After my best friend died, I took her son in and raised him as if he were my own child.

I gave him all the love he lacked as a child.

We were a complete family for twelve years.

Until one night my wife woke me up in a panic and said she had discovered something our son was hiding.

When I saw it, I stood there frozen, teary-eyed.

My name is Oliver.

I’m 38 now, and my childhood was far from the warm, perfect stories you see in the movies.

I grew up in an apartment complex – cold, lonely, in a place where it was easy to feel invisible.

But there was one person who made it bearable: my best friend, Nora.

We weren’t blood relatives, but he was the closest thing I’d ever known to my family.

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