My mother-in-law stayed the night. Early in the morning, she barged into our bedroom shouting, “Get up, Emily! Have you seen whats happening in your kitchen?” I leapt out of bed, still in my pyjamas, heart pounding like mad. I dashed down the hallway, grabbing an old dressing gown on the way, sniffing the airwas something burning? Had I left the gas on? My mind raced with disaster scenarios: flames licking the walls, pots exploding, some other catastrophe. I rushed into the kitchen only to find cockroaches. A whole army of brown pests scurrying across the table, the plates, the remnants of last nights dinner, which Id been too tired to clear away. My mother-in-law, Margaret Wilkins, stood there with her hands on her hips, glaring at me as if Id deliberately bred the insects to shock her.
“Emily, is it always like this here?” she began, her voice trembling with anger. “How can you live like this? Youve got children, a husband, and yet your kitchens crawling with roaches like some run-down shed!” I stood there, stunned, not knowing what to say. Fine, I hadnt cleaned up last nightId barely dragged myself home from work. The kids were crying, my husband, James, was muttering about football, and all I wanted was to collapse into bed. Whod have thought those wretched bugs would pick tonight to stage an invasion? And where had they even come from? We dont live in some derelict hovelweve got a proper flat, everythings tidy. Well, mostly tidy.
Margaret, of course, wasnt finished. “In my day,” she said, “this would never have happened! Id have cleaned every inch, not left so much as a crumb. And you? Young people today are just lazy, glued to their phones!” I bit my tongue, swallowing my frustrationwhat could I say? She wasnt just a mother-in-law; she was a general in an apron, and kitchen cleanliness was a matter of honour. And Id apparently failed her. I scrambled to scrub everything: grabbing a cloth, wiping out the roaches, scouring the table, the plates, anything within reach. Margaret hovered over my shoulder, critiquing: “Missed a spot there! Whats this stain? Do you ever clean the tiles?” I nearly snapped but held back. I thought, *Come on, Margaret Wilkins, youre no saintyou mustve left crumbs sometimes too!* But I stayed quietarguing with her was pointless.
While I was battling the roaches, James finally dragged himself out of bed. He wandered into the kitchen, took one look at the chaos, and instead of helping, just smirked: “Emily, starting a zoo in here?” I shot him a look that shut him up instantly, and he slunk off to make tea. Margaret just shook her head. “See, even your husbands no help. If I didnt keep my son in check, hed be completely spoiled!” Here we go, I thoughtnow shed lecture me on raising men. Sure enough, she sat at the now-sparkling table and started: “In my day, men were kept in line. You lot give them too much freedomno wonder youve got roaches in the kitchen and him laughing about it!”
I listened, but all I could think was: *How do I survive until she goes home?* Not that I disliked Margaretshe meant wellbut her constant attacks This wasnt just about roaches; it was proof, in her eyes, that I was a bad housewife, a bad wife, maybe even a bad mother. I scrubbed, wiped, polished, yet she still found faulta fork out of place, a knife not rinsed properly. I wasnt made of steel! I had two kids, a job, always running around like a headless chickenand now roaches had decided to throw a party. And where had they come from? Probably the neighboursold pipes, a damp basement, perfect for pests.
Finally, I finished. The kitchen gleamed like a detergent ad. Margaret seemed to calm down a bit, but still muttered, “Youve got to keep on top of things, Emily. This is your home, your family. If you dont, who will?” I nodded, forcing a smile, while screaming inside: *Leave me alone!* James, seeing my state, finally stepped in, taking his mum out for a walk so I could breathe. I slumped at the table, staring at the spotless kitchen, wondering: *Am I really that bad at this? Maybe Margarets rightmaybe Im doing something wrong.* But then I remembereda family isnt about a perfect kitchen, and love isnt just shiny plates.
