So, both families will be together at Cédric's birthday party. No, three, because Misha 's in the Haraldson clan now. We'll be celebrating the big event with a close family circle. I can just picture us sitting in the huge but rather cosy Morgan living room, drinking blood, chatting like cultured people and watching little Cedric run from wall to wall, and then everyone taking turns squeezing and kissing him on the cheeks. Boring.
All the Mroczeks are the same. Everyone thinks culture is paramount. Honour and dignity. My parents don't know I'm sleeping with mortals… Well, if the truth comes out, they'll be offended and surprised that their sweet daughter Maria has fallen so low. Sleeping with mortals! A disgrace!
I don't care! No one dares to tell me how to live my life! It seems that parents cannot get used to the fact that all their children, including Misha, left home and live as they please. It would seem enjoy life! Your mission to give birth and bring up five offspring you have fulfilled perfectly! But no. They call every week, interested in my affairs, invite me to visit. It is pleasant, on the one hand, but every time I feel myself under a glass hood, unnoticeable supervision of parental eye, and I absolutely do not want to share with them the secrets of my life.
***
That evening, after a delightful vanilla bubble bath, I sat down to work: two days earlier I'd been the lead photographer on a photo shoot for a Canadian millionaire's wife, who, painted like a Barbie doll, was striking awkward asexual poses and thinking she was a queen. Is the customer always, right? No, that's the rule of wimps. My rule allows me to make a selection as to whether I want to spend my time on this or that mortal or mortals. If they have potential – my camera is ready to shoot from morning till night, and then I can spend weeks, taking a break from my laptop only for hunting, to process the resulting images. And the Canadian fife became the object of my shooting only thanks to my personal competition with myself: whether I can turn this goose into a swan.
Alas, even my talent did not help this unsuccessful cause, and the silly goose turned into a painted duck in couture outfits. Tasteless and glamorous. However, I am always honest and do my work diligently and meticulously, so Mrs. My-Husband-Millionaire has nothing to complain about. A week later she received the coveted folder, from which she was delighted and almost squealed with happiness like a piglet. That very evening a tidy sum of money arrived in my bank account.