There it was. I turned around — and there it was, on the carpet. No. No way.
I looked twice. Three times. Four times. We made eye contact.
With a shriek of "Die! Die! Die!" I sprayed it until the roach was dripping with bug spray.
It ran anyway.
The commotion woke my mother. She shuffled out to see what was happening.
"A roach! A roach! A roach! Grandma! Get it, get it, get it! P-p-p-please!" I screamed.
The thing — soaked in spray and still thrashing — she said, "Got it with some tissue," and flushed it straight down the toilet.
That night, my 91-year-old mother looked like a hero to me.