One morning in early March, a van pulled up in front of the town’s maternity hospital. Two guards got out and wheeled a woman inside. She was clearly pregnant, in labor, staggering in pain, clutching her belly and lower back.
“Hurry up!” the guards barked. “Why couldn’t you wait until we got to the city, you silly girl?”
The emergency room filled with commotion at the sight of such an unusual patient. It wasn’t often that prisoners were brought there to give birth.
This one wasn’t even supposed to arrive. She had gone into labor during transport to the women’s prison.
Dr. Barbara Gibbs had just started what seemed like a quiet shift. All her patients had delivered, and she was looking forward to tea—until word came from the ER.
“They’ve brought in a prisoner! So much for a calm day.”
Barbara hurried downstairs. The woman in labor was lying semi-reclined, moaning softly, with guards and a nurse hovering near. After a quick exam, Barbara nodded. “Take her to the maternity ward.”
They lifted her onto a stretcher, but the guards followed close behind.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Barbara asked, stopping them.
“You can’t go into the ward. We have protocols.”
“We have our own protocols,” one guard snapped. “We must stay with her.”
“Absolutely not!” Barbara blocked their way. “This isn’t a prison. These are our rules. I’m the physician in charge, and I decide who enters.”
“You don’t understand. She’s a prisoner. We’ve given you the paperwork.”
“I understand perfectly. But right now she’s a woman giving birth to a child. What if she escapes?”
“Are you serious? She’s six centimeters dilated. I suppose that means nothing to you?”
Barbara’s tone hardened. “If we can’t deliver her baby, handcuff her.”
“Believe me, it’s in your best interest,” one guard muttered.
Barbara sighed. “Fine. Restrain her, then leave. Have some decency.”
In the delivery room, the escorts cuffed her wrist to the bed and left.
“Did you see how you handled them?” the young pediatrician, Sofia Castro, teased with a smile.
“I don’t need your commentary,” Barbara murmured, then softened as she turned back to the laboring woman.
“My dear, tell me your name.”
“Mia,” the girl groaned.
Barbara repeated it gently. “Mia.” Her face faltered briefly before she steadied herself. “Listen to me now. Forget everything else. Only the baby matters. Its life depends on you. Don’t waste strength screaming. Follow my instructions.”
The young woman nodded.
“Woman” and “prisoner”—the words felt incompatible with this girl, barely twenty, struggling on the chair, chained to the bed.
How had she ended up like this? What had she done?
Barbara’s heart ached with empathy. She thought of the road ahead for Mia and her child. Then she pushed her feelings aside and focused on her duty.
With steady voice and careful hands, she guided the birth, offering confidence and calm. Many women in that hospital had been grateful for Barbara’s care. She was like a mother to them—experienced, gentle, and trusted.
For over twenty years, Dr. Gibbs had worked in that small hospital since returning from the city as a midwife. She needed no badges, no titles.
She simply did her job—and did it well.
Yet few knew the difficult fate Barbara herself had endured.
