I Embezzled from the Coffee Fund for Years
I have worked at this marketing firm for twelve years now. When I started, I was fresh out of college, excited to have a real job with a desk and a name tag. I actually cared about this place back then. I cared about the people, the little things, even the breakroom. We had this group fund for coffee and tea. Everyone who wanted good coffee instead of the gross stuff from the vending machine paid five dollars a month into it. It wasn't a lot of money, but it added up. We used it to buy decent coffee, milk, sugar, the kind of stuff that made the mornings a little better. Our manager at the time, a woman named Denise, used to handle the fund. She kept a little notebook in the cabinet above the sink and wrote down what we spent. When Denise left the company, nobody really talked about who would take over the coffee fund. I just sort of ended up with it because I was always the first one in the office. I would unlock the breakroom, start the coffee maker, and set up for the day. It felt natural that I would hold onto the cash box too. At first, I swear I didn't plan to do anything bad. There was one week where I was really short on cash. Rent had just gone up and my paycheck didn't stretch far enough. I remember standing in the breakroom, looking at that little metal cash box, and thinking, I'll just borrow five dollars for lunch. I told myself I would put it back on payday. I did not put it back. Nobody noticed, nobody asked, and the five dollars just sort of disappeared into my pocket and my guilt. That should have been the end of it. But a few weeks later, I needed gas money. Then I needed money for a late phone bill. Each time I told myself it was the last time. Each time, nothing happened. No one checked the books. No one asked for a receipt. The cash box just sat there, trusting me, and I kept dipping into it. Eventually I got smarter about hiding it, which is a messed up thing to admit. I made a spreadsheet on my laptop that showed fancy names for coffee and fake prices for milk and sugar. I would write things like "specialty blend coffee beans" or "organic creamer" and put down numbers that looked normal for those kinds of purchases. In reality, I was buying the cheapest canister of coffee from the grocery store and the cheapest powdered creamer I could find. The difference between what I said I spent and what I actually spent went straight into my own wallet. Over time, this became a habit, like brushing my teeth or checking my phone in the morning. I didn't even think about it as stealing anymore. It just became part of my routine. Buy cheap stuff, write expensive numbers, pocket the rest. Over ten years, it added up to almost fifteen thousand dollars. When I actually did the math on this in my head, it made me feel sick, but I kept doing it anyway. I used that money on dumb stuff too. Car insurance payments when I was behind. A bunch of streaming apps and subscriptions I barely used. More wine than I want to admit, because honestly, work stress got to me and a glass of wine after a long day felt like the only thing keeping me sane. None of it was anything special. It wasn't like I bought a car or went on a vacation. It just melted into my regular life, little bits here and there, keeping me afloat while I quietly drained the coffee fund. The wild part is nobody ever suspected me. I think it's because I play the part so well. I'm the guy who always makes a fresh pot of coffee in the morning. I wipe down the counters. I take out the trash when the bin by the sink gets full. People actually compliment me on keeping the breakroom clean. Someone even said once, "Thank God we have you, otherwise this place would be a disaster." I smiled and said something like, "No problem, happy to help," while knowing exactly what I had done with their money. When people complain about the coffee being bad, and they do complain a lot, I just nod along and agree with them. I'll say something like, "Yeah, I don't know why management won't spring for better beans," even though I know it's because I'm pocketing the difference. It's a strange kind of guilt that sits in my chest every time I say that. I feel like a liar standing right in front of them, but I still say it anyway because it keeps the attention off of me. There were moments over the years where I got nervous. Once, a coworker named Marcus asked if he could see the spreadsheet, just out of curiosity, because he wanted to know how much the coffee cost each month. My heart dropped into my stomach. I told him I would email it to him later, then I spent that whole night tweaking numbers to make sure nothing looked weird. The next day I gave him a printed copy instead of the actual file, and he barely looked at it before saying "cool, thanks" and walking away. I remember feeling like I had just dodged a bullet, and I promised myself I would stop taking money after that. I didn't stop. The breakroom itself is nothing fancy. It has old linoleum floors, a small round table with four mismatched chairs, and a window that looks out over the parking lot. The coffee maker sits on a counter next to a little fridge that always smells like someone's forgotten lunch. The cash box lives in a drawer under the sink, hidden behind some old dish towels. It's such a plain, boring looking place for so much guilt to be hiding in it. Some nights I lay awake thinking about what would happen if someone finally checked the real math. I imagine HR calling me into a room, laying out the spreadsheet next to actual receipts, and asking me to explain the difference. I picture the shocked faces of my coworkers, the people who trusted me with their five dollars a month because I seemed like such a nice, responsible guy. The thought alone makes my stomach twist. I know I could have just asked for a raise instead of doing any of this. I had opportunities. There were performance reviews where I probably deserved more money and didn't get it. Instead of fighting for that, I found an easier way to get money, even if it meant stealing from the people I worked with every day. It became a habit that was hard to stop, almost like an addiction. The easy money blinded me to how wrong it was, even though deep down, I always knew. Now I'm planning to quit soon. The job doesn't excite me anymore, and honestly, the guilt has been eating away at me more over the past year. I keep thinking about what happens when I leave and someone finally goes through the files. I've thought about deleting everything on my laptop and just saying it crashed, blaming some fake glitch so nobody can trace the real numbers. It feels like a coward's way out, but I don't know what else to do. I don't think I'm brave enough to confess. The truth is, the guilt is real. It keeps me up at night sometimes. But it's not enough to make me pay the money back. I know that makes me sound like a terrible person, and maybe I am. I didn't plan to become this version of myself twelve years ago when I walked into this office for the first time. I just became someone who saw an opportunity and kept taking it, year after year, cup of coffee after cup of coffee. I am just a person who stole from his coworkers because I was greedy and wanted easy money, and now I have to live with that.