Time slips past like London rain, and I watch Thomas and Oliver navigate their brotherhood—not bound by blood but by shared football scrapes, squabbles over biscuits, and laughter echoing through our terraced house. I’m changed too; the bloke who balanced ledgers now treasures Thomas’s morning giggles, Oliver’s impulsive hugs after nightmares, the weight of a small hand in mine at busy crossings. Those first months were rough—Oliver jolting awake, trembling like a spooked foal, until I’d murmur, “You’re home, lad. Safe as houses now,” until the shadows faded from his eyes. Thomas learned too, swapping selfishness for sharing his kit, his space, even proudly calling Oliver “brother.” Oliver flourished: once shy at St. Catherine’s Primary, now sketching dragons better than anyone, his teacher phoning about an essay titled “My Hero.” I read it in the car park—poor spelling ignored—his scribbles carving into me: *He saved me from being nobody. Gave me a home when I just craved an arm round me. Best thing? He never let go.* Tears fell then, quiet as Thames fog, for the man who measured life in pounds until he held priceless things. The adoption day arrived—no longer Oliver Taylor, but Oliver Blackwood by law, standing tall beside Thomas and me in court, grinning in a new tweed jacket. “Your honour,” Oliver piped up when asked, “sometimes all it takes to mend a life is someone not afraid to hug you first.” Applause thundered; that night, he leaned his head on my shoulder as we overlooked Battersea’s glittering sprawl. “Everything looks brighter when you’re wanted,” he whispered. “Cheers for not chucking money at me… for giving me *this* instead.” I gripped his shoulder. “Taught me I had more than quid to give, mate.” Below us, the city hummed. Above, one small boy who’d had nothing now held everything: an embrace, a roof, a family, a dad. The true measure of a life isn’t wealth quietly kept but love loudly shared.