Chucking three tea bags into the mugs, it was my Sunday evening routine.
My two children Ruby, 13, and Harry, 11, were showered and in their pyjamas.
And we’d enjoy a cuppa with a biscuit in front of the TV, before an early night ahead of school.
On 3 March this year, my husband Paul, 46, was walking our Cockapoo Toby and would join us in the lounge when he got home.
Placing the mugs down on the coffee table we got settled.
And at about 7.25pm, Paul came through the door with Toby.
Hearing a rustling from the utility room, I knew he was drying off Toby and sneaking him a few treats.
‘I’ve just checked the tumble dryer,’ he said, sitting down.
And this was a bit of a
