Stephanie's POV

Have you ever felt like you didn't belong? How about feeling like an interloper when visiting your family? Unfortunately, I have experienced both. My family is a blend of Italian and Hungarian. It's loud and you constantly have to move out of arm's length, or you'll get an elbow or hand in the face. We're known to swing our hands around when we're excited, angry or generally talking.

I'll tell you a bit about my family. Helen Plum, my mom, is Hungarian. Her parents, Harry and Edna Mazur were both Hungarian as well. Grandma and mom have blue eyes that I inherited from the Varga family line. My grandmother's maiden name was Varga. Her family emigrated from Hungary to settle in Trenton, New Jersey. My aunt, Eleanor, was born in Hungary, but my mom was born in New York.

Stefano and Ginevra Plum, my dad's parents, emigrated from Italy after WWII. My grandfather was a major in the Italian army. When the war ended, he decided to leave the country to live in America. He changed his surname to Plum from Plummeri. He said it was to protect him from his enemies.

I remember grandpa Plum telling me it was difficult to leave their home behind, but there were too many memories of everything they had lost. My dad was born the year they moved. I'm not sure how they could afford to travel to America with six children, but they managed to make it work.

Dad had four brothers and two sisters. His family was large and loud. It made family reunions exciting or intimidating, depending on your perception at the time. Though, I didn't like my cousin Vincent. He preferred to be called Vinnie. He was slimy, like my uncle Vincent. Why do parents name their firstborn sons after them? I could never understand the necessity of naming an offspring after the parent.

Thank goodness my mom never named Valerie or me after her. I can't imagine getting called Helen, or Ellen, as some are known to call my mom. At first, my mom corrected people who called her Ellen. Eventually, she decided it sounded enough like Helen that it didn't really matter anymore. Personally, it would piss me off if someone called me by the wrong name However, I like being called Stevie the best.

Oh, I almost forgot… my name is Stephanie Michelle Plum. My mom thought I was a boy and planned to name me Stefano Michele, after my grandfather. Imagine getting told you were a disappointment from the day of your birth. Yup, that's me. Mom wanted a son, not another daughter. It's not my fault that I'm a girl. If someone should get blamed, then get mad at dad because it's his sperm that did not produce a male heir.

A week after I was born, my mom fell down the stairs after suffering from severe blood loss. It was yet another thing to blame on my birth. Mom had to get a hysterectomy, eliminating her chance to give my father a son. How is it my fault that not all of the afterbirth got delivered after me? I would take the blame if I were in the wrong, but how could this get blamed on me? The doctors obviously didn't do their job. I only know about this issue because my mom constantly reminded me.

Grandma told me that the doctor wanted to ensure mom was medically sound before releasing her from the hospital. Grandma Mazur often told me it was my mom's stubbornness to get discharged from the hospital to care for Valerie after my birth. The doctor had concerns after I was born, but mom just insisted she was fine and her other daughter needed her at home. My mom somehow managed to convince him that she'd be alright at home and would return to the hospital if she experienced discomfort outside the typical post-labour pain.

The doctor blindly trusted that my mom knew what she was doing and would contact him at the first sign of trouble. After all, she already had a two-year-old daughter at home. Mom never experienced difficulty after Saint Valerie's birth. She never attributed her dizziness to blood loss or low iron. It was yet another way to drive a wedge between Valerie and me. Well, that and constantly getting blamed for Valerie's mistakes. How many times did I need to hear, "Valerie would have never disobeyed me if you didn't encourage her to misbehave?" as if I had control over Valerie.

I'm glad I have Mary Lou as my best friend. My life would have been far worse if I didn't have Lou in my corner, defending me. Mary Lou was the sister I had always wanted. She supported me in a way I wished I got from my mom and sister. Would it really kill my mom to encourage me for once?

"Where am I?" I ask myself. I looked around, hoping to find something familiar. Thinking about the past distracted me so much that I had missed my turn. The surrounding area contained many rundown homes. Half were boarded up with gunshot holes throughout the plywood. A man with blond, spiky hair and hazel eyes was leaning against a telephone pole, watching me with interest.

"Are you lost?" the man asked when I stopped at the corner beside him. "This is not a safe area for a beautiful woman like yourself."

"Maybe just a little bit," I confessed. "Where am I?"

"You're in Newark, New Jersey," he joked.

"Tell me something I don't already know," I said, laughing. "Seriously, I'm trying to find the exit to the highway."

"Smartass," he said. "Would you give me a lift to the airport? It's on the way."

I didn't make a habit of giving strangers a ride, but my spidey sense said I could trust the man. "Sure, hop in," I replied. The man shook his head. When he sat in the car beside me, I noticed his eyes were green, not hazel. He was a fine specimen of male hotness. I resisted the urge to fan myself.

"You really shouldn't trust people in this neighbourhood," he said. "I'm Lester Santos."

"Stephanie Plum," I reciprocated. "I can take care of myself." Lester raised an eyebrow as he looked over my body. I could tell he doubted my ability to keep myself safe.

"I'm sure you can, but until I see your skills, I can maintain my opinion," Lester retorted.

I snorted. "Whatever, Lester. Are you from around here?"

"In a way," he replied. I raised both eyebrows since I couldn't lift just one and waited for Lester to explain. "After my mom gave birth to my youngest sister, Juanita, we moved to Florida. We lived with my grandma before moving. I was visiting her before my Army deployment."

"Ah. I should have recognized your fatigues. My dad has some hidden in the basement," I said. Something encouraged me to get to know the man sitting beside me in the car. "Was your dad a soldier too?"

"I don't know," Lester honestly replied. "He wasn't around much and left when Juanita was born. I was eight when I had last seen him. Mom burned all the pictures of him."

"What happened?" I asked. My curiosity always got the best of me. I was nosy by nature, but I also respected boundaries, so I added, "You don't have to tell me if it's private."

"It's not exactly a secret. When I was eight, my dad said he couldn't see us anymore. His other family needed him more. My dad cut us off financially. She moved us to Florida and supported us when my dad stopped," Lester explained. "Mom couldn't bear to see him with the other woman."

I knew there had to be more to the story. "Did the other family threaten him?" I asked, passing him a can of coke from my purse. Lester opened the can and took a long drink before answering my question. I gave him time to formulate a reply.

"No. It wasn't anything like that. His youngest daughter with his wife had broken her arm. He couldn't afford the medical bills while supporting the children with his girlfriend. My mom found out he was married with two daughters. She had never felt more used and betrayed in all her life," Lester said.

While Lester told me the story, I twitched my left arm, which broke when I jumped off the garage. I was nine at the time. A part of Lester's story resonated with me. I wasn't sure why, but I had a feeling all would get revealed soon.

"I'm sorry, Lester. In Trenton, where I live, there is a borough named Chambersburg. Everyone calls it the Burg. Most married men in the Burg have extramarital relationships, though none of them produced offspring, as far as I know. The women are taught to clean house, raise children and have dinner served daily at 6 pm sharp. They were trained to ignore their husbands' dalliances," I said. "As long as the bills got paid, and food was on the table, the women didn't say a word to their cheating spouses." I hope he didn't notice that I accentuated the word dalliances.

Unfortunately, I wasn't so lucky. "Why did you say "dalliances" with such derision?" Lester asked.

"Huh. I was hoping you had not caught that. Three years ago, I got married to a man named Dickie Orr. He was a promising lawyer who was on the path to politics. Our explosive divorce ruined his political aspirations," I replied.

"What did he do?" Lester asked, grinning. I could tell he found the story amusing.

"Oh. I came home early from work and caught him screwing my childhood nemesis, Joyce Barnhardt, on the dining room table. We were only married for one month. I may have been raised in the Burg, but I don't tolerate cheating." I smiled when I thought about that day. "I gathered all of Dickie's expensive clothes and shoes, then lit a bonfire on the front lawn."

Lester howled in laughter. It took several minutes for him to catch his breath to speak again. "Remind me never to piss you off," he said. "Oh, turn here." Lester pointed to the ramp leading us to the highway. "After you drop me off, you can follow the signs to get you back on the highway."

"Thanks, Les. I appreciate the help."

"No problem," he replied. He unlocked his cell phone and asked for my phone number. After I gave him the digits, he called my phone. "Just checking to make sure it's the right one."

"Have you experienced women giving you the wrong number?" I asked.

Lester shrugged. "If they did, I never knew. Once the itch got scratched, I never contacted them." He saw the look of disgust on my face. "Steph, the women knew upfront that I only wanted sex. They left their number for a repeat call. I'm young and don't want to settle down." Lester was saying more than he realized. "I refuse to sleep with married women."

Of course, he wouldn't look for a meaningful relationship. It made perfect sense to me. "I get it," I said.

"Get what?" Lester asked as I pulled into the drop-off zone at Newark Airport.

"Why you don't want a relationship," I replied. "You've seen firsthand how to love, especially unrequited love, can affect a person."

"That's not why I don't want a relationship, Steph. I refuse to settle for less than I deserve. When I find the right woman, I'll marry her. My mom and dad were in love. Even a blind person could see it. But he didn't believe in divorce," Lester quickly corrected me. "I strongly believe my dad wasn't in love with his wife."

Before I could respond to his words, Lester kissed me on the lips and got out of my car. He waved and promised to call me. Why did the kiss feel like kissing my brother? I watched him look over his shoulder as he touched his lips. Lester looked confused before entering the terminal. I wondered if he thought our kiss was awkward too.

My phone pinged, and I parked the car at the curb to read the message. I laughed when I read, "Kissing you felt like kissing my sister. We aren't secretly related, are we?"

"Not that I'm aware. But I've learned never to say never. BTW, what is your dad's name?" I asked.

"Mama called him Mateo, but his first name was Frances," Lester replied. I was stunned. My dad's name was Frances Mateo. Everyone called him Frank. What are the odds that we have the same biological father?

On the way home from Newark, I saw a billboard for the new lab in Hamilton Township. I decided to take a detour before going home. Trenton wasn't too far away, and I recognized the area. I followed the signs until I pulled into the parking lot of Whole Body Labs. The name made me snicker. After parking the car, I got out, carrying both empty cans of coke. "May I help you?" a pretty blond asked.

"Um. I hope so," I replied and looked for a name tag. "Heather, does this lab run DNA tests?"

"We certainly do," Heather replied. "What kind of test do you need?"

"I have two cans," I said, placing the empty items on the counter. "I drank from this one, and someone else drank from that one." I pointed them out. "I'm not a fan of needles, but I'm willing to provide a better sample if required."

"We'll take care of things," Heather promised. "It's not necessary to provide another sample. I'm assuming you want a genetic test done to see if you're siblings?"

"Yes," I replied. "I'm sure I can get a hair sample from my father. Would that help?"

Heather grinned. "It would be ideal if you can manage."

I presented Heather with a comb I had in my purse. She raised an eyebrow before catching my eye. "My dad was the last to use this," I said. "He left a few hairs attached."

"Now we're talking," Heather said as she pulled bags from a drawer. "What names should I put on the file."

"Huh?"

"Names? I assume you want me to keep this confidential?" Heather prodded.

"Are you allowed to do that?" I wondered as I filled out the request.

"You'd be surprised how many people give us fake names for paternity tests. We get a lot of customers from Chambersburg," Heather said when she noticed my address.

"How would you know that?" I asked before reading over the document. I put my name as Michelle Santos, Lester was listed as Mateo Rodriguez, and I said my dad was Stefano Santos. When I read the address, I groaned. I gave them my grandma Mazur's old address.

"Yup. The address provided belongs to either your parents or another relative. It's surprising how many people do that. Our system would know if the address is false. Where should I send the results?" Heather asked.

"Not that address. Can you call me when the results are in?"

"Sure. I can do that. Is this your phone number?" Heather asked, pointing to the number on the form. I nodded before saying it was for my apartment. "The results should be back within a week or two."

"Thanks for your help and discretion," I said before leaving the office. I paid the fees upfront, so I didn't have to worry about them later.