My name is Rachel Nguyen, and five months ago I was living in what felt like a nightmare I couldn't wake up from.
It happened at 11:43 PM.
I went into the kitchen to grab a glass of water. I didn't even turn on the overhead light — just the little one over the stove.
…and something small and brown darted off the counter and disappeared behind the toaster.
I froze.
My heart slammed into my chest.
Then I heard it: scratching. Tiny claws on the inside of the wall, right behind the stove.
I pulled the toaster forward.
Droppings. Everywhere. Scattered across the counter where I'd been making my kids' sandwiches that afternoon.
I opened the pantry.
A bag of rice had been chewed through from the bottom. Tiny teeth marks in the corner of a cereal box. Black pellets mixed in with the crumbs on the shelf.
My daughter had been eating cereal from that box all week.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to cry. I did both.
My safe place — the room where I feed my family — suddenly felt contaminated.
I started avoiding the kitchen after dark because I couldn't stand hearing them.
Every night, it was the same thing:
Scratching inside the walls behind the stove. Scurrying under the fridge when I turned on the light. Tiny droppings on the counters where I prepare food for my children.
I was disgusted. Humiliated. Exhausted.
My mother-in-law stopped eating at our house.
My sister whispered, "Maybe you should deep clean more often," even though I was sanitizing the kitchen twice a day.
And every time I found fresh droppings on my counter — the counter where my kids eat breakfast — I felt my stomach turn.