We had my mother-in-law, Margaret Williams, staying the night. At the crack of dawn, she burst into our bedroom shouting, “Get up, Emily! Have you seen the state of your kitchen?” I sprang out of bed, still in my pyjamas, heart pounding like mad. I dashed down the hallway, pulling on an old dressing gown, sniffing the air—was something burning? Had I left the gas on? My mind raced with worst-case scenarios: flames licking the stove, a pan exploding, or some other disaster. When I reached the kitchen, there they were—cockroaches. A whole army of the vile creatures scurrying across the table, the plates, even the leftover dinner I’d been too lazy to clear away the night before. Margaret stood there, hands on hips, glaring at me as if I’d personally invited the insects in just to spite her.
“Emily, is this how you live every day?” she demanded, her voice sharp with disapproval. “How can you call this a home? You’ve got children, a husband, and yet your kitchen looks like something out of a student flat!” I stood there, stunned, not knowing what to say. Fine, I hadn’t tidied up—after work, I’d been exhausted. The kids had been screaming, my husband, James, had been muttering about football, and all I’d wanted was to collapse into bed. Who’d have thought those blasted cockroaches would pick that very night to stage an invasion? And where had they even come from? We lived in a decent flat, not some derelict building. Well, mostly decent.
Margaret, of course, wasn’t finished. “In my day,” she sniffed, “this would never have happened! I cleaned every inch after supper, left not a crumb behind. But you? Young people today are too lazy, always glued to their phones!” I nodded, swallowing my frustration, because what could I say? She wasn’t just any mother-in-law—she was a drill sergeant in a cardigan, and a messy kitchen was nothing short of a moral failing in her eyes. Me? I’d failed spectacularly. I scrambled to clean, wiping down surfaces, shooing roaches, scrubbing plates—anything within reach. Margaret hovered, nitpicking: “You missed a spot! Is that grease? Have you ever actually cleaned this oven?” I bit my tongue, thinking, *Come off it, Margaret, you were no saint either!* But arguing was pointless.
Just as I was deep in battle with the roaches, James finally shuffled in. He took one look at the chaos and chuckled, “Blimey, Em, starting a bug circus?” I shot him a glare that could melt steel, and he wisely shut up, shuffling off to put the kettle on. Margaret shook her head. “See? Even your husband hasn’t a clue. If I hadn’t raised my son right, he’d be utterly hopeless!” *Oh great*, I thought, *here comes the lecture on proper wifehood*. And sure enough, she sat at the now-spotless table and launched into it: “Back in my day, men were disciplined. But you lot spoil them rotten—cockroaches in the kitchen, and all they do is laugh!”
All I could think was: *Just survive until she leaves*. I didn’t hate her—she meant well—but her attacks weren’t just about roaches. To her, this was proof I was a terrible homemaker, a useless wife, maybe even a bad mum. So I scrubbed and polished while she kept fault-finding—a fork misplaced, a knife not washed well enough. But I wasn’t made of steel! Two kids, a job, running myself ragged—and now roaches throwing a rave in my kitchen. Where had they even come from? Maybe the neighbours? Our building was old, the basement damp—they must’ve crawled up.
By the time I finished, the kitchen gleamed like a detergent advert. Margaret seemed marginally pacified but still muttered, “You must keep on top of things, Emily. This is your home, your family. If you don’t care, who will?” I forced a smile, nodding, while inside I screamed, *Leave me alone!* James, sensing my fraying patience, finally stepped in, whisking his mother off for a walk so I could breathe. Sitting at the table, staring at the pristine kitchen, I wondered: *Am I really that bad? Maybe she’s right.* But then I remembered how hard I worked—kids, job, chores—and thought: *I’m trying. Maybe not perfectly, maybe not like they did ‘back then’, but I am.* And the roaches? Well, it happens. Tomorrow, I’d buy traps. But good luck explaining that to Margaret.
When she returned, I’d steadied myself. I made tea, sliced sandwiches, and we even chatted like normal people. She shared stories of her early days, her own struggles with housework, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of warmth. Still, I knew one thing: next time she visited, I’d triple-check the kitchen before bed. Because another morning like this—roaches, lectures, the whole circus—might just finish me off.
In the end, I realised: perfection isn’t the goal—balance is. You can’t please everyone, but you can do your best—and sometimes, that’s enough. Even if the roaches disagree.
