The Response by Tasha Macklin

 
     
    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