My mother-in-law, Margaret Williams, stayed over last night. First thing in the morning, she burst into our bedroom shouting, “Get up, Sophie! Have you seen what’s happening in your kitchen?!” I jumped out of bed, still in my PJs, heart pounding like mad. I rushed down the hallway, yanking on an old dressing gown, sniffing the air—was something burning? Had I left the gas on? My mind was already racing with disaster scenarios: flames shooting from the hob, a saucepan exploding, or something equally chaotic. When I reached the kitchen, there they were… cockroaches. A whole army of the wretched things scurrying across the table, over the plates, through the leftovers I’d been too knackered to put away last night. Margaret stood there, arms crossed, glaring at me like I’d personally invited the bugs in just to spite her.
“Sophie, is this how you normally live?” she demanded, her voice sharp with disapproval. “How can you stand this? You’ve got children, a husband, and yet your kitchen looks like something out of a student flat!” I stood there, completely gobsmacked, lost for words. Okay, fine, I hadn’t tidied up because I’d been dead on my feet after work. The kids had been shrieking, my husband, James, had been muttering about football, and all I’d wanted was to collapse into bed. Who’d have thought those ruddy roaches would pick *that* night to throw a party? And where had they even come from? It’s not like we live in some rundown place—our flat’s decent. Well, mostly.
Margaret, of course, wasn’t done. “In my day,” she sniffed, “this would never happen. I made sure everything was spotless after dinner—not a single crumb left behind. But you? Young people these days are too busy glued to their phones to lift a finger!” I just 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 to her, kitchen hygiene was a matter of pride. And I’d let her down. I scrambled to clean up, grabbing a cloth, sweeping away the roaches, scrubbing the table, the plates, anything within reach. Hovering over me, she kept pointing things out: “You missed a spot there! What’s this stain—do you ever clean the hob?” I bit my tongue to keep from snapping back. I thought, “Come off it, Margaret, you’re not perfect—you must’ve left a few crumbs lying around in your time!” But I kept quiet because arguing with her was pointless.
While I was battling the bugs, James finally dragged himself out of bed. He wandered into the kitchen, took one look at the circus, and instead of helping, just grinned: “Blimey, Soph, starting your own insect exhibit?” I shot him a look that could curdle milk, and he clammed up fast, scurrying off to put the kettle on. Margaret just shook her head. “See? This is what happens when you don’t keep your husband in line. If I hadn’t raised my son properly, he’d be utterly useless!” Oh brilliant, I thought, now we’re getting the lecture on husband-training. Sure enough, she plonked herself at the now-sparkling table and launched in: “Back in my day, men weren’t allowed to slack off. But you lot let them get away with anything—next thing you know, you’ve got roaches in the kitchen and them laughing about it!”
As I listened, all I could think was: *How do I survive till she goes home tonight?* Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike her—she’s a good woman—but these little attacks… It wasn’t just about the roaches. To her, they were proof I was a bad housewife, a bad partner, maybe even a bad mum. So there I was, scrubbing and polishing while she kept nitpicking—the spoon was in the wrong drawer, the knife hadn’t been washed properly. Like I wasn’t already stretched thin! Two kids, a job, running around like a headless chicken—and now the roaches had decided to throw a rave. And where *had* they come from? Maybe the neighbours? Our building’s got old pipes, a damp basement—they must’ve crawled up from there.
By the time I’d finished, the kitchen gleamed like something out of a detergent ad. Margaret seemed a bit mollified, but still couldn’t resist: “You’ve got to stay on top of things, Sophie. This is your home, your family. If you don’t take responsibility, who will?” I nodded, forcing a smile, while inside I was screaming, “*Just leave me alone!*” James, bless him, finally stepped in and whisked his mum off for a walk so I could catch my breath. I slumped at the table, staring at the immaculate kitchen, wondering: *Am I really that terrible at this?* Maybe Margaret was right. Maybe I *was* doing it all wrong. Then I remembered the mountain of washing, the school runs, the overtime—and I thought: *I’m trying.* Maybe not perfectly, maybe not like she did “back in her day,” but I *am* trying. And the roaches? Well, it happens to the best of us. I’d grab some traps tomorrow and sort it. But good luck explaining that to Margaret.
When she got back, I’d calmed down. I made tea, laid out some biscuits, and we even had a proper chat. She talked about her younger years, how she’d struggled with housework too, and I actually felt a flicker of warmth towards her. But deep down, I knew: next time she visited, I’d be checking that kitchen three times before bed. Because I *definitely* couldn’t handle another morning like that—roaches *and* a lecture? No thanks.
