Last night, my mother-in-law stayed over. At the crack of dawn, she burst into our bedroom with a shriek: “Margaret, get up! Have you seen what’s happening in your kitchen?” I leapt out of bed, still in my nightdress, heart pounding like a runaway train. I sprinted down the hallway, tripping over an old dressing gown, sniffing the airwas something burning? Had I left the gas on? My mind raced with disaster: bricks aflame, pots exploding, some unspeakable calamity. I flung open the kitchen door and there they were cockroaches. A whole battalion of brown horrors scurrying under the table, over plates, through last nights leftoversthe ones Id been too exhausted to clear away. My mother-in-law, Beatrice Whitmore, stood arms akimbo, drilling me with a glare as if Id personally bred the creatures just to spite her.
“Margaret, is it always like this?” she began, her voice trembling with indignation. “How can you live like this? Youve got children, a husband, and your kitchens crawling like a barn!” I stood thunderstruck, speechless. Yes, Id left the messId barely dragged myself home from work. The kids were crying, my husband, Geoffrey, was muttering about football, and all Id wanted was to collapse into bed. Who knew the roaches would pick *this* night to stage their invasion? And where had they even come from? We dont live in some derelict hovelits a proper flat, everything tidy. Well, *mostly* tidy.
Beatrice, of course, wasnt finished. “In my day,” she declared, “this wouldnt have happened! Id have scrubbed every inch, not a crumb left behind. But you? Young people today are bone idle, glued to their phones!” I bit my tongue, swallowing a retort. She wasnt just a mother-in-lawshe was a general in an apron, and kitchen order was a matter of honour. Id failed her. Frantically, I set to work: grabbing a cloth, sweeping away roaches, wiping down surfaces. Beatrice loomed over my shoulder, critiquing: “Missed a spot! Whats this stain? Do you *ever* scrub the tiles?” I clenched my teeth, resisting the urge to snap. *Oh, Beatrice Whitmore, youre no saintI bet crumbs littered your table too!* But I stayed silent. Arguing with her was pointless.
Just as I was battling the roaches, Geoffrey finally stumbled in. He took one look at the chaos and smirked. “Margaret, opening a zoo, are we?” I shot him a glare that could melt steel, and he wisely shut up, shuffling off to make tea. Beatrice huffed. “See? Even your husbands no help. If I didnt keep my son in line, hed be utterly spoiled!” Here it was, I thoughtthe lecture on man-raising. Sure enough, she perched at the now-gleaming table and launched in: “Back in my day, men were kept in check. You lot coddle them, and what do you get? Roaches in the kitchen, and they just laugh!”
I nodded along, my mind screaming: *Just survive till she goes home!* Not that I disliked Beatriceshe meant wellbut these ambushes! The roaches werent just pests; they were proof I was a terrible homemaker, wife, maybe even mother. I scrubbed, polished, scraped, yet she still found faultsa fork out of place, a knife poorly washed. I wasnt made of iron! Two kids, a job, spinning like a squirrel in a wheel, and now roaches throwing a rave. Where had they come from? The neighbours? The pipes were ancient, the cellar dampprobably their hideout.
At last, the kitchen sparkled like a detergent advert. Beatrice seemed grudgingly satisfied but couldnt resist: “You must keep order, Margaret. This is your home, your family. If not you, who?” I smiled through gritted teeth while screaming inside: *Leave me be!* Geoffrey, sensing my fraying nerves, whisked his mother off for a walk so I could breathe. I slumped at the table, staring at the sterile perfection, wondering: *Am I really that bad?* Maybe Beatrice was right. Maybe I was failing. But then I remembereda family isnt a spotless kitchen, and love isnt just shiny plates.
