My husband, Braden, insisted on keeping butter on the counter—“just like Grandma Selma did.” But to me, a puddle of soft butter in a chipped dish felt unsanitary. I worried about bacteria, while he clung to the comfort of a childhood memory. When I questioned him, he brushed it off. Then I learned he’d told his sister Clarissa, who made passive-aggressive posts online. That betrayal stung more than the butter debate.

I confronted him, and he finally admitted: keeping butter out made him feel close to Grandma Selma, who helped raise him. I softened. It wasn’t about butter—it was about connection. We agreed on a compromise: store the butter in a covered crock for two days max.