Updated: Jan 5
"The Grass Isn't Greener...Your Lawn is Just Thirsty"
“I know this asshole is cheating on me, and he’s really got me fucked up!”
Simone held the phone away from her ear as her best friend, Natasha, screamed her frustration across every single mobile tower within distance.
“Girl, I told you that nigga wasn’t shit!”
Simone was never one to sugar coat anything when it came to Natasha’s husband, Tyrone. The 35-year-old promoter was well known across Columbus, Ohio. The city was too small for her BFF to pretend she didn’t know what was up with this clown.
Natasha was a stay at home mom to an 8-year-old boy and a 10-year-old girl, giving up her dreams of becoming a civil rights attorney with her own practice; Tyrone insisted on being the sole bread-winner and that his children were not to be raised by anyone other than his wife.
Simone had always objected to this lifestyle, saying it was Tyrone's way of having control over Natasha's suburban ass.
Up until a year ago when her suspicions started, Natasha was adamant that it wasn't controlling, but Tyrone's way of ensuring that their children weren't heavily influenced from outside of the home, but from within it. It was one of the things that made Natasha fall in love with him, as they talked about starting a family, struggling to cuddle and get comfortable on a blow-up mattress on the floor, off Parsons Avenue. That was 10 years ago when Tyrone was out here selling CDs out of the back of HER car.
“Look. I’m about to put a tracker on this mother fucker’s car and call it a day. I have to know. What if he's actually in love with someone else?”
Natasha’s voice trailed off as if speaking the words out loud made them true. She knew what her gut told her, but felt she needed actual proof to put her suspicions to rest or rise up the demons from hell.
“Ok, so where are you going to get a tracker from? Will he know it’s on there? And, then what? You going to follow him or something?”
True to form, Simone was full of questions, and pessimism. She called it keeping it real. Natasha found it annoying as hell in times of a crisis.
“They have them on Amazon. No, he won’t know it’s there unless he takes it in to get fixed and they lift it up in the air. He’s too bougie to get up under that Box Benz! I mean what the fuck…”
Simone could tell she had pushed one button too many and waved her symbolic white flag in retreat.
“Daaaaaaamnnnnn! My bad, sis! I’m on your side remember?”
Simone was good at playing the victim, and Natasha was in no mood for her bullshit.
“Just tell me, what happened, NOW? What did he do that has gotten you to this point of putting a tracker on his car? Don’t you think THAT is the sign?”
Natasha sighed heavily and there was dead silence on the line for what seemed like an eternity.
“I’m tired, Simone.”
The defeat in Natasha’s voice was unmistakable and it broke Simone’s heart to hear her friend, who typically is always on her game, sound like this.
“I really do not like his punk ass. I hate that he does this to you! All the fucking time, over and over! When does it end?”
Simone could no longer bite her tongue. Hell, her friend needed to hear the real. This shit was way out of hand and it was embarrassing.
“I’m going to get the device tomorrow. I ordered it through Amazon Prime, rush delivery. I know I’m not stupid, and I’m tired of sitting here putting my life on hold when he’s out here living HIS best life. That’s foul as fuck, and it’s not fair to me or my kids!”
Natasha felt the tears coming before she could stop them. She let out a wail that sent chills down Simone’s spine and caused her to flare up from the inside out. Whatever it took, she vowed, at that very moment, to make sure that Tyrone was served street justice.
He was in shape, quite muscular, and she even thought of hiring someone to beat his head to the white meat. The only reason she didn’t was because of her god-children. She couldn’t be responsible for seeing more black children grow up without a father, and she caused it. None the less, he would pay, and he would pay dearly. You don't fuck with good people.
“I think you need to also hire a private investigator. They can follow him, and take pictures. You’re going to need it for the divorce.”
Simone had no idea how hard her words hit home.
Natasha sucked her teeth and felt a new wave of tears welling up in her eyes. Who the hell keeps cutting onions in this bitch? She thought to herself.
“I hadn’t even thought about...divorce.”
The D-word stuck in her throat like a lump of peanut butter.
“I’m just being realistic. Again. The fact you feel you even need to put a tracker on his car, is not really relationship goals, Natasha. The fuck?”
She couldn’t deny what Simone was saying, yet it still felt like she was throwing shade, once again, at her choice in men. It was time for her to exit stage left.
Besides, she badly needed a glass of wine a blunt. The kids had been asleep for hours.
“Girl, I gotta go. I need to get my life together right now. I have some shit to look up and I need to get up early and get these badass kids off to school. You coming over tomorrow afternoon?”
Simone rolled her eyes. Of course, deflect and neglect with the mommy card. That was typical.
“Yeah, girl. I’ll be there at about two. Have me something to ea-”
Natasha hung up the phone. She wasn’t in the mood to play hostess. This was not a fucking drill. She went into the kitchen to fix herself a glass of pink Moscato and grabbed her half a blunt from the back of the drawer. She kept it in a baggie to hide the smell.
Turning out lights behind her, she made her way through her 3,000 square foot home and headed to her smoking room off the back of the house. It used to be a sunroom. She had decked it out with ventilation, fans and plush cushions with a built-in Bluetooth connection, to make it her own.
Grabbing her laptop, she sat down on the couch and began a search on Google for private investigators. Maybe Simone was onto something after all…
To be Continued…
You've worked hard all week. Helped the kids with their homework. Did the laundry, cleaned the house, worked a 40 hour work week, cooked Sunday dinner - now it's some "me" time. Grab you a glass of wine and unwind with a weekly tale.
M.I.L.F. & Cookies is dedicated to all the underdogs out there. The women who are underappreciated, doubted, ignored, counted out and mistreated. No matter what age you are, if you have children and doing your best to hold your own, there’s a woman out there who shares your struggle. These fictional tales are based on real women, with some details changed to protect their identity. It’s real outchea!
Each week, for 4 weeks total, you'll follow a new M.I.L.F, going through some real shit. Something some of us can relate to these stories and experiences, in some cases we can feel them on a personal level. I hope you enjoy the drama, the suspense and the cliffhangers.
If you want to be the source for a M.I.L.F. story, I’ll gladly change your name, and details about you to keep you anonymous.
See you next Sunday.