It started out like any other bothersome thing that happens at work: little, consistent, and annoying. People in the house started taking my oat milk out of the fridge. I thought at first that someone had taken it by mistake. I even glanced at the label again to make sure it was evident that my name was on it. It was. Written in permanent marker, bold, and clear. But it kept happening every day. By noon, the container that was full in the morning would be half-empty. Some days it was completely gone.
I don’t just like oat milk; I need it. I can’t eat any dairy. Without milk, I can’t enjoy coffee, cereal, or even a simple snack. I was used to drinking a cup of coffee with oat milk every day. It was a small comfort that helped me get through long, often stressful days at work. It wasn’t only annoying when it started to go away. I felt like someone was taking advantage of me by hiding behind the fact that we all shared a fridge.
I wrote pleasant things on post-it notes. “Please don’t use this; it might make you sick.” I put it in the back of the fridge, behind the soup cans and old yogurts, but it didn’t work. But nothing worked. After two weeks, I was sick of this strange, little theft.
At that point, I had the idea.
If someone keeps taking my oat milk, maybe they should literally taste justice. I rinsed out an empty oat milk carton and then filled it with a mixture of baking soda and toothpaste. It wasn’t harmful, but it was strong enough to make people think twice about drinking it. I put it back in the fridge, where it always goes, with my name on it. I felt like I had finally won, which was bizarre.
The next morning, I sat at my computer and watched the fridge, hoping that someone would fall for my trap. But what truly happened was nothing like what I anticipated it would be.
A few hours into the day, I heard real coughing and choking coming from the break room, not the false kind. I raced over, both excited and intrigued, only to find Clara with a red face and tears in her eyes, leaning over the sink.
Clara, the new employee who doesn’t say anything. The person who hardly ever spoke up in meetings and always looked like they had just completed a marathon before work. The one that people quietly said was looking after her younger brother on her own. The last person I thought about.
My stomach felt like it was made of lead.
She kept rinsing her mouth out, and when she eventually stood up, she looked more embarrassed than anything else. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t move because my own guilt was greater than any toothpaste could ever be. I thought the “milk thief” was a rude, arrogant coworker who didn’t care about my allergy label and thought it was just a suggestion. I never believed it could be someone like Clara.
Later that day, I saw her in the copy room. She was, as usual, keeping to herself and looking down. I stopped before I spoke because I didn’t know how to fix what I had done. When I got up to her, she stiffened, but she didn’t look up. “I’m sorry,” she said before I could say anything. “I just… I couldn’t get groceries this week.” I didn’t think a splash would make a difference.
It hit me in the chest like a punch.
She didn’t take the oat milk because she was rude or thought she earned it. She thought it wouldn’t hurt anyone; it was just a splash to make her coffee lighter. A small gift once a week when she could hardly afford to eat. And here I was, using toothpaste and shame to get back at them, all because I hadn’t thought about how terrible it would have been for the person who took the milk.
I really meant it when I said I was sorry. Not only for the prank, but also for not seeing her. After thinking about it for a while, she answered yes when I asked her to lunch. That lunch became a normal thing. We would eat together once or twice a week, usually something simple. A sandwich. Soup. Over time, the calm places were filled with conversation.
They chatted about life, her brother, and how hard it was to pay bills and purchase food while trying to make a future. She told me that she sometimes didn’t eat so that her brother wouldn’t have to. She was too ashamed to ask for aid at first, but eventually she stopped asking for it.
I shared things with them too, not because I felt sorry for them, but because I felt like I knew them. We talked about our families, the small skirmishes we had to have to stay alive, and how it seemed like the world sometimes rewarded mean individuals more than pleasant ones. Our lunches became more than just meals; they were occasions when we could count on each other.
The oat milk was never lost again after that. Not because I scared someone away, but because the real problem was discovered and dealt with with kindness instead of judgment.
I know now how easy it is to let small things get you angry and how that anger may make you blind to someone else’s silent anguish. We think we have a solid cause to be angry, but sometimes the story we don’t know is bigger than the one we think we know.
The lesson I learnt had nothing to do with oat milk. It was about respect. About how people live with shame without saying anything. And how one act of understanding can change rage into something much more useful.
Being polite doesn’t just make the world a better place; it also makes us better people.
