Unbreak My Heart: A Memoir

by Toni Braxton

  ONE NIGHT IN 1999, my father went out of the house to run an errand—and he left behind a green bag that he usually carried with him. Mommy was trying to find something, so she went searching in his bag. She ran across Daddy’s phone bill, which listed one certain phone number several times. My mother somehow connected that phone number to an address—and a couple days later, she and my cousin Gilda drove to that home. The woman who answered the front door was the secretary of my father’s boss at Baltimore Gas and Electric—that same woman my former assistant had seen him with at that concert. When Mommy asked the woman whether she was having an affair with Dad, the woman said, “Well, I’m glad you finally know.”

  That same day, my mother confronted my father—and Towanda, who was staying at the house then, called me as it happened. “Mommy and Daddy are arguing like crazy!” she said. Since I wasn’t actually there, I don’t know what kind of angry words were exchanged or whether my parents ever resolved anything. Within days, my parents separated.

  My siblings and I were livid. We all tried to get the woman on a conference call, but she hung up when she heard Towanda’s question: “Are you messing around with my father?” Of course, Dad was angry with us for calling the woman—but he couldn’t have been as furious as I was with him. Eventually, the whole story came out. My father—the reverend who promised to be faithful to my mother and to honor his vow before God—had been carrying on an affair with his coworker for nine years.

  There was brief talk of a reconciliation between my parents—but the wound was too deep. Once their lawyers reached an agreement, Mommy and Daddy divorced—and thirty days later, my father married his mistress. The whole ordeal sent me into an emotional tailspin. It made me question every single thing I’d ever been taught—about God, about religion, about ethics. It was the most confusing and painful time I’ve ever experienced. And through it all, one person stood by me—Keri.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Life Is Not a Fairy Tale”

  I spent Christmas with Keri. It was snowing the day I flew into Minneapolis in December 1999—but that didn’t matter to me because I was with the man I’d grown to love. On Christmas Eve, we went out shopping and then to dinner. “You should get your nails done,” Keri said, prodding me. The following day, his nudging would make perfect sense.

  Late on Christmas morning, the two of us dragged ourselves out of bed and into the living room to open our gifts. Still wearing my pajamas (a pair with little teacups all over them), I sat right in front of the lighted tree. I reached for a present Keri had gotten me and unwrapped it. Inside, I found a skirt, one that I could immediately see was too long for me. “Thanks!” I said, forcing a smile—but I’m sure Keri could tell I wasn’t very impressed. His other two gifts were better—more sets of PJs (I can never have too many!) and a pair of cozy slippers. Once my gifts were all open, I went to the restroom for a couple minutes. When I returned, Keri was down on one knee—and holding a Tiffany box. “Will you marry me?” he said. I froze. I hadn’t seen this coming at all.

  My thoughts raced. Do I even want to get married? Am I really over Curtis? And is this the right choice? Realizing that my hesitation had made the moment awkward, I kinda hugged Keri—yet I didn’t really give an answer. “So is that a yes?” he finally said, chuckling. “Yes,” I said—but to be honest, I still wasn’t 100 percent sure.

  My uncertainty had little to do with Keri. When I had met him, I was still getting over that heartbreak with Curtis—and I was torn about whether he and I should get back together. I’d eventually moved on and started a relationship with Keri, of course, but I did so with a question mark: Could Curtis and I work things out? I thought I’d settled that—but the day Keri asked me to marry him, the question resurfaced.

  It surprised even me that I didn’t give an immediate yes to Keri. We’d been together for just a bit, and for the previous few months, I’d been telling myself, “I’m going to break up with him if he doesn’t propose by Valentine’s Day.” We’d talked a little about marriage, and we’d once even gone to Tiffany to look at rings. And we’d already survived a major experience together—a pregnancy. Plus, I also think it’s nonsense to date someone for a long time—I’m sure that has a lot to do with my traditional upbringing. So I knew I loved Keri and that I wanted to marry him. Yet when I saw him down on one knee in front of the Christmas tree, I suddenly wasn’t sure.

  Keri and I never talked about my hesitation—and that day, I tucked it away in some secret chamber of my heart. Keri took the ring out of the box and slid it onto my ring finger. It was a diamond solitaire with clusters of smaller diamonds around it in a raised setting. “It’s nice,” I said. As I looked down at the ring on my hand, I suddenly wished that I’d responded to Keri’s suggestion and gotten that manicure—my polish was chipped.

  “You have to ask my dad if you can marry me,” I told Keri.

  So right away, Keri called my father. “I just proposed to your daughter and she said yes,” he told my dad. “Do I have your permission to marry her?” My father agreed. Both my parents, who’d gotten to know Keri by that time, seemed excited. Later, I called my manager, Barry Hankerson, and told him the news. “Congratulations!” he said. On Christmas night, Keri pinched a nerve in his back and could hardly move, but once he was back on his feet the next day, we drove over to his parents’ home in Saint Paul and told them the news. We all celebrated.

  BY THE TIME Kenny and I got back in the studio to start on my third album, he and L.A. had officially split, even though they did still write and produce some material together. In 2000, the two sold their share of LaFace to BMG, Arista’s parent company, which meant that I and the other LaFace artists would be transferred to BMG/Arista. Clive Davis left to start J Records, which was funded by BMG. L.A. succeeded Clive as chairman and CEO of Arista. I’d relied so heavily on L.A. and Kenny’s Batman and Robin duo, and without it, I was nervous about putting out a record. They were still friendly with one another—and even after his promotion, L.A. provided plenty of direction in my career. But it didn’t feel like the early days when I’d had the magic of the team behind me. And though the bankruptcy had been settled by the time we started the third album, some of the war wounds still felt fresh—that was the elephant in the room that nobody wanted to mention. We’d mainly agreed to collaborate on a third album because the BMG execs wanted to get their money’s worth on our contractual agreement. And with the news of the bankruptcy still hanging over my name, it’s not like others in the industry were clamoring to pull me away to work with them.

  Though my lawsuit with the label was settled, relationships had shifted. Before the legal drama, I’d often been invited to BMG parties or asked to sing at charity functions. Those invitations stopped. Execs used to request favors from me, like “Toni, can you sing at the billionaires’ club reception?” Not anymore. I was no longer the flavor-of-the-month artist, and while no one actually acknowledged it verbally, I could feel the tension in the air. I also felt that there was less enthusiasm about me and my music.

  L.A. sent me a track that he thought would be perfect for my album—it was called “He Wasn’t Man Enough for Me.” When he sent me the track, which was by Rodney Jerkins, I loved it, but didn’t get the chorus. “Where’s the hook?” I said after he played it. “You don’t hear it until like a minute and twenty-eight seconds into the song.”

  L.A. shrugged. “I think it’s hot,” he said insistently. L.A. could talk me into anything. “Just try it.” I did—and once I rehearsed and eventually recorded the tune, it became one of my favorites. It was a switch from all those sad love songs on my first couple of albums. The fast tempo and lyrics made it so fun to sing.

  Keri was in the studio with me a lot—and L.A. obviously approved. “That’s the one right there,” he’d often say when he’d see Keri around the studio. “He’s such a talented producer. You’re with the right guy.” He and I would spend hours together, just listening to tracks. There’s something so intimate about work
ing with someone on a creative project. That’s probably why so many people who work together end up liking each other.

  Barry Hankerson had become my manager during the bankruptcy and my parents’ divorce. Especially after L.A. left LaFace and moved up the ladder at Arista, Barry took on an even bigger role in my career. From the start, I thought he was brilliant—one of the smartest managers, producers, and entertainment lawyers I’d ever met. He also knew his way around the music world: He was once married to Gladys Knight, he’d worked closely with the Winans, and he managed R. Kelly and his niece, Aaliyah, through his label, Blackground. He entered my life at a time when I was feeling powerless. “You’re going to be all right,” he would often tell me. “You may not sell what you used to sell, but you’re going to make a comeback. You’ll be bigger than ever.”

  My third album, The Heat, debuted in April 2000. Not only did “Man Enough,” the first single released, have a different sound, a lot of the record was more urban and upbeat. “Gimme Some,” one of the tracks, features a rap from TLC’s Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes. Keri and I teamed up to write and produce the song’s title track, “The Heat,” a sexy, midtempo groove that celebrates the electricity that connects two would-be lovers. And just so it could be called a Toni Braxton album, I had to include at least a couple slow songs about romance gone sour—and “Just Be a Man About It” was one such hit.

  Once the album was released, Barry sent me out on a radio tour. “You’ve got to pay homage to radio so that they’ll continue to want to play your music,” he told me. At the time, that made sense to me: It’s important for an artist to stop in and say hello to DJs so that she stays on the radar. But L.A. thought this was the wrong strategy for an established artist—and he told me that. “Why is Toni Braxton doing radio tours?” he asked me. “Barry is just using you to sell records and keep relationships for his other artists.” The record business is a business of payoffs and favors—so a manager will often say to a radio station, “If your station sponsors Toni Braxton’s tour, I will give you another artist’s album early.” So L.A. believed that Barry was sending me out to radio stations in exchange for more airtime for his niece and his other artists. This is just one example of how L.A. and Barry disagreed—and I usually felt caught in the middle of their power struggles.

  I had no idea whether The Heat would be well received—as an artist, you’re always hoping that people will embrace your music. But with a lawsuit, a bankruptcy, and a corporate restructuring in the news in the previous few years, it was hard for me to tell whether the record would do well. That’s why I’ll always be so thankful that my fans really got behind me: The Heat eventually sold well and even brought me my sixth Grammy. No, it didn’t catch on the way my first two albums did (each sold more than ten million copies around the world), but it still sold six million copies worldwide. Sweet redemption—that’s the best way to describe how it felt. The album’s success was proof that the world could look beyond the headlines—and that I could finally turn the page on one of my most agonizing chapters.

  AFTER KERI AND I got engaged, I had a house built in Atlanta using the money I received from the bankruptcy settlement. Soon after, we hired Diann Valentine as our wedding planner and chose a date—April 21, 2001. That gave us enough time to pull together all the details: the venue, the ceremony, the flowers, the guest list, the music, and, of course, the dress. I chose Davett Singletary (my longtime colleague at LaFace who’d become a beloved friend) as my maid of honor. And of course, all my sisters were in the wedding—each was a bridesmaid. By then, a couple of my sisters had made their own trips to the altar: Traci and Trina had both exchanged vows. When I told my sisters that Keri and I were finally ready to tie the knot, each seemed genuinely happy for me. We Braxton sisters have always shown up to support one another. That’s just how we roll in our family.

  I told Diann the color I’d already chosen for the wedding—Tiffany blue. Who knew that Tiffany owns the patent to Tiffany blue? Thankfully, Diann negotiated a deal for us to be able to use the color. As for my dress, I fell in love with an ivory, strapless Vera Wang gown. On the most special day of my life, I wanted to feel like a princess—and that’s exactly how I felt the first time I put on that gown.

  My road to the altar was littered with family drama—it wouldn’t be a Braxton family event if there wasn’t at least one crazy incident. In October 2000, my parents’ divorce became final—which meant Mommy and Daddy wanted nothing to do with each other. They wouldn’t even agree to share a table at the wedding. Mommy wanted to bring the gentleman friend she’d been dating. Absolutely not. Then Dad asked me if he could bring his new wife. Hell no. My father even threatened not to come to my wedding if his new bride couldn’t accompany him, but I stood my ground. He finally decided to come on his own, which is a good thing—because if my father had shown up at my wedding with that woman, the two of them would’ve been promptly escorted out.

  Several weeks before the wedding, I visited the dermatologist. “You’re breaking out a little,” he said, examining my face. “Looks hormonal.” Then a week before the wedding, I went to my primary care physician for a general checkup. “So you’re getting married,” he said. “Are you planning to have kids right away?” I nodded and smiled. “Well, you’re getting an early start—you’re pregnant now.” I just stared at him. As it turns out, I wasn’t very far along—in fact, I hadn’t even missed a period. I’d had a few headaches and some nausea, which I attributed to the stress of planning the wedding. But when the doctor checked my cervix, he noticed that it was purple—which is a sign of pregnancy. That’s when he gave me a pregnancy test that confirmed that I was expecting.

  My big day finally arrived. I think my mother forgot that it was my wedding—she was still so angry with my father that her energy was negative. “Life is not a fairy tale,” she told me as I put on my gown. “All men cheat.” She did give me a gift—she’d turned her own wedding ring into a gorgeous bracelet. “I hope this brings you more luck than it brought me,” she said as she fastened it onto my wrist. Even though I knew she said these words because she cared for me, her words still hurt me.

  At Dean Gardens in Atlanta, the guests gathered—among them were Tyler Perry, Usher, TLC, Kenny, and dozens of my extended family members. Some of my father’s sisters didn’t show up—I invited them, of course, but that word somehow hadn’t gotten to my father. My parents’ divorce was so recent that the entire family was still reeling from it—so I’m sure that had something to do with the miscommunication.

  Andrew Young, the former mayor of Atlanta, officiated the ceremony. I had a few jitters, but I was more excited than nervous as my father took my hand and walked me down the aisle. Saying my vows—“I, Toni Braxton, take you, Keri Lewis, to be my lawfully wedded husband”—felt like an out-of-body experience. Me? Married? I’d always imagined I’d stand at the altar and profess my love for the man I’d chosen, but I just couldn’t believe the moment had actually come. The ceremony itself was perfect—as magical as I’d dreamed it would be. There’s just one thing I wished I would’ve added—the traditional broom-jumping ceremony. It would’ve been nice to pass the broom on to my children.

  Keri and I stole a private moment for ourselves right after the ceremony. I handed him something I’d brought with me—a rattle.

  “What’s this?” he asked, taking the rattle.

  I smiled. “Well,” I said, “you’re going to be a daddy.”

  “Really?!” he exclaimed, his eyes brightening. “Wow,” he finally said, “this is the happiest day of my life.” We embraced. The news of my pregnancy was the greatest gift I could’ve given either one of us—both on that day and for many, many years to come.

  CHAPTER 15

  Leaks, Lies, and Revelations

  I was terrified the first time I held my son. He’d just been delivered by C-section, and I was so drugged that I could hardly sit up straight. I also still had the shakes from the epidural. But my mother made me hold him right away.
“You have to bond with your baby,” she said. Most of my family was there with me at the hospital—only my brother, Mikey, hadn’t been able to make it, because of work responsibilities. “I don’t think he looks like me,” I said, glancing over at Keri as I struggled to embrace our beloved bundle. My lower eyelids filled with water. “What’s wrong?” asked Keri, noticing my tears. I didn’t really give him an answer. But looking back on it, I think I was overwhelmed by the thought that I was suddenly responsible for the life of this little child. On December 2, 2001, just eight months after I’d married, I became a mother—to the healthy and handsome Denim Cole Braxton-Lewis.

  There have been moments when I felt more like my son’s big sister than his mom. That’s probably because I spent all those years coparenting my younger siblings, and being in the role of caretaker brings back all those memories. And yet right from the start, my connection with Denim was so much deeper than the bond often shared between siblings—I would do absolutely anything for my child. I definitely felt that protective mother instinct when I held him. On the day Keri and I brought Denim home from the hospital, our hearts were wide open. Having a child gave me the capacity to love more unconditionally than I ever had.

  Becoming a new parent was much harder than I thought it would be. I mean, I read every book you could think of to prepare for it—but I still didn’t get it, even though I would call my own Mommy every day. Nobody tells you that no matter how much planning you do, it really comes down to on-the-job training. I remember not knowing what to do when Denim would spit up—and I certainly didn’t know how to care for his umbilical cord stump before it fell off and became a navel. I also couldn’t differentiate his cries: Was he colicky or hungry? And I don’t even want to think back on the day he received his first set of shots—I cried just about as much as he did.