Now it sat there, just a day or two past its printed date.
I hesitated. I opened it carefully. It smelled fine. The texture was thick and creamy. I tasted a spoonful—slightly tangy, but perfectly good. Trusting my judgment, I finished it, satisfied.
Just as I closed the fridge, I heard the front door open.
“You ate that yogurt?” my husband demanded, his voice already sharp.
“Yes,” I replied calmly. “It smelled and tasted fine. I checked it.”
He scoffed. “It expired days ago. You should’ve thrown it out.”
“Days?” I asked. I had thought maybe one. “How many?”
“Three or four,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I don’t want you eating spoiled dairy and getting sick. You always ruin things.”
The words stung more than they should have. He launched into a lecture about bacteria, irresponsibility, and food safety. He suggested I call the doctor, get blood work, and immediately clear out anything remotely questionable from the fridge.
I tried reasoning with him. I explained how expiration dates aren’t absolute, how refrigeration matters, how I’d used my senses. But he wasn’t listening.
“You always make excuses for sloppy habits,” he snapped. “You act like you’re so health-conscious, but then you do something reckless.”
That was the moment I realized this wasn’t about yogurt.
It was about tone. About control. About the subtle way he positioned himself as the authority and me as the careless one.
