The Response
The Response
THE RESPONSE is the second part of a series of communications between Trae and Tasha Macklin. This is her response to THE LETTER by Trae Macklin. We all are eager to learn how she responds to her husband's apology for his infidelities and other drama that he has caused in their lives. There will be more to come, so stay tuned.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Wahida Clark Presents Publishing, LLC
60 Evergreen Place
Suite 904
East Orange, New Jersey 07018
973-678-9982
Copyright 2012 © by Tasha Macklin and Wahida Clark
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
ISBN e-book: 978-1-936649-90-7
Cover design and layout by Nuance Art
Book interior design by Nuance Art
Contributing Editors: Linda Wilson and Wahida Clark
Tasha Macklin
The Real BossTasha
I was angry at Trae, so I refused to acknowledge his presence. He stood at the front door, on his way out. I walked right past him as if he wasn’t even there.
“Why you got on my pajama shirt?” he asked me.
“Why do you care? You ain’t here to wear it,” I snapped and regretted the slip of my tongue. I kept walking, head held high until I got to my bedroom. My shoulders slumped and I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to fight back tears.
Trae had been playing these head games for the last two weeks and the shit was starting to get under my skin. We hadn’t had sex in a while and my hormones were raging. This nigga would come home and spend time with the kids, and on those nights when he would stay, he slept in the guest room. In the morning, he’d fix breakfast and then leave. Some nights he would put the kids to bed and leave as if I was no longer in the picture. I’m like: What the fuck? Nigga, you made your point when you came and got my ass, so why you gotta drag the shit out?
For the last week or so he had been home every night. So seeing that, I was like: Okay, this game is finally over. I thought since he wanted to communicate through letters, let’s do it. Getting a letter from Trae was new territory for me. So I figured since he wrote a letter, so could I. I thought it over for a couple of days and then I sat down, grabbed my pen and paper and I wrote.
I poured out my heart.
Dear Trae,
I can’t start this letter with apologies because truthfully I am not sorry for the shit that I did. Regretful? Maybe. No, that’s a lie. I am sorry some days, sorry that I fucked with you. I read your letter and I felt everything you said, and I took it all into careful consideration. The fact that you sat down and wrote a letter gave you points in my book, but the pain you caused behind your actions that caused you to write it, fucked that up.
I never wanted to see us get to a point where seeing each other hurts. I know that you love me; there is no doubt in my mind of that fact, but you said it best yourself, you fucked up. It was you who fucked the next bitch. It was you who allowed the streets into our home, only to invade and crumble the very foundation that we fought hard to establish. I can’t love you for both of us, Trae. I gave you everything you asked for. I gave in to you against my better judgment and gave you all of me. I gave you three beautiful children. I gave up my career to be your wife and raise our children. Then I gave up my dignity when I had to walk into a doctor’s office and have them look me in the face and ask how many sexual partners I had because I had a fucking STD.
It was me who sat up nights when you were in those streets, praying that you would make it home. It was me, who when pregnant, begged you to get out the game. And then when you had to make one more run, I had to bear the burden of losing our first child. Even when I didn’t know if you were dead or alive, I never turned on you. I never left your side. In fact, I hauled my black ass to that jail when I found out you were okay and did the only thing a loyal bitch of my caliber could do: I stood by you through it all. And yes, I’m the same bitch that slept in a hospital chair for three months while pregnant again, nursing you, bathing you, and crying and praying for God to give you back to me. I refused to leave your side. Then to have you come back from death’s door and years later pull the bullshit that you have been pulling. That shit is a slap in the face.
I’m tapped out, Trae. Not only have you fucked up, you put your hands on me. Love isn’t supposed to hurt. Because of my love for you, I haven’t loved me. I haven’t been caring about myself enough to secure my feelings. Was fucking your boy’s brother wrong? Hell yeah! I can’t deny that. But knowing that I was giving you just a taste of what I went through was priceless. Was it payback? Shit . . . Payback ain’t enough for what you put me through.
I wanted this letter to be a confirmation of my anger, but the more I write the more I realize that I still love you more than life itself. I can’t throw away all of the good times that we had, all the drama we fought through to be together. I can’t throw away the love that we share for each other. I can’t forget the look in your eyes when you say the three words you love to hear and seem to know before I do, “Tasha, you’re pregnant.” Then the look on your face when you hold our baby in your arms for the very first time. And I damn sure can’t forget that you are and have always been a provider and protector of our family. I too sat and thought back to how it all began with the chase, the catch, and the mind-blowing sex that kept a bitch cumming for hours. Yeah, I’m your butterfly, and yes, I whisper your name when you hold me close, because when I’m in your arms I lose my breath.
I don’t want to hate you, Trae. What I wanted was for us to live a perfect life, but that shit obviously doesn’t exist. We both fucked up and we fucked up bad, but going over the shit repeatedly does not change things. If we ever plan to get past this, there has to be some major changes.
I want to love you without pain again, Trae. I don’t want to think the dick is all mine. I need to know it is. I need you to keep the streets away from our children and me. Keep them away from the home that we built together. And most of all, I need my Trae back, the Trae that doesn’t lie to me. The Trae that doesn’t hurt me. And definitely the Trae that would never put his hands on me. I know it wasn’t easy on you when you found out I gave your pussy to another man, and it damn sure wasn’t easy for me to know that the next bitch was getting my dick. But I think it’s fair to call it even. If we can get past this, we have to bury this shit and start over fresh. No hate, no anger, no bringing the shit up when we feel down or get angry. We have to kill it.
First thing’s first. Cali is a dead issue. This move fucked us up. We need to relocate. Second, we have to repair everything that is broken. Third, we have to love harder than we have ever loved before, having no secrets and holding no grudges. I love you, Trae. I want to be proud again to say I’m your wife. I want to be able to hold my head up high and not feel like the next bitch’s joke. Lastly, I want my Trae back. The man that I first fell in love with. The man that had a bitch doing lap dances in the club. The Trae that had a bitch giving up pussy anytime and anyplace. The same Trae that holds my face and gives me tender kisses when I’m sleeping, and lays in bed with all of us around you and laughs at the crazy things our children say. I want my King back.
I don’t want to live without you, but I know that we have a long road ahead of us before we can get back to life as we once knew it. If that letter was you opening the line of communication between us, I heard you loud and clear. And this is a sincere response. We need time to heal and whatever happens next has to happen on both of our terms.
Love Always,
Your Wife Tasha
Three days went by and he hadn’t even acknowledged that I wrote the damn thing.
But the kicker for me was, tonight I wanted some dick and this nigga was at the front door on his way out. I could just kill him, I thought to myself as I sat on the side of my bed and grabbed some tissue and blew my nose.
“What did you say smart?” Trae eased into the bedroom startling the shit out of me. I didn’t even hear him come up the stairs. Now I grew even madder because he busted me crying. He stood in front of me. “What did you say smart?”
I rolled my eyes. “You heard what I said, Trae. You ain’t here to wear the damn shirt.”
Of course he had his signature smirk plastered on his face. The smirk that said, “Yeah, I won. I got the upper hand.” The smirk that I wanted to smack clean off his face. He walked away, took off his jacket and threw it across the loveseat. He then leaned up against the dresser and stood there staring at me. “Fuck you, Trae!” I snatched up one of the pillows and threw it at him. I was mad, sniveling and blowing my nose. I felt vulnerable and more like a weak ass bitch.
“Take off my pajama shirt and come here, Tasha.”
I ignored him. Tears were streaming non-stop down my cheeks, and I was still blowing my nose trying to get myself together.
“Baby, come here,” he repeated.
This time I shook my head no. “Leave me alone, Trae. I’m not feeling you all up in my space right now.” I was struggling, but slowly getting myself together. I stood and gathered my wet tissues. Fully composed, I looked back at my husband and said, “Make sure your ass is gone when I come out.” I went into the bathroom, shut the door and then tossed the tissues into the trash. I placed a warm washcloth over my face until it cooled off. I slid the cloth onto my neck and looked at my red and swollen eyes in the mirror. Unhappy with my reflection, I turned the water off and hung up the cloth.
When I cracked the door open and peeked out, Trae was posted up in the same spot where I’d left him. I snatched the door all the way open and charged out. “Don’t you have some place else to go?” I asked. When I got close enough, he pulled me close and hugged me.
“Trae, no. I see what you are doing.” I tried to break free of his embrace. “You won. You got me back here. You got your family together and now you don’t want me. And at the same time, you won’t let nobody else have me. It took a minute, but I see right through your bullshit.”
“That’s not true.”
“I’m not stupid. Get off of me and get the fuck out!” He held me tighter.
“Till death, Tasha. Till death do us part.”
“No, Trae. I’m not going to let you do this to me.”
“Do what?”
“Control me like this. Now let me go.”
“Aiight, fine. You’re in control,” he said and let me go.
“Now leave,” I told him as I pulled the covers back on the bed. I needed some quiet time without him all up in my space. I grabbed my Sudoku puzzle book and a pencil. Trae began to undress in front of me. Butt naked, he went into his jacket pocket, came out with a blunt and headed for the bathroom. I heard the shower come on and a few minutes later, the smell of purple haze floated up my nose.