ROCKSTAR ⇒ jegulus

SEVENTEEN

Euphemia greets James with a warm, wholesome smile as he opens the door to her. "Hello, lovey," She beams softly.

"Hiya, mum," James greets, welcoming his mother into his arms. "How're you doing?"

"I'm good, honey, here," Euphemia pulls away, handing James a bouquet of wild flowers, her other hand holding a plastic container full of her signature treats, a paper bag cluttered in her grip. "I brought you some flowers," She extends her hand towards him and James smiles as he takes the neatly wrapped bouquet.

"Thanks," James thanks his mother. "What's the occasion?" He questions as he leads her into his living room.

"Do I have to wait for it to be an occasion to spoil my son?" Euphemia chuckles. "Having my very first grandchild is an occasion enough,"

James laughs, gesturing for his mother to take a seat on his couch. "I'll keep that in mind for the next six or so months," He muses. "Do you want a cup of tea? I can go put the kettle on,"

"That'd be lovely, hon,"

James sets off to make two mugs of tea; one for him in his usual red mug, the one with the golden letter J on it, and one for his mum; in the mug she always uses when she is visiting; the one James had ensured to pick out for her to use when he had first moved in. It is an ivory shade of a pattern of flowers all over it; bright oranges and soft yellows, light pinks and loud purples.

It is strictly for Euphemia's use only. James has had to halt Lily using it more times than he would like to remember. His mother is the only one who has ever drank out of it.

James stares at the mug, holding it up to the light. He feels his heart begin to sting a little bit. He remembers the exact day that he had bought the mug; how scared he has been the last few years to inevitably shatter it by accident, how saddened he thinks his mother would be if he ever incidentally breaks it.

But he knows that she'll always know that he hadn't ever done it on purpose. Because his mum knows him, she knows him inside and out; because she made him; carried him for nine months, grew him, and gave birth to him on a hazy March afternoon.

James stares at the empty mug in his grip in all of it's floral glory. He feels his eyes grow misty; the tiny flowers on the mug blurring and becoming a big, muddled blob of colours. Why is this damn mug from the corner shop down the street making him feel so emotional?

James sniffs, squeezing the mug tightly in his grip; thinking of the finger paint art that he had made when he was four that his mother still has framed and sitting next to her bed; or the clay vase that has crumpled within days because an eight year old James hadn't done it properly; but his mother still kept it; glued back together, cracked and chipped paint and all.

She had made him; but he had also made things for her.

His parents had struggled with conceiving and fertility; miscarriage after miscarriage, negative pregnancy test after negative pregnancy test. And then, then James had appeared into their lives, and they had made him, and he had made them too, in a sense. He had made them parents, and they had made them a son; just like he will do with his own son or daughter.

James breathes deeply; sniffling harder, fighting back tears. His nose is starting to run with the effort of not crying properly just yet.

"Jamie? Darling? Is everything alright? I heard the kettle stop whistling-" Euphemia enters the kitchen and James turns to her with tearful amber eyes, looking up from the mug that had seemingly started all of this. "Oh, sweetheart, what's the matter? Is...is the baby okay, love? Is everything okay? What are you doing with my special mug?"