**Diary Entry**
Last night, my mother-in-law, Margaret Williams, stayed over. At the crack of dawn, she burst into our bedroom, shrieking, “Get up, Lucy! Have you seen the state of your kitchen?” I shot out of bed, still in my pyjamas, heart pounding like mad. I dashed down the hallway, tugging on my old dressing gown, sniffing the air—was something burning? Had I left the gas on? My mind raced with disaster scenarios: the hob ablaze, a saucepan exploding, or worse. But when I reached the kitchen—cockroaches. A whole swarm of the wretched things scuttling over the table, plates, and last night’s neglected leftovers. Margaret stood there, hands on hips, glaring at me like I’d deliberately bred the creatures just to appall her.
“Lucy, is this what passes for normal in your house?” Her voice practically quivered with outrage. “How can you live like this? You have children, a husband, and yet your kitchen resembles a pigsty!” I stood there, thunderstruck, speechless. Yes, I hadn’t cleaned up last night because I’d been dead on my feet after work. The kids had been screeching, my husband, David, muttering something about football, and all I’d wanted was to collapse into bed. Who’d have thought those cursed roaches would pick *that* night to stage an invasion? And where had they even come from? We don’t live in some derelict hovel—it’s a proper flat, respectable. Well, mostly respectable.
Margaret, of course, wasn’t done. “In my day,” she declared, “this would never have happened! I scrubbed every dish, left not a crumb behind. And you? Young people nowadays are bone idle, glued to their phones!” I nodded, swallowing my pride—what else could I say? She wasn’t just a mother-in-law; she was a drill sergeant in pearls. To her, kitchen hygiene was a matter of honour, and I’d failed miserably. I scrambled to clean, grabbing a cloth, swiping at roaches, scouring the table, the plates, anything within reach. She loomed over me, nitpicking: “You missed a spot! What’s this stain? You’ve never cleaned the hob properly, have you?” I bit my tongue, thinking, *Margaret, you’re not a saint—you must’ve left crumbs out once too!* But I kept quiet. Arguing with her was pointless.
While I waged war on the roaches, David finally dragged himself out of bed. He wandered into the kitchen, took in the chaos, and instead of helping, just laughed. “Blimey, Luce, you running a bug zoo now?” I shot him a look that could freeze hell over, and he wisely shut up, shuffling off to boil the kettle. Margaret shook her head. “See? Even your husband’s no help. If I hadn’t raised my son right, he’d be utterly useless!” I braced myself for the inevitable lecture on husband-training. Sure enough, she settled at the now-spotless table and launched in: “Back in my day, men were kept in line. You modern women give them too much freedom, and what do you get? Roaches in the kitchen and husbands laughing about it!”
As she prattled on, one thought consumed me: *Just survive till she goes home.* Not that I dislike her—she’s a decent woman—but these relentless attacks… It wasn’t just about roaches. To her, they were proof I was a slovenly wife, a hopeless homemaker, maybe even a bad mum. So I scrubbed and polished while she found fault with everything—a spoon out of place, a knife not washed well enough. But I’m only human! Two kids, a job, spinning like a hamster on a wheel, and now this roach rave. Where *had* they come from? Maybe the neighbours—this building’s pipes are ancient, the basement damp.
Finally, the kitchen gleamed like a detergent ad. Margaret simmered down slightly but still couldn’t resist: “You *must* keep on top of things, Lucy. This is your home, your family. If you don’t, who will?” I forced a smile, nodding, while screaming inside: *Leave me alone!* David, sensing my fraying nerves, finally stepped in, whisking his mother off for a walk so I could breathe. I slumped at the table, staring at the pristine kitchen, wondering: *Am I really that terrible at this? Maybe Margaret’s right. Maybe I’m failing.* Then I remembered how much I juggle—kids, work, the endless grind—and thought: *I’m trying. Maybe not perfectly, maybe not like she did, but I am.* And the roaches? Well, it happens. I’d buy traps tomorrow. But explaining that to Margaret? Impossible.
When she returned, I’d steadied myself. Tea was brewed, sandwiches sliced, and we even managed a civil chat. She reminisced about her younger years, the struggles she’d faced, and for a moment, I felt a flicker of warmth. But deep down, I knew: next time she visits, I’ll triple-check the kitchen before bed. Because another morning like this—roaches and lectures—might just finish me off.
