Last night, my mother-in-law stayed over. 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 in my pyjamas, heart pounding like mad. I dashed down the hallway, tripping over my old dressing gown, sniffing the airwas something burning? Had I left the gas on? My mind raced with disaster scenarios: flames licking the bricks, pots exploding, or worse. I rushed into the kitchen only to find cockroaches. A whole army of them, scurrying over the table, plates, and last nights leftoversthe ones Id been too tired to tidy away.
My mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, stood there with her hands on her hips, glaring as if Id personally bred the insects to torment her.
“Emily, is it always like this here?” she began, her voice trembling with indignation. “How can you live like this? Youve got children, a husband, and yet your kitchen looks like a barn!” I stood there, stunned, with no idea how to respond. Sure, Id left the messbut after work, I could barely drag my feet. The kids were whining, my husband, James, was muttering about football, and all I wanted was to collapse into bed. Whod have thought the roaches would pick *this* night to stage an invasion? And where on earth did they even come from? We live in a proper flat, not some rundown shack. Mostly tidy. Well, *usually* tidy.
Margaret, of course, wasnt finished. “In my day,” she snapped, “this would never happen! Id scrub every inch after dinner, not leave a single crumb. But you lot? Lazy, just glued to your phones!” I bit my tongue, swallowing a retortwhat could I say? She wasnt just my mother-in-law; she was a drill sergeant in an apron, and kitchen order was a matter of honour. And Id clearly failed.
I scrambled to clean: grabbed a cloth, swept the roaches away, wiped down the table, the plateseverything in reach. Margaret hovered, critiquing: “You missed a spot! Whats this stain? Do you *ever* scrub the tiles?” I clenched my teeth. *Honestly, Margaret, youre not a saintI bet crumbs sat on your table too sometimes!* But I stayed quiet. Arguing with her was pointless.
Meanwhile, James finally stumbled out of bed. He took one look at the chaos and smirked. “Em, you starting a zoo in here?” I shot him a look that shut him up fast, and he slunk off to make tea. Margaret tsked. “See? Even your husbands no help. If I didnt keep my son in line, hed be utterly spoiled!” Here we go, I thought. Now comes the lecture on raising men. Sure enough, she sat at the now-sparkling table and launched in: “Men were kept strict in my day. You lot give them too much freedomlook where it gets you! Roaches in the kitchen, and him *laughing*!”
I nodded along, but my only thought was: *How do I survive till she goes home?* Not that I dislike hershe means wellbut these attacks! Its not just about roaches. To her, theyre proof Im a bad homemaker, a bad wife, maybe even a bad mother. So I scrub and polish, and still she finds faulta fork out of place, a knife not clean enough. Im only human! Two kids, a job, running around like a headless chicken, and now roaches throwing a party. And whered they come from? The neighbours? This buildings olddamp basement, rusty pipestheyve probably been plotting this for weeks.
Finally, the kitchen gleamed like a detergent advert. Margaret seemed pacified, but still muttered, “You must keep order, Emily. This is your home, your family. If not you, who?” I smiled stiffly, screaming inside: *Just leave me alone!* James, sensing my frayed nerves, gently steered his mum out for a walk so I could breathe.
Alone, I slumped at the table, staring at the spotless kitchen. *Am I really that terrible?* Maybe Margarets rightmaybe Im doing it all wrong. But then I remember: a family isnt a perfect kitchen, and love isnt just shiny plates.
