She hadn’t seen the grand boy for months and found, when his mother dropped him off, that he’d changed from a delicate blond, hazel-eyed boy into something larger, fueled for conquest. It wasn’t testosterone. Not yet. He was only nine.
“You’ve grown,” she said, instantly regretting the cliché.
“I guess.” He followed her into the house, carrying a violin case and a Monopoly set. “Isn’t it funny that everyone else can see when someone is taller, except for the person who’s grown?”
