Page 1 of Wasn't Supposed To Be Yours
Chapter 1
Dionne Henry
Soft Landing
“Ms. Henry, would you like another glass of champagne before we begin our descent?” the flight attendant asked me, pulling my attention from the open book in front of me.
I lifted my head, so that I could look up at Kate, the flight attendant, who has been taking care of me for 10 hours plus that I’ve already been on this flight.
I wasn’t the type to really fall asleep during flights. I couldn’t. I liked to be alert, and if I could, possibly in control of everything that was happening around me. If I did dose off, it would be something light, where something as simple as someone coughing two rows behind me would wake me up. To keep me up, and alert, along with making the time go by faster on flights, I would often read, which is what I was doing right now, watch a movie, play some kind of word search, or keep the window shield up, allowing myself to get lost in the skies, wondering what else was out there waiting for me.
“Thank you, Kate. Yes, if you don’t mind, I’ll take another glass,” I responded, and she gave me a sassy look, like it was no problem for her to swing back up front and pour me a glass ofchampagne. She waved me off, laughed, and let me know that she would be right back.
I was seated in 1A, first row, left side of the plane. The way the first-class area was set up was one of those configurations with two seats per row, but lucky for me, no one was seated next to me, so I was able to place my green Goyard purse there.
I was coming home, after being in Milan a little over a month. My family and friends thought that I’d been gone all this time, just taking another one of my fancy, on-the- whim trips that I would always take, but this time, I was actually there for business. Me. Dionne Henry. I was out of the country, handling business.
To know me… I mean toreallyknow me is to know that that wasn’t like me at all. Normally, if I was flying overseas, it was because my sales associate from Louis Vuitton, Cartier, or Chanel called me to tell me a new collection had dropped, so I would be on the first thing smoking, ready to spend a coin that I didn’t have to work hard for. If I wasn’t flying overseas for that, it would be because I had a private appointment at Audemars Piguet to try on the latest watch. I had a mean time peace collection. In all humbleness, you could line up your favorite rapper, athlete, or movie star, and their collection wasn’t touching mine.
This time, with me out of the country, it was different. The circumstances were different. I really was out there handling business. Don’t get me wrong, funds were spent, champagne was sipped as I browsed around my favorite designer stores, and items were shipped back home to me, but that wasn’t all that I did while out there. This time, this trip consisted of meetings, contracts, and vendors. It was the kind of business where I went out there, and I gambled with my money, in hopes that I would make it back ten times.
Being a business owner, and a strong black woman that works my ass off to the point where I’m always exhausted and never had any time to pour into myself was never something that I wanted for myself. I wanted a soft life. I didn’t want to problem solve when it came to shit! If any minor inconvenience happened in my life, I wanted to be able to go to my man for it. That was the mindset that I used to have. I mean, I still had some of that mindset a little bit, but I was in therapy, so I was getting better at it. It all came down to my therapist letting me know that my ass had daddy issues, and that was the reason I was so hyper dependent on men the way I was… well, the way that I used to be.
I had a father in my life, but my dad was in prison. He’s been in prison since I was one years old. Don’t get me wrong, I have a great relationship with my dad, and him and I talk on the phone every day, but physically, he wasn’t here for me, so at a young age, I knew what it felt like to have that void of a man missing in my life.
Growing up, I would go with my grandma on the weekends… my dad’s mom . That was the side of my family that was hood as fuck. Don’t get me wrong, my mom’s side wasn’t all clean, and bougie either, but it was worse on my dad’s side. That was the side where I had a bunch of cousins, uncles, and aunties. They would all step up and try to fill that void of my dad being locked up, but even as a little girl, I always knew that that wasn’t enough. I wanted a dad. I wanted to have my dad pick me up from school and take me out on ice cream dates. I wanted to know what it felt like to be spoiled rotten. I had the kind of dad that did what he could do while he was incarcerated. He would have one of his brothers come to my mom’s house whenever it was my birthday, and they would come bearing gifts, and money. Whenever events came up at school, like father/ daughter dances, one of my uncles would always take me. I wasappreciative of having them step up, and doing what my father couldn’t do, since he was locked up, but that feeling of wanting him around to do these things just never really left.
My dad was in prison for murder. He’s been in there since he was only seventeen years old, and he’s currently fifty- four. He’s been locked up for 37 years, and after all that time, he was finally eligible for parole this year. The only reason why it took so long for him to be eligible for parole is because of the sentence enhancement that was added to the murder charge. There were charges of the firearm, along with gang related activity. Not only that, but during his time of being incarcerated, he’s gotten in other trouble as well, getting hit with assault charges.
My dad wasn’t a saint. I’ve had plenty of visits with him over the years, where we’ve had deep conversations. He will look you in your eyes and tell you that he didn’t commit that murder that they found him guilty of years ago. Till this day, I really didn’t know if I believed him, though. He claims that him, and his friends were just at the wrong place, at the wrong time.
I don’t have my hopes high on him coming home. Not because I didn’t want him to come home, but it’s the way that I guarded my heart. I would sink down into a very low place if I were to get it made up in my mind that my dad was coming home from prison, and that all of that missed time that we had, we would finally get it back, only for it not to happen. To save myself from the heartbreak, I’d already accepted that his parole was going to get denied, and there was a high chance that he would have to finish off a life sentence.
So, from the little that you all know about me, I’m sure your probably wondering how I turned out the way that I did. I come from the slums of the ghetto. My mom’s side is hood, right along with my dad. How is it that I wasn’t a product of my environment, and how come I’m so different than my sisters? The answer to those questions is that I’ve pretty much alwaysbeen different. Growing up, I was the oldest out of four girls. It was me, Free, Tommie, and our baby sister, Nivea. All of us had different dad’s, but for the most part, all my sisters acted like our mom. They had her attitude, her slick ass mouth, and her ghetto ass ways. Don’t get me wrong, I had the attitude, and the slick mouth too, but everything about my personality since a child was one of a kid that was born and raised in the suburbs, going to private school that was the price of someone’s yearly salary.
Because I was the oldest, I had my own room growing up. I would treat my room as if it was a suite at the Four Seasons. You would never step inside my room, and there would be a thing out of place. I kid you not, at five years old, if you walked in my room, you would catch me watching films likeSex in the city, The devil wears Prada,andBreakfast at Tiffany’s.
My mom’s mom was into fashion, and anything that you needed her to design for you, she would do it. I used to love it when first day of school came around, and our grandmother would hand make our outfits for us. My sisters would appreciate whatever our grandmother would create for us, and trust her creativity process, while I would come to her, with my pen, and pad, giving her a list of instructions of what I wanted designed, the fit, the color, along with the fabric. I used to play ‘dress-up’ in my mom’s clothes, heels, and purses. My mom didn’t have designer things because she was raising four girls on her own, but I made it work with what I had.
I didn’t really get into boys until I was much older. I lived in the projects, so the men that I would often see were project men. The kind that thought they were doing something big when they would sell a dime bag. I knew that with the life I wanted to live, the expensive taste that I had, that no man in those projects that I was living in would be able to give me these things. Since that was the case, there was a point in my life, after high school whereI felt like I would have to actually get out there, work, and get the shit for myself.
I had the smartness, so after high school, I went to college. Every time I tell someone that I did a couple of years in college, they think that I’m lying because that just wasn’t the version of me that everyone knew, but I really did go to school for a little bit. My ass was trying to be a doctor. Hey, I was just eager to do whatever would make me a lot of money, and something that I found some kind of interest in.
I did two years in college, and that’s when I met my first older, rich nigga. His name was Grant. Grant was 45 when we met. My young ass had no business dealing with a man that was 25 years older than me, but stick around for the plot, and I’ll explain to you how this man had me put up!
The night Grant and I met, my roommate and I had gown downtown to Wynwood, just exploring. We found ourselves going in one of those art galleries, and I remember looking at the prices on those beautiful art pieces and thinking that I couldn’t wait to be in a position where I could afford that kind of stuff.
As I was browsing around the store, my roommate drifted off, going to her own area in the store, leaving me alone by myself, having me stare at one of the art pieces in awe. Till this day, I don’t even remember Grant walking up on me. I just happened to turn my head, and he was standing there, with a smile on his face. One look at him, and I could tell that he was older than me, but the thing is, I didn’t think that he was much older. If I had to guess, I would say that I thought he was at least 30.
I just remember him asking me if I wanted the art piece that I was looking at. Mind you, I remember everything about that day, so I remember the price was a little over $10k. A woman, who would have her way with niggas raised me. My mama knew how to pimp a nigga out of his socks, taught the game to me, and mysisters, so I remember looking him in his eyes, laughing in his face, and telling him that I didn’t want the art, but I would take the money. I could tell that he was shocked by my answer, which made him laugh, and he shocked me right back, telling me to go to the back with him, and I put it on everything that this man put $10k in my hands, without even knowing my name.
His response to me after giving me the money was, “This not the flex that you think it is. You could have taken the art and sold it for double”.
A bitch was in love! Well, in love with the idea that he had money, but then I came to love him. After he gave me the money, I gave him my number. This man called me the same night, wanting to take me out. I allowed him to, and at dinner is when I found out that he was forty- five years old. At dinner, is when I found out that that art gallery that I met him in was one of the many art galleries that he owned. At dinner is where he taught me that with the face, and the body that I had, I could have my way with niggas and get whatever I wanted out of them. I remember telling him how I was in school to be a doctor, and that I was only doing it for the money. I remember this man looking me in my eyes, telling me to drop out if I didn’t like it. At the time, I wasn’t so trusting because I didn’t know him, so I stayed my ass in school. Oh, a month later though, after I gave the pussy up, and this man was dropping bags on me, keeping money in my pocket, I sure did drop my ass out of school.
I had the kind of relationship with my mom where I could tell her anything. I told her about Grant, and of course she called me stupid for dropping out of school for a man that I barely even knew, but hey, it was all a part of the plot. She supported the idea of him spending money on me, but she felt like niggas were temporary, and that I shouldn’t have placed too much faith in him by dropping out of school.
Grant had me drop out, and he put me up in a beautiful condo, right on Miami beach, and you couldn’t tell me shit. He was the one to teach me to have my way with niggas. He was the one to teach me my worth, putting it in my ear that I was the prize, and for me to never be afraid to ask a nigga for anything. Ultimately, Grant and I didn’t end up working out. It’s good to have a man with money, that can take care of you, but them niggas will eventually start treating you like they own you. He built me up in a way to be sexier, bolder, and just tap into my grown woman era, but he couldn’t stand what came with that. I was attracting so many men. I’ve attracted men my entire life, but I was attracting men that were on the same level as him, and he hated that. He would take me to these grand events, where I would be standing in the room with other millionaire men, and if he would see them looking at me, it would end bad. That nigga put his hands on me one time, and I turned into that bitch right from the hood, and I fucked him up.
