When Braden shuffled in, robe askew, I showed him the articles.
He sighed. “Maribel, Grandma lived to 98. Maybe you’re worrying too much.”
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.”
