our stars to get married, why not?”

I didn’t belong in the skies to know what was written in the stars, so I walked away, even though he was sweet, just like all the others who came along.

I was saying no to a lot of men within a short period of time, and that scared me. “What if no one comes along?” I asked myself. “What if I mistakenly say no to Mr. Right? Husbands don’t appear as husbands at first; they reveal themselves later.”

Ansah answered the question as if it wasn’t a hard one. You know those exam questions you answer first because they’re too easy? That’s how he answered my question: “Yes, of course. If not, why would I waste my time chasing you?”

It sounded perfect, but when I had to accept his proposal, I said, “Let’s see what God would make out of us.”

The night before our wedding, I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to write him a letter—a letter that summed everything up from the beginning to the altar. I looked within myself. I searched for the struggles. I thought of the moments we almost gave up, the struggle with his father, and how he handled the whole situation.

I wrote, “Dear Love, it’s amazing how your name has gone through changes since the day we met: Ansah, Babe, Love, Gingo. Tomorrow, you’ll earn yourself another name: Husband. All within a year and a half.”

I wrote about our first night in a hotel outside Accra, where we saw two cockroaches munching on something on the floor. I screamed, but they didn’t move. I asked him to kill them, but he only laughed. He said, “What if they were lovers on a date? Would you want to end their date tragically?”

I wrote about the day we kissed, and he carried a trace of my lipstick on his lips back home. When I asked him what he would say if people questioned him, he said it was a sign that he wasn’t alone. I wrote about the night my mom was admitted to the hospital, and he spent the night with me next to her. He ran errands for my mom while I dozed off.

“Gingo, I’ve gone through so much turbulence that I mistakenly thought love comes with turbulence,” I wrote. “The kind of turbulence that made the disciples call out to Jesus, who was sleeping in the boat. You made it easier. If I was crooked, you loved me back into shape.”

I didn’t realize I had written so much until I stopped to catch my breath. I had written about seven pages, all talking about nothing but love. I needed to sleep before the morning ushered in my big day.

On our honeymoon, he read everything I wrote out loud while I sat next to him. I was embarrassed that I’d written all that. He said, “You’re such a good writer. When are you writing your first book?” I answered, “It’s not about the writing. What do you say to all that? Should I expect a reply?”

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The reply didn’t come in written form but through his deeds and the way he’s intentional about me—about us. Each day of our lives is a response to the letter I wrote him, so every morning when we wake up, I ask myself, “What is he going to tell me today through his actions? Am I still loved the way he loved me yesterday?”

Mostly, the answer is yes.

—Mrs. Ansah 

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