My lactose-intolerant roommate came out of the bathroom looking like he’d survived a natural disaster, pointed a trembling finger at me, and screamed, “You poisoned me!” I was standing in the kitchen holding a carton of milk, and all I could think was that after eleven months of missing groceries, empty containers, and being called a liar, he had finally admitted something without realizing it.
Chapter 2
Reginald’s face changed from pale to bright red.
“Don’t turn this around on me,” he snapped. “You knew I couldn’t drink regular milk.”
I set my lunch bag on the counter.
“Then why did you drink something with my name written on it?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked toward Daniel.
“Are you hearing this? He deliberately made me sick.”
Daniel looked troubled.
“Michael, what exactly did you do?”
I told him.
There was no point lying, especially after spending months complaining about someone doing precisely that.
“I bought regular milk and put it in my old container,” I admitted. “I wanted to prove Reginald was taking it.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
“Man, that wasn’t smart.”
Reginald pointed at him triumphantly.
“See? Even he knows!”
“But,” Daniel continued, turning toward Reginald, “you’ve been telling us for months you weren’t touching our groceries.”
Reginald looked away.
“Maybe I used a little milk now and then.”
“A little?” I asked.
“Sometimes I made protein shakes. Big deal.”
“How often?”
He shrugged.
“I don’t keep track.”
Daniel stared at him.
“Did you eat my barbecue?”
Reginald rolled his eyes.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“Did you?”
“Fine! Yes, I ate some barbecue. It was sitting in the refrigerator.”
“It was in a container with my name on it.”
“You’re acting like I stole your car.”
I looked at the man I’d once considered a friend.
“Nobody’s saying groceries are more important than people, Reg. But you’ve been lying to us for almost a year.”
He laughed bitterly.
“And you put something in my food knowing it would make me sick. That’s worse.”
There was enough truth in that accusation to make me uncomfortable.
I wanted to defend myself, but I couldn’t deny that I’d intentionally created a situation where he might become ill. His stealing didn’t give me the right to gamble with his health.
“You’re right about one thing,” I said. “I shouldn’t have switched the milk without changing the label.”
Reginald looked momentarily surprised.
“But you also need to admit what you’ve been doing,” I continued. “You could have asked for a glass of almond milk anytime. Instead, you took it and then made us feel foolish for noticing.”
He folded his arms.
“I don’t owe you anything.”
Daniel gave a short, humorless laugh.
“That right there is the problem.”
Reginald turned on him.
“What side are you on?”
“There shouldn’t be sides. We’re roommates, not enemies.”
“Well, Michael’s trying to poison me.”
“Regular milk isn’t poison,” Daniel replied, “but knowing it would make you sick and leaving it in a misleading container was wrong. And stealing groceries is wrong too.”
I appreciated his honesty, even though it stung.
Reginald wasn’t interested in a balanced conversation.
He continued shouting until a neighbor knocked on our door and asked whether everything was all right.
That evening, Daniel and I sat in his bedroom discussing our options.
“We can’t keep living like this,” he said.
“I know.”
“Reg’s already talking about getting you kicked out.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“He came to me while you were taking a shower. Said we should tell the landlord you’re dangerous and demand that you leave.”
I stared at him.
“After everything he’s done?”
Daniel nodded.
“He thinks if he can make this about the milk, nobody will care about the stealing.”
I sat quietly for a moment.
“Maybe he’s right about one thing. What I did was reckless.”
“Yeah,” Daniel said. “It was. But he doesn’t get to rewrite the whole year.”
We decided to speak with our landlord.
The following Monday, Mrs. Whitaker met us in the apartment lobby.
She was a retired school administrator who owned several rental properties with her husband. She had silver hair, sharp blue eyes, and very little patience for grown adults behaving like children.
“So,” she said, opening her notebook, “I understand there’s a dispute about food.”
Reginald immediately began talking.
“Michael deliberately gave me dairy milk even though he knows I’m lactose intolerant. I could’ve ended up in the hospital.”
Mrs. Whitaker turned toward me.
“Is that true?”
“I put regular milk in a container that used to hold almond milk,” I admitted. “I shouldn’t have done that. But it was my own container, on my shelf, and Reginald had been taking my groceries without permission.”
She looked at Reginald.
“Did you take his milk?”
He hesitated.
“Occasionally.”
“And deny doing it?”
He shifted in his chair.
“I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
Mrs. Whitaker closed her notebook.
“Then all three of you have handled this badly.”
Reginald started protesting.
She raised one hand.
“I’m not finished. Food allergies and intolerances are serious matters. Nobody should deliberately mislabel food in a shared household. And nobody should help himself to another tenant’s groceries and then lie about it.”
She looked at me.
“You understand why your decision was dangerous?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Don’t do it again.”
Then she faced Reginald.
“And you will stop taking food that doesn’t belong to you. If you want something, ask permission.”
He stared at the floor.
Mrs. Whitaker continued.
“I’m not removing anyone from a lease over this argument. If one or more of you wants to move, we’ll discuss the proper arrangements. Until then, I expect everyone to behave like adults.”
After she left, Reginald disappeared into his bedroom.
For several days, the apartment was quiet.
I bought a small lockable refrigerator container and kept my milk inside. Daniel did the same with his meal-preparation containers.
It felt ridiculous.
We were three grown men living in a place where we had to lock up sandwich ingredients.
Then another problem surfaced.
I received a message from my bank saying my debit card had been used for an online grocery order I didn’t recognize.
The amount was $186.42.
I stared at the transaction.
The delivery address was our apartment.
I checked the date.
It had been placed while Daniel and I were at work.
I pulled up the digital receipt and found several items I hadn’t purchased: expensive protein powder, chicken breasts, sports drinks, and supplements.
They were all brands Reginald regularly bought.
My hands went cold.
I checked my previous statements.
Three smaller transactions appeared over the past two months, each connected to the same grocery delivery service. Together, they totaled more than four hundred dollars.
I remembered lending Reginald my phone one afternoon when his battery died. He’d said he needed to check a delivery confirmation, and I had handed it over without thinking.
The account was still signed in.
I showed Daniel the transactions.
He studied the receipts carefully.
“Michael, these are Reg’s groceries.”
“I know.”
“Did you ever give him permission to use your card?”
“No.”
Daniel looked toward the hallway.
“This isn’t just about milk anymore.”
We decided not to confront Reginald immediately.
Instead, I contacted my bank to report the unauthorized transactions and secure my account. The bank began reviewing the charges and advised me to preserve the receipts and account information.
I also contacted the grocery delivery company.
Their customer service representative confirmed that the orders had been placed through my account, but the delivery instructions listed another name.
Reginald Parker.
I sat back in my chair.
He hadn’t merely been taking food from our refrigerator.
He had been buying his own groceries with my money.
And he had been calling me crazy whenever I noticed things were missing.
