Prologue
The puppy was the final straw.
Nicky loved Zouzou with all his seven-year-old heart, so much so that on the second night he’d smuggled the puppy into his bed.
Even if she hadn’t heard excited puppy squeaks coming from beneath the bedclothes, Callie could have guessed by her son’s look of extreme innocence that he’d broken the rules.
But some rules were made to be bent a little.
She set the warm milk on the bedside table, kissed him good night, and left, hiding a smile.
Two hours later when the reception finally finished she looked in on Nicky again.
The puppy was dead.
Nicky was sitting up in bed, distraught, his face streaked with tears, the tiny puppy cradled stiff and lifeless in his arms. Dried yellow froth clung to its little muzzle.
“He wouldn’t stop being sick. What did I do, Mama, what did I do?”
On the floor beside the bed was a half-drunk bowl of milk and an empty cup, the same cup she’d given to her son.
“Did you drink any of the milk?” she asked, scarcely able to raise her voice from a whisper.
“It tasted funny,” he said. “I didn’t like it. So I gave it to Zouzou.”
And then she knew. Had he not fed his milk to the puppy, Nicky’s would be the small, cold body on the bed.
She understood then what she had to do. There was no longer a choice.