I FOUND BUTTER ON THE COUNTER—AND IT MELTED MORE THAN I EXPECTED

My husband insists butter belongs on the counter.
“That’s how Grandma Selma did it,” he says, like it’s gospel.

But I couldn’t stop wondering—is that even safe?

The first time I saw it, that pale yellow block perched on a chipped floral dish by the toaster, it looked innocent enough. But as it softened into a glossy puddle under the afternoon sun, my stomach twisted.

Braden was in the garage, tinkering with his vintage bike. He’s the kind of man who treats rules as suggestions.
“Braden,” I called, “did you leave the butter out?”
Without looking up: “Of course, Maribel. Grandma Selma always did. It’s fine.”

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