I smiled. We’d found middle ground.
Until Elsbeth—my mother-in-law—called that evening.
She sounded upset. Clarissa had told her I was throwing out Braden’s heirlooms and trying to change him.
“It’s not true,” I said, stunned. “It was just about butter.”
When she arrived, she walked straight to the kitchen. Her eyes landed on the butter crock.
“That’s Grandma Selma’s dish,” she said softly, tracing the faded roses. “I gave it to Braden when he moved out.”
My cheeks burned. I’d thought it was a thrift store find.
Elsbeth turned to me, kind but firm.
“He lost so much when his parents split. That dish is comfort. I get the food safety thing—but maybe we keep it on the counter empty, as a keepsake, and store the butter in the fridge?”
Tears welled up. It was such a simple, beautiful solution.
Braden came home mid-tea. His face went pale seeing his mom.
“Mom, what are you doing here?”
She explained the compromise. He looked at both of us, then softened.
“I wish I’d told you sooner what that dish meant to me.”
That night, we sat in the kitchen, eating buttery toast from fridge-stored butter while the old dish sat nearby—empty, but honored. We talked about Grandma Selma. Her cinnamon toast. Her folk songs. Her porch light superstitions.
For the first time, I felt like I truly understood the man I married.
Weeks passed. The butter debate became a running joke. We’d nudge each other if one of us forgot to refrigerate it. Silly, yes—but it reminded us how small things can reveal deeper truths.
One afternoon, Braden came home with a framed photo of Grandma Selma. He placed it next to the dish.
“This way, she’s here with us every day.”
I hugged him tight.
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