My imminent move to a halfway house was the good news. The bad news was that a Probation Officer had called Bonnie to make an appointment to “inspect” the apartment she was then living in, explaining that he had to approve my future living arrangements before I was released. For Bonnie, that was the last straw. She felt she had been through enough and couldn’t dance this dance anymore. “You don’t need to inspect my apartment,” she told the guy. “My husband won’t be living here.” On her next visit, she gave me the bad news: she was filing for divorce.
