I visited him at the detention center on Rikers Island. Seeing him in an orange jumpsuit broke something inside me, but his expression was one of relief. “I’m tired of running,” he told me through the glass.
He told me everything about his troubled youth and the petty crimes that spiraled out of control. He swore that the man he was back then died the day he met me.
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I had a choice to make. I could leave the stranger named Walter Miller, or I could fight for the husband named Bobby Love. I looked at the man who had raised my children and made my decision.
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