For hours, I sat at my kitchen table, staring at the empty chair where he drank his tea every morning. The silence in the house was heavy, broken only by my sobbing. I realized I didn’t even know who to call for help.
The FBI agent had called him “Walter Miller.” I went to our file cabinet, pulling out our marriage certificate, our children’s birth certificates, everything we had built. Everything said Bobby Love.
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I finally got a call from a lawyer who explained the impossible. My husband wasn’t just a church-going family man. He was a fugitive who had been on the run for nearly four decades.
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