**Diary Entry**
Last night, my mother-in-law, Mary Smith, stayed over. First thing in the morning, she stormed into our bedroom shouting, “Get up, Emily! Have you seen the state of your kitchen?” I jolted out of bed in my pyjamas, heart hammering like mad. Sprinting down the hallway, I wrestled into my old dressing gown, sniffing the air—was something burning? Had I left the gas on? My mind raced with disaster scenarios: a flaming hob, an exploding saucepan, some sort of catastrophe. When I burst into the kitchen, there they were—cockroaches. A whole battalion of the wretched things darting across the table, over plates, through the remnants of last night’s dinner, which I’d been too tired to clear. Mary stood rigid, hands on hips, glaring at me as if I’d deliberately bred the insects to shock her.
“Emily, is this how you usually live?” she demanded, voice sharp with outrage. “How can you let things get like this? You’ve got children, a husband—and yet your kitchen’s crawling like some rundown shed!” I froze, thunderstruck, lost for words. Alright, I hadn’t cleaned up last night—I’d barely dragged myself home from work, the kids were shrieking, and my husband, James, kept muttering about football. All I’d wanted was to collapse into bed. Who’d have guessed those blasted roaches would pick *that* night to stage an invasion? And where had they even come from? We don’t live in a slum—it’s a decent flat. Well, mostly decent.
Mary, of course, wasn’t done. “In my day,” she sniffed, “this wouldn’t have happened. I scrubbed every dish, left not a crumb behind. But you? Young people today are bone idle, glued to your phones!” I nodded, swallowing my frustration. What could I say? She wasn’t just a mother-in-law—she was a drill sergeant in a cardigan, and a messy kitchen was a personal affront. Me? I’d failed. I hurled myself into cleaning: swiping roaches off the table, scouring plates, attacking every surface in sight. Mary loomed over me, critiquing: “You missed a spot! When was the last time you cleaned the oven?” I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to snap back. *Oh, come off it, Mary—surely even you left a crumb or two in your time!* But I kept quiet. Arguing was pointless.
Meanwhile, James finally staggered out of bed. He took one look at the chaos and chuckled, “Blimey, Em, starting a zoo?” The glare I shot him shut him up quick—he shuffled off to put the kettle on. Mary sighed. “See? Your husband’s no help. If I hadn’t raised my son right, he’d be downright useless!” Here we go, I thought—another lecture on how modern women spoil their men. Sure enough, she planted herself at the now-spotless table and launched in: “In my day, men had discipline. Now? You give them free rein, and what’s the result? Roaches in the kitchen, and they just laugh!”
All I could think was: *How soon till she leaves?* Not that I dislike her—she’s a good woman—but these ambushes! To her, the roaches weren’t just pests; they were proof I was a lousy housewife, a neglectful mum. So I scrubbed and polished while she nitpicked: “That spoon’s in the wrong drawer! This knife’s still greasy!” As if I weren’t run ragged already—two kids, a job, life spinning like a hamster wheel. And now *this*. Where had the roaches even come from? The neighbours? This building’s got old pipes, a damp cellar—probably their doing.
Eventually, the kitchen gleamed like a detergent advert. Mary simmered down, though she couldn’t resist a parting shot: “You must keep order, Emily. It’s your home, your family. If not you, who?” I forced a smile, screaming inside: *Just leave me alone!* James, sensing my mood, whisked her off for a walk so I could breathe. Sitting at the table, I stared at the immaculate room, wondering: *Am I really that hopeless? Maybe she’s right.* But then I remembered how hard I work—kids, job, chores—and thought: *I’m trying.* Maybe not perfectly, maybe not by her standards, but trying. The roaches? Well, it happens. I’ll buy traps, sort it. But good luck explaining that to Mary.
When she returned, I’d calmed down. I made tea, cut sandwiches, and we even had a civil chat. She reminisced about her younger years, her own battles with housework, and I felt a flicker of warmth for her. Still, I knew: next time she visits, I’ll triple-check the kitchen before bed. Because another morning like this—roaches, lectures, the lot—might just finish me off.
**Lesson learnt:** No matter how hard you try, someone will always find fault. But if the cockroaches don’t break you, the criticism won’t either.
