My name is Priya, I’m 34 years old, and I live in Fremont, California. I bring a homemade lunch to work every day. Not because I’m trying to be virtuous or frugal in a dramatic way, but because it’s easier, healthier, and honestly comforting. Cooking is one of the few routines that makes my mornings feel grounded. That’s apparently hilarious to my coworker, Jason. Jason orders food every single day.
Expensive takeout, delivered to his desk, complete with commentary. The first time he saw my lunch—leftover curry in a glass container—he wrinkled his nose and said, “Wow, you really commit to the whole meal prep life, huh?” People laughed. I smiled politely and kept eating. After that, it became a running joke. “What’s on the menu today?” “Is that from last week?” “You know we have restaurants, right?” He said it loudly, always when others were around. Never cruel enough to report. Just enough to sting. I didn’t engage. I figured ignoring him was the mature thing to do. Then karma showed up—cold, immediate, and very public. One Monday, Jason ordered his usual lunch from a popular delivery app. The office was busy, meetings stacked back-to-back.
When noon hit, he kept refreshing the app, growing more irritated by the minute. Finally, the notification came: Delivered. But there was no food. He stormed down to the lobby, then back up, insisting the delivery driver must have stolen it. He complained loudly about incompetence, about customer service, about how he was “starving.”
Meanwhile, I opened my lunch.
Jason glanced over and scoffed, “Must be nice to have backup rations.”
Ten minutes later, an email went out to the entire floor.
Facilities politely explained that food left unattended in the lobby over the weekend had been discarded due to a pest issue. Jason’s order—placed too early—had arrived hours before anyone was there to receive it.
No refund. No replacement.
The room went quiet.
Someone finally said, “Guess homemade lunch wins today.”
Jason didn’t laugh.
He spent the rest of the day hungry, irritable, and uncharacteristically silent. When afternoon meetings rolled around, his stomach growled audibly—more than once. No one commented, but no one helped either.
The next day, something unexpected happened.
Jason showed up with a lunch bag.
He didn’t say anything about it. He just sat down and ate. No jokes. No commentary. When he caught me looking, he shrugged and said, “Delivery screwed me yesterday.”
That was it.
He hasn’t mocked my lunch since.
I didn’t get an apology. I didn’t need one. Watching someone learn—quietly—that the thing they mocked was actually a strength felt satisfying enough.
Sometimes karma doesn’t need to be dramatic.
Sometimes it just needs to skip your lunch order and let reality do the talking.
