My roommate kept taking my food, then calmly insisted I was eating it and forgetting. When she finally told me I deserved to go hungry, I stopped confronting her and decided to find out just how far she’d go.
Kayla moved in in March.
At first, I thought we’d gotten lucky.
She paid her share of the bills on time, cleaned up after herself, and didn’t care that my schedule was completely different from hers.
I work late shifts.
Most nights, I get home at 11:00 P.M., sometimes at midnight.
By then, I don’t want to cook.
I want the food I made on Sunday.
That’s why I meal-prep.
Every Sunday, I portion out what I’ll need for the week.
I know exactly what’s in the refrigerator because I can’t afford to buy groceries twice.
By April, my food started disappearing.
Not everything.
Just the good things.
The Greek yogurt.
The rotisserie chicken I split into five containers.
The snacks I packed for work.
One week, $47 worth of food disappeared from a $110 grocery shop by Wednesday.
At first, I thought maybe I had miscounted.
Then, it happened again.
I asked Kayla about it at breakfast.
“I don’t touch your stuff.”
