The Response by Tasha Macklin Page A

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