From then on, that butter dish felt like a threat. Braden kept using it—on toast, crackers, anything. I stuck to olive oil, trying not to gag.
One morning, I woke up determined to settle it. I scoured food safety sites. Some said butter could sit out for a day or two in cool temps. Others insisted on refrigeration. Our kitchen was 78°F. Not ideal.
Later that day, Odessa invited me for coffee. As we sipped from mismatched mugs, she mentioned something unsettling:
“Clarissa’s been posting cryptic stuff on Facebook—about people not respecting family traditions.”
Clarissa. My sister-in-law. We’d never been close, but this felt personal.
When I got home, I confronted Braden.
“Did you talk to Clarissa about the butter?”
He looked sheepish. “I might’ve said you were overreacting. I just needed to vent.”
I felt betrayed. I’d never complained about his cluttered trophy shelf or muddy-pawed dog in our bed. But he’d turned a kitchen disagreement into family gossip?
I wanted to hurl the butter dish into the trash. Instead, I took a breath.
“Braden, this isn’t about butter. It’s about you respecting my feelings.”
He sat down, heavy with regret.
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… Grandma Selma raised me after my parents split. Keeping butter out makes me feel like she’s still here.”
That stopped me cold. I’d heard about her, but never like this.
“I’m not trying to erase her,” I said gently. “But I need you to understand my side too.”
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