My mother-in-law, Margaret Williams, stayed over last night. Bright and early, she barged into our bedroom with a shriek: “Get up, Emily! Have you seen the state of your kitchen?” I bolted upright, still in my pyjamas, heart pounding like a jackhammer. I dashed down the hallway, wrestling into my old dressing gown, sniffing the air for smoke—had I left the gas on? My mind conjured up a full-blown disaster: flames leaping from the hob, a saucepan exploding, or worse. When I flung open the kitchen door, there they were—cockroaches. A whole battalion of the little blighters, scampering over the table, the plates, the remnants of last night’s dinner I’d been too knackered to clear away. Margaret stood there, hands on hips, glaring at me as if I’d personally invited the critters just to spite her.
“Emily, is this how you live every day?” she demanded, voice sharp enough to slice bread. “How can you let this happen? You’ve got children, a husband, and yet your kitchen’s crawling like some derelict pub!” I stood there, struck dumb. Sure, I’d skipped tidying up—after work, I’d barely had the energy to drag myself to bed. The kids had been shrieking, my husband, James, had mumbled something about football, and all I’d wanted was to collapse. Who’d have thought the roaches would pick *that* night to throw a rave? And where had they even come from? We live in a perfectly decent flat, not some crumbling ruin. Well, mostly decent.
Margaret, of course, wasn’t done. “In my day,” she declared, “this would never happen! I scrubbed every inch after dinner, not a crumb left behind. And you? Young people nowadays are too busy glued to their phones!” I nodded, swallowing my pride—what could I say? She wasn’t just a mother-in-law; she was a drill sergeant in a cardigan, and kitchen hygiene was her hill to die on. And I’d failed. I launched into a frenzy of cleaning: swiping at roaches, scouring plates, wiping surfaces. Margaret hovered, critiquing: “You missed a spot! Is that grease on the hob? Do you ever clean properly?” I bit my tongue. *Oh, Margaret, you were never young? Never left a scrap on the counter?* But arguing was pointless.
Meanwhile, James finally staggered in, took one look at the chaos, and chuckled, “Blimey, Em, you running a zoo now?” I shot him a look that could curdle milk, and he wisely retreated to put the kettle on. Margaret shook her head. “See? Your husband’s no help. If I hadn’t raised my son right, he’d be a complete layabout!” Here we go, I thought—another lecture on how modern women spoil their men. Sure enough, she perched at the now-gleaming table and launched in: “Back in my day, men had discipline. Now you let them loaf about, and what do you get? Roaches in the kitchen and them laughing it off!”
All I could think was: *How many hours till she leaves?* Not that I dislike her—she’s lovely, really—but these surprise inspections? It’s not just roaches. To her, they’re proof I’m a slovenly wife, a hopeless homemaker, maybe even a neglectful mum. So I scrubbed and polished while she nitpicked: the spoons weren’t aligned, the knives still had water spots. I’m only human! Two kids, a job, spinning like a top—and now roaches throwing a house party. Where’d they even come from? The dodgy pipes? The damp basement?
Finally, the kitchen sparkled like a detergent ad. Margaret grudgingly relented, though she couldn’t resist a parting shot: “You must keep on top of things, Emily. This is your home, your family. If you don’t, who will?” I forced a smile while screaming inside: *Give it a rest!* James, sensing my frayed nerves, whisked his mum off for a walk so I could breathe. Sinking into a chair, I stared at the pristine kitchen and wondered: *Am I really that rubbish?* Maybe Margaret’s right. Then I remembered the endless laundry, packed lunches, school runs—I *am* trying. Maybe not 1950s standards, but trying. And the roaches? Well, it happens. I’d buy traps tomorrow. But good luck explaining that to Margaret.
When she returned, I’d calmed down. We had tea and sandwiches, even chatted properly. She shared stories of her early married days, the struggles she’d faced, and I felt a flicker of warmth for her. Still, I knew one thing: next time she visited, I’d triple-check the kitchen before bed. Because another morning of roaches and Margaret’s lectures might just finish me off.
