One evening, my mother-in-law stayed the night. At the crack of dawn, she burst into our bedroom with a shriek: “Margaret, get up! Have you seen whats happening in your kitchen?” I leapt from the bed, still in my nightgown, heart pounding like a runaway horse. Sprinting down the hallway, I grabbed an old dressing gown, sniffing the airwas something burning? Had I left the gas on? My mind raced with terrible visions: flames licking the walls, pots exploding, some dreadful disaster. But when I reached the kitchenthere they were. Cockroaches. A whole swarm of the wretched things, scurrying across the table, the plates, the remains of last nights supper, which Id been too tired to clear away.
My mother-in-law, Eleanor Whitmore, stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at me as if Id personally bred the creatures just to spite her.
“Margaret, is it always like this?” she began, her voice trembling with outrage. “How can you live like this? Youve got children, a husbandand your kitchens infested like some filthy pub back room!” I stood there, struck dumb, not knowing what to say. True, I hadnt tidied upafter work, I could barely drag my feet. The children had been crying, my husband, William, muttering about football, and all Id wanted was to collapse into bed. Who couldve guessed those blasted roaches would choose that very night to stage their grand parade? And where had they come from, anyway? We didnt live in some derelict hovelwe had a proper home, everything in order. Well, mostly in order.
Eleanor, of course, wasnt finished. “In my day,” she sniffed, “such a thing would never have happened! I washed, scrubbed, left not a crumb behind. And you? The youth today are lazy, glued to their gadgets!” I swallowed my retortwhat could I say? She wasnt just a mother-in-law; she was a general in petticoats, and kitchen order was her battlefield. And I, it seemed, had disappointed her. Frantic, I grabbed a cloth, swiped at the roaches, wiped down the table, the plateseverything in sight. Eleanor hovered, pointing out every missed spot: “You didnt get there! And whats this stain? Have you ever scrubbed a counter in your life?” I bit my tongue to keep from snapping. Surely even Eleanor Whitmore had left a crumb or two in her time! But I held my peacearguing with her was pointless.
Meanwhile, William finally dragged himself from bed. He ambled into the kitchen, took in the chaos, and instead of helping, just grinned. “Margaret, starting a zoo, are we?” I shot him a look that shut him up at once, and he slunk off to make tea. Eleanor clucked in disapproval. “See? Your husbands no better. If I didnt keep my son in line, hed be spoiled rotten!” Here it comes, I thoughtanother lecture on proper wifely discipline. And sure enough, she sat at the now-spotless table and launched in: “In my day, men were kept in their place. You young ones give them too much freedomno wonder youve got roaches in the kitchen while they laugh!”
I listened, but my only thought was: How do I survive until evening when Eleanor leaves? Not that I disliked hershe meant wellbut these attacks! It wasnt just the roaches; to her, they were proof I was a poor housewife, a poor wife, perhaps even a poor mother. So I scrubbed, polished, scraped, and still, she found faulta fork out of place, a knife not properly cleaned. But I wasnt made of iron! Two children, a job, running about like a squirrel in a wheeland now roaches holding a ball. And where had they come from? The neighbours? The pipes in this building were ancient, the cellar dampno doubt theyd crept in from there.
At last, the cleaning was done. The kitchen gleamed like something from a detergent advert. Eleanor seemed slightly appeased but still muttered, “You must keep order, Margaret. This is your home, your family. If not you, then who?” I nodded, forced a smile, while inside I screamed, Leave me be! William, sensing my mood, finally stepped in, taking his mother out for a walk so I could breathe. I sank into a chair, staring at the immaculate kitchen, wondering: Was I truly such a dreadful housekeeper? Maybe Eleanor was rightmaybe I was doing it all wrong.
But then I remembereda home wasnt just a spotless kitchen, and love wasnt measured in gleaming plates.
