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It all began with an octopus.

My family of four was at an aquarium where my older son Leo, then six, spent an hour marvelling at a giant Pacific octopus in a tank.

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Minutes later, we were were at a fish market. There, Leo spotted a pile of dead octopus in a display case. He was inconsolable and resolved to stop eating meat on the spot.

After that, Leo’s foray into on-again, off-again ovo-lacto vegetarianism was no big deal. We could always grill a veggie burger alongside the meat or make half the pizza with no pepperoni.

But then this summer, after a visit to the Lansdowne farmers’ market, he wondered what happened to the animals after they’ve given us milk and eggs.

Nothing good, my husband had to reluctantly admit. He dragged an imaginary knife across his own throat as he recounted it later.

Thus, an eight-year-old vegan was born.

“I don’t think it’s fair for us to kill animals to eat because I wouldn’t like to be eaten,” Leo explained seriously one night as I gave him a bedtime kiss.