My mother-in-law, Margaret Williams, stayed over last night. First thing in the morning, she barged into our bedroom shouting, “Get up, Emily! Have you seen what’s happening in your kitchen?” I leapt out of bed in my pyjamas, heart pounding like mad. I dashed down the hallway, tugging on an old dressing gown, sniffing the air—was something burning? Had I left the gas on? My mind raced with nightmare scenarios: flames leaping from the hob, a pot exploding, some domestic disaster. When I reached the kitchen, there they were… cockroaches. A whole army of the filthy things scuttling over the table, the plates, the leftovers I’d been too tired to clear away last night. Margaret stood there, hands on hips, glaring at me as if I’d personally bred the insects to offend her.
“Emily, is it always like this?” Her voice trembled with outrage. “How can you live like this? You’ve got children, a husband, and your kitchen’s crawling like some rundown pub!” I stood there, struck dumb. Sure, I hadn’t tidied up—I’d been dead on my feet after work. 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 the wretched roaches would pick that night to stage an invasion? And where had they even come from? We live in a decent flat, not some neglected hovel. Well, mostly decent.
Margaret, of course, wasn’t finished. “In my day,” she declared, “this would never have happened! I scrubbed everything after supper, not a crumb left behind. But you? Young people today are bone idle, glued to your phones!” I nodded, swallowing my pride. What could I say? She wasn’t just my mother-in-law—she was a drill sergeant in a floral dress. For her, a spotless kitchen was a matter of honour, and I’d failed. I threw myself into cleaning—grabbing a cloth, sweeping away the roaches, scouring the table, the dishes, anything in reach. Margaret hovered, critiquing every move. “You missed a spot there! What’s this stain? Do you ever clean the hob?” I bit my tongue. Part of me wanted to snap, “Come off it, Margaret—you’ve left crumbs too, surely!” But I stayed quiet. Arguing was pointless.
While I waged war on the roaches, James finally dragged himself out of bed. He wandered into the kitchen, took in the chaos, and instead of helping, just grinned. “Blimey, Em, starting a petting zoo?” I shot him a look that shut him up quick, and he slunk off to put the kettle on. Margaret sighed. “See? Your husband’s no better. If I hadn’t raised my son right, he’d be a complete layabout by now.” Here we go, I thought—another lecture on how to manage men. Sure enough, she sat at the now-gleaming table and launched in. “Back in my day, men had discipline. You lot let them run wild, and what do you get? Cockroaches and cheek!”
I listened, my only thought: How long till she goes home? Not that I dislike her—she’s a good woman—but these attacks… It wasn’t just about roaches. To her, they proved I was a bad wife, a bad housekeeper, maybe even a bad mother. So I scrubbed and polished, and still, she found faults. A spoon out of place, a knife not properly washed. I’m only human! Two kids, a job, spinning like a top—and now roaches throwing a rave. Where had they even come from? The neighbours? Our building’s old, the basement’s damp—they must’ve crept in.
Finally, the kitchen sparkled like a detergent ad. Margaret seemed slightly appeased but still couldn’t resist. “You’ve got to keep on top of things, Emily. This is your home, your family. If not you, who?” I nodded, forcing a smile, while screaming inside: Leave me alone! James, sensing my mood, finally stepped in, whisking his mum off for a walk so I could breathe. I collapsed at the table, staring at the immaculate kitchen. Was I really that hopeless? Maybe Margaret was right—maybe I was failing. But then I remembered: I juggle everything—kids, work, life. I’m trying. Maybe not perfectly, maybe not like “her day,” but I am. And roaches? Well, it happens. Tomorrow, I’ll buy traps. But try explaining that to Margaret.
When she returned from her walk, I’d calmed down. I made tea, sliced sandwiches, and we even had a civil chat. She reminisced about her younger years, her own battles with housework, 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 her tirades—might just finish me off.
