One of the biggest shocks I had this year wasn’t the sound of my car scraping against another car, and the realisation that, in an absent moment, I’d gone straight into someone else’s lane instead of turning left. It was what happened next.

I pulled over and started vomiting apologies on to the driver of the ute I’d just scraped. I was sorry, it was completely my fault, I had no idea what I’d been thinking, or rather, I clearly hadn’t been thinking, at least not about the task at hand, and did I mention I was sorry?

I braced myself for an angry response but instead of unleashing a stream of abuse in return the ute driver asked me if I was OK – about as many times as I’d said sorry.

Perhaps this shouldn’t have surprised me; surely most people care more about other humans being OK than about their cars being OK, but not only was he genuinely concerned for my wellbeing, he had a genuine lack of concern for his ute.

Granted, the scraping had done more damage to my shattered side mirror than his sturdy flat tray but either way he didn’t seem bothered. He didn’t even want to swap numbers. I told him I couldn’t imagine a better person to run into and that he’d made my day; we parted ways laughing.

Perhaps part of the reason I found his response so shocking is my previous experience in this area. I’m embarrassed to admit that this wasn’t my first collision; I’ve had a few in my 20-plus years of driving and, in every other case, the part that shook me most wasn’t the collision (every one was at a ridiculously low speed) it was the other driver’s indignation.

None of the others seemed willing to accept, let alone assume, I’d hit them accidentally, preferring to treat my poor driving as a conscious decision to vandalise their property, albeit with limited success. The most striking example was the couple who, after I accidentally reversed into their car, told me they didn’t understand why I would do such a thing to pensioners. It was as if I had identified their car as one that belonged to pensioners then targeted it accordingly.

They didn’t seem to realise I was just a terrified student who lacked spatial awareness, they didn’t seem to notice my apologetic manner. In their eyes, I was the perpetrator.

But I was genuinely sorry. So sorry, in fact, that later that week I baked them a peace offering – they’d given me their address when we exchanged details – a recipe I’ve thought of as being for “pensioner cookies” ever since.

More than a decade later, in another local car park (Hobartians, beware), I managed to reverse into another unsuspecting car at extremely low speed. Neither I nor my “victim” could detect any damage but I gave her my details all the same. That afternoon I received a phone call from the police. The woman on the phone told me she was with the lady whose car I’d run into earlier that day. I assured her it was an accident but also asked if she had seen the damage, or lack thereof. No, she hadn’t got that far. She rang off to check the car and didn’t call back.

The ute encounter made me realise the extent to which those past experiences had rendered an understanding, sympathetic “victim” of my driving almost unimaginable. I had come to assume that all strangers would treat my mishaps as deliberate assaults.

I know, in theory, there are many kinds of drivers in this world, and that when it comes to probability, rolling two ones in a row doesn’t make rolling a third any more likely. Even so, the benefit of the doubt the ute driver gave me was not a possibility I’d dared to entertain.

I’ve since wondered what past experiences my other two “victims” might have had, on the road or off it, to take an accidental bump so personally.

I’ve also since wondered how different the world might be if more people responded to minor mishaps like that ute driver did. Instead of assuming the worst of a stranger, he assumed the best, if not in relation to my driving skills, at least in relation to my motives – or lack thereof. I’m reminded of Hanlon’s Razor: never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.

It’s not an original idea to give people the benefit of the doubt – there’s a sense in which it’s just another version of “doing-unto-others” – but timeless wisdom doesn’t date.

Of course, giving this gift means taking risks. Sometimes, we might extend the benefit of the doubt only to be disappointed; to find a person undeserving. But sometimes, more often than perhaps we might expect, the benefit will be warranted. In extending it, a person who’s been wronged can make another person’s day. And, who knows, the other person’s gratitude might just make theirs.

• Emma Wilkins is a Tasmanian journalist and freelance writer