Weight of The Untold

Chapter 57

Week 21: The baby's spleen, liver and bone marrow are working hard to produce much needed red blood cells. The baby is 400 grams and 26.9 centimetres.

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Caleb’s POV

I stepped out of the shower, water still dripping from my hair onto the marble tiles. The bathroom smelled faintly of eucalyptus and expensive soap—things that usually grounded me, reminded me who I was. Today, they didn’t work.

I dried myself slowly, like I was afraid that if I rushed, I’d have to face myself sooner.

I moisturised my skin out of habit, rubbing lotion into my arms, my chest, my neck. When I finally looked up, the mirror didn’t show me the man I knew.

Kyla was right.

I looked horrible.

My eyes were bloodshot, hollowed out by exhaustion and regret. Dark circles clung to them like proof of every mistake I’d made in the last few days. My jaw was tense, lips dry, shoulders heavy—as if guilt had weight.

What was it with Davisons and alcohol?

Dad had been the same when stress cornered him. Whiskey first. Logic later. I let out a quiet chuckle, the kind that didn’t come from humor but memory.

I remembered the DNA test, how awkward and strange that day had been. How he’d laughed too loudly afterward and said, “Better be ready to give me your liver one day, son.”

Back then it had sounded like a joke.

Now it felt like a warning.

I stared at my reflection longer than I should have, memories pressing in until the present dissolved completely.

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Flashback

“Damnit!”

The crash echoed down the hallway, sharp and violent. Glass? A door? I couldn’t tell. I knocked on the office door once. No response.

I knocked again.

“Come in!”

I stepped inside and froze.

The office was a mess. Papers everywhere. A chair tipped over. The air thick with anger and alcohol. My father stood behind his desk, gripping a glass of whiskey like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

He lifted it and aggressively gulped it down in one go before slamming the glass onto the desk.

“Dad what is going on? What happened to you?” I asked, my voice tight with worry.

He didn’t answer. He poured another drink instead, swallowed it, then shoved a piece of paper toward me.

I took it, scanning the letter.

Health officials.
Brooklyn construction.
Shut down.
Pollution.
People getting sick.

“What?” I looked up just as he finished another drink.

“Someone did this!! They are trying to mess with me!!” He threw the glass against the wall. It shattered violently, and I flinched despite myself. “Before I started that project I made sure that it was clean. They freaking gave me the greenlight because all the inspections were properly done and I was free to continue with it!”

His voice cracked under the weight of betrayal.

For a kind-hearted man, we shared something dangerous.