It began like any other annoying thing that happens in an office: little, constant, and annoying. My oat milk started going missing from the fridge that everyone used. At first, I thought that someone had taken it by mistake. I even looked at the label again to be sure my name was clear. It was. Bold, clear, and written in permanent marker. But it kept happening every day. By midday, a full container in the morning would be half-empty. Some days it was gone totally.
I don’t simply like oat milk; I need it. I can’t eat dairy at all. I can’t enjoy coffee, cereal, or even a simple snack with milk if I don’t have it. I had gotten used to having a cup of coffee with oat milk every day. It was a minor comfort that helped me get through long, often stressful workdays. I wasn’t only annoyed when it started to go away. I felt like someone was taking advantage of me while hiding behind the anonymity of a shared fridge.
I left nice remarks on post-it notes. “Please don’t use this; it could cause an allergy.” I tried putting it in the back of the fridge, behind the soup cans and old yogurts. But nothing worked. I was sick of this bizarre, small larceny after two weeks.
At that point, I had the notion.
If someone was going to continually take my oat milk, maybe they should have a taste of justice, literally. I took an empty oat milk carton, washed it well, and then filled it with a mix of baking soda and toothpaste. It wasn’t dangerous, 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 had a strange sense of victory, like I had finally gotten the upper hand.
The next morning, I sat at my desk and watched the fridge, waiting for someone to fall for my trap. But what really transpired was nothing like what I thought it would be.
A few hours into the day, I heard real, stomach-turning coughing and choking coming from the break room, not the fake sort. I ran over, both excited and curious, only to find Clara bent over the sink with a red face and tears in her eyes.
Clara, the new hire who doesn’t talk much. The one who hardly talked in meetings and always looked like she had just run a marathon before work. The one that folks quietly said was taking care of her younger brother by herself. The last person I thought about.
My gut felt like it was made of lead.
She rinsed her mouth out over and over again, and when she finally stood up, she looked more embarrassed than anything else. I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t move; my own shame was worse than any toothpaste could ever be. I assumed the “milk thief” was an arrogant, rude coworker who didn’t care about my allergy label and felt it was simply a recommendation. I never thought it could be someone like Clara.
I saw her in the copy room later that day. As usual, she was staying to herself and had her head down. I paused before speaking because I didn’t know how to fix what I’d done. She stiffened when I walked up to her, but she didn’t look up. Before I could say anything, she said, “I’m sorry.” “I just… I couldn’t buy groceries this week.” I didn’t think a splash would matter.
It hit me in the chest like a punch.
She didn’t accept the oat milk because she was thoughtless or thought she deserved it. She didn’t think it would affect anyone; it was just a splash to make her coffee lighter. A little treat in a week when she could barely afford to eat. And here I was, using toothpaste and embarrassment to retaliate, all because I hadn’t thought about the fact that the person who took the milk might have been having a hard time.
I told her I was sorry, and I meant it. Not just for the prank, but also for not seeing her. I asked her if she wanted to go to lunch with me, and after some thought, she said yes. That lunch became a regular thing. We would dine together once or twice a week, generally something easy. A sandwich. Soup. The quiet spaces were filled with talk over time. They talked about life, her brother, and how hard it was to pay bills and buy groceries while attempting to build a future. She told me that she occasionally skipped meals so that her brother wouldn’t have to. She used to be embarrassed to ask for help, but then she stopped asking for it altogether.
And I shared things too, not because I felt sorry for them, but because I felt connected to them. We talked about our families, the little fights we had to have to remain alive, and how the world often seemed to reward mean people more than nice ones. Our lunches turned into more than just meals; they were times when we could trust each other.
After that, the oat milk was never lost again. Not because I scared someone off, but because the genuine problem had been seen and treated with kindness instead of judgment.
I see now how simple it is to allow little things to make you frustrated and how that anger may make you blind to someone else’s silent pain. We think we have a good reason to be annoyed, but sometimes the tale we don’t know is bigger than the one we think we know.
The lesson I learned had nothing to do with milk made from oats. It was about respect. About how people deal with shame without talking about it. And how one act of understanding can turn anger into something much more helpful.
It turns out that being kind doesn’t just make the world a little nicer; it also makes us better.