The private road leading up to Grandma June’s was narrow and winding. Flanked by overgrown vegetation and with no sidewalk or shoulder to walk along, it was not a safe place to wander about. So, when I saw a figure dart into the tree line and force its way through a cluster of tangled vines—I knew it was him. I had seen the man in the black fedora with the white rose enough in recent days to know he was the one lurking in the woods around Willow Lake.

When the impressive Victorian house came into view, an unfamiliar dread fell upon my shoulders. Returning to my childhood home had never been an issue before. I loved the house where I grew up, even if it looked like something out of a horror movie. And I loved my Grandma June. Bold, feisty, and weird—in all the best ways. There had never been a time when I needed any family other than her.

After parking in one of the designated spots at the end of the stone walkway, I stepped out of the car and rolled my aching shoulders. A gust of wind grabbed my hair, whipping it across my face, temporarily obstructing the view. I hesitated to pull my hair aside. Did I really want to glimpse the hatted man peering out from behind my grandmother’s velvet drapes?

I had to remind myself that this was a safe space. It would always be my home. There was no reason to be afraid. I shoved my hair away and forced myself to look up.

In its heyday, the lakeside house had been vibrant and welcoming. A shining star of the Maryland Historical Society, with its steep gabled roofs, decorative woodwork, and tower accented by stained-glass windows. My grandmother had the exterior repainted after my grandfather’s death and before I was born. Shades of gray and black purposely transformed the house into a “people deterrent.” All that was missing—a silhouette of a mummy in an upstairs window and a flashing vacancy sign in the front yard.

“Was traffic that bad?” Grandma June shouted from behind the screen door. Because what other reason would I have to stand and stretch beside my car instead of coming directly inside?

“It’s always bad this time of day,” I said and went to retrieve the grocery bags from the back of my Infiniti.

“Did you get everything on the list?” Grandma June asked, opening the screen door as I stepped onto the wraparound porch.

Thursday evenings were our weekly dinner and my organic grocery delivery. Not because my grandmother needed it but because she basked in the attention. Dinner and a glass or two of wine meant a sleepover. Grandma June preferred those visits, so I always packed an overnight bag.

“Everything except for the dirty chocolate herbal tea.” I placed a kiss on her cheek and entered the house.

Two words described my grandmother’s choice of interior design: ornamental and expensive. Walking into Grandma June’s was like being transported to an extravagant antique store, minus the smell of mildew. Though I knew the only things holding up her priceless works of art were a few rusty nails.

“Darn, I haven’t been able to find that tea for months,” Grandma June said.

“Have you tried ordering it online?”

“Every site I’ve been on claims to be out of stock.”

“Guess there’s an ongoing shortage.”

“Nah, I bet some nitwit’s hoarding it. Probably Mrs. Duncan over on Kilmer Street. She’s the type, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.” I smiled and shook my head.

According to Grandma June, someone somewhere was always plotting mayhem. And once my grandmother got it in her head that they were up to no good, there was no convincing her otherwise. “Have you had chocolate tea at her house before?” I asked.

“She’s too stingy to offer, but I bet it’s her all the same.”

Grandma June followed me through the lower level to the kitchen and immediately dove into the grocery bags when I placed them on the granite countertop. The industrial-sized, stainless-steel appliances looked small in the enormous kitchen. Dark quarter-sawn cabinetry was the only feature in this room that revealed the home’s actual age. Everything else was modern—shiny and new.

As Grandma June inspected and unpacked groceries, I considered excusing myself to the den to watch the news. Or maybe to go out for a walk around the lake—anything to give us some distance. It would not take long for my grandmother to notice something was bothering me. The longer we were together, the harder it would be to hide the anxiety stewing in my gut.

My need to ask the forbidden question caused the acid in my stomach to rise, while apprehension heated it to a boil. How long would it take for the turmoil to burn a hole through my insides?

In the end, I dropped my overnight bag on the floor and headed for the wine rack in the dining room.

When I returned and set a glass of overpriced cabernet in front of Grandma June, she crossed her arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. For the first time, I noticed she was wearing her favorite blue dress. The one I had picked up at a thrift store years ago for a Halloween costume. The one she confiscated because she said it made her look like Janet Leigh.

“Gigi, it’s a little early for wine,” Grandma June said. “I haven’t even put the steaks on yet.”

I took a healthy sip from my glass. Today, I found it more annoying than usual that my grandmother refused to call me by my given name. Instead, she used the initials of my first and middle names to create something she believed to be more suitable. She also preferred to treat me like a child instead of a twenty-six-year-old adult.

“It’s never too early for wine, Gi Ju.”

My grandmother sighed before lifting her glass to red-painted lips. She hated it when I referred to her as Gi Ju instead of Grandma June, or even Juniper. In the same way I loathed her use of the nickname Gigi. Unlike her, the oddity of my name—Ghost Grace White—pleased me. After all, it was the only way to honor the mother who had given me life, a name, and nothing else.

“And for the millionth time, call me Ghost.”

Grandma June’s hands visibly shook as she placed her glass back on the counter without taking a drink. “I will not.” With a disgruntled huff, she disappeared into her custom-designed pantry.

Her hatred of my name was one of life’s many obscurities.

It was not until kindergarten that I even learned my real name. A teacher’s honest mistake when placing name tags on assigned desks had created the first big uproar in my life and resulted in my first argument with my grandmother. After that, I insisted on being called Ghost. Everyone obliged, except Grandma June. She had warned me that the use of my legal name would cause me pain. She was right. There was no shortage of cruelty in children and even in some adults. But I stuck it out and, over time, derived pleasure from the shock people exuded when I told them the reason for my name.

Who else can say they died on the day they were born?

I was about to pour a second glass of wine when my grandmother reappeared, arms laden with bread, potatoes, onions, and a jar of pickled beets.

“Let us enjoy a nice dinner this evening. No talk of sad things. Tell me more about that guy at work. Bishop, is that his name? It’s been so long since you’ve been out on a date.”

I watched Grandma June as she began preparing our meal, knowing full well that the conversation we were about to have would not be pleasant. For either of us.

How could I break the heart of the woman who had wiped my tears, kissed my boo-boos, and supported me in every aspect of my life?

How do I tell her that she is no longer enough?