Time heals old wounds?

"I want to be your friend," said the Foca, six years ago when he dumped me, told me "no-one's to blame, get over it!"
"No," I'd replied. "You can't leave me then continue to enjoy the best part of me."

On and off these past six years he has asked that we be friends, told me to be as "magnanimous" as mums he knew who were still friends with their ex's.

Good for them, I'd thought, but not for me.

Last week the two of us had taken our son out to dinner for his birthday. Every year I make him hang out on his birthday, come along to our son's birthday parties, after last year's nativity play I suggested the three of us go up to the Heath for some cake. It's as much as I want to do, as "magnanimous" as I can be.

Anyway, a few days ago he sent me an email. Our son enjoyed himself, he said. We should do it more often, we could even take a trip up to Alton Towers.

The beauty of this manic/depressed Motherboard situation I'm in is that I do not always think about what to write, I just do. This, for any mums out there like me, is what I wrote:

"[Our son] did enjoy being with us but he was quiet and didn't talk about it much so who knows what he's really thinking. I find it hard to be honest, not least perhaps because I'm still spinning on the same fecking record I was on when you handed us notice six years ago and was able to move forward with your own life.

"So saying, I'm sure he'd love a trip to Alton Towers and I would be gutted not to see the joy on his face....." (though I didn't add 'I'm used to it though so go ahead without me')

Six years is a long time. Our son doesn't beg the three of us hang out (only that his dad moves in with us).

The foca hasn't replied but then there's nothing really more to say, is there?