The first contraction hit her just after dawn.

Jasmine had been lying on the thin jail mattress, staring at the ceiling the same way she had every morning for eight months. But this time, something was different — a tightening so deep it felt like the world was folding in on itself.

She froze.
Then it came again.

Her breathing quickened. She gripped the edge of the mattress, her knuckles white, and whispered to herself, “It’s time… oh God… it’s time.”

There was no hand to grab.
No familiar voice calling for calm.
No partner rushing to find help.

Only the sound of her cell door sliding open and the uniformed officer calling for medical transport.

That was how Jasmine went into labor — cuffed at the wrists, shackled at the ankles, contractions tearing through her body as two guards escorted her down the hallway. Her orange jumpsuit clung to her damp skin. Every step was a battle.

She wasn’t rushed through hospital doors in a wheelchair.
She wasn’t comforted by family.
She wasn’t held.

Instead, she was strapped to a gurney, wrists secured, as a corrections van rumbled through the city. Each contraction built like a wave and broke like a storm, her body twisting as she tried to breathe through the pain.

She thought she had prepared for this moment — the moment she would meet her daughter. But the truth was, Jasmine had been terrified every single day of her pregnancy, because she knew something the guards didn’t have to think about.

She only had 48 hours with her baby.

Forty-eight hours until the state took her away.

The hospital room felt cold. Too clean. Too bright.

A single guard stood by the door, arms folded, eyes expressionless. To him, this was just another shift. Another inmate delivering another baby.

For Jasmine, it was the end and the beginning of everything.

The contractions came harder — waves of fire, sweat, tears. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood. Her fingers clawed the sheets. Each scream scraped its way out of her chest.

There was no mother brushing her hair back.
No sister whispering that she was doing great.
No partner telling her she wasn’t alone.

Just the nurse — a soft-spoken woman named Marisol — who held Jasmine’s hand even when the guard didn’t want her to.

“You’re not alone, sweetheart,” she whispered.
But Jasmine felt alone anyway.

Twelve hours.

Twelve hours of pain, fear, sweat, tears, and silent apologies whispered into the air every time Jasmine remembered what was coming.

And then —

A cry.

A small, sharp, beautiful cry that sliced the world in two.

Jasmine sobbed so hard her body shook. She reached out with trembling hands, and for a moment — a brief, precious moment — the nurse placed the tiny newborn girl into her arms.

Warm. Soft. Fragile.
Perfect.

Jasmine breathed her in like she was made of oxygen.

“Hi, baby,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I’m your mom.”

The guard shifted. Jasmine ignored him.

The baby blinked slowly, her tiny mouth moving in gentle reflexes, her fist curling against Jasmine’s chest.

Jasmine let out a sob that didn’t sound like anything she’d ever heard from herself before. It came from somewhere deep — deeper than guilt, deeper than pain, deeper than regret.

It came from love.

Love she only had 48 hours to give.

The first night was the hardest.

Jasmine didn’t sleep. She sat upright, holding her daughter as if her arms were the only safe place in the world. She memorized everything — the softness of the baby’s cheeks, the tiny swirl of hair at the crown of her head, the shape of her perfect lips.

The nurse checked on her often. Each time, she saw Jasmine quietly breaking.

“She’s beautiful,” Marisol whispered.

Jasmine nodded, tears sliding silently down her face.

“She deserves better,” she croaked.
“She deserves you too,” Marisol whispered back.

But wanting something and being allowed to have it were two very different things.

The state had already made its decision.

On the second morning, Jasmine held her daughter skin-to-skin, rocking gently in the hospital chair. Her orange jumpsuit had been replaced with a thin gown. Her wrists were unshackled, but only because the guard was three feet away.

She whispered into the soft down of her baby’s hair.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Every apology was a piece of her breaking free.

“I wanted to be good. I wanted to be better. I didn’t mean for any of this. I’m sorry you came into the world like this.”

Her tears soaked into the blanket.

The baby sighed in her sleep.

Marisol stood quietly at the doorway, hands clasped, wiping her eyes when Jasmine wasn’t looking. She had seen this before — too many times — but it never stopped aching.

Forty-eight hours was cruel.
Too long to pretend it wasn’t happening.
Too short to make it hurt less.

Near the end of the second day, footsteps echoed in the hallway. A soft knock sounded at the doorframe.

A social worker. Clipboard. A gentle face shaped by difficult jobs.

“It’s time,” she said softly.

Those two words hit Jasmine harder than any contraction ever had.

Her body folded over her daughter. She kissed her forehead again and again, trying to pour a lifetime of love into one trembling moment.

“Please,” she whispered.
“Please don’t take her yet. Please…”

Marisol stepped in, resting a hand on Jasmine’s shaking shoulder. The guard looked away — even he couldn’t watch.

The social worker waited, patient but heartbroken.

Jasmine inhaled one last breath of her baby’s scent — warm milk and new life — then pressed her lips to the tiny forehead one final time.

“I love you,” she whispered. “More than anything. More than myself.”

And then —

Slowly, painfully, with every muscle screaming against it,
Jasmine placed her daughter into Marisol’s arms.

A sound escaped her — not a cry, not a scream, but something raw and shattered.

The social worker wrapped the baby gently and carried her out.

Jasmine reached out instinctively, her hands grasping empty air.

“No… no… please…”

Her voice echoed into the sharp, sterile room as the door closed.

The guard stepped forward to cuff her again.

She didn’t resist.

She just stared at the door where her daughter had disappeared.

Her 48 hours were gone.

Her arms were empty.

But somewhere in the halls beyond, a baby girl slept — wrapped not just in a blanket, but in the last two days of her mother’s love.

And though Jasmine would return to her cell with swollen eyes and a heart bruised beyond repair… something stayed with her.

A reason to keep going.
A reason to change.
A little girl in the world who would always carry a piece of her.

A love so powerful that not even walls, guards, or a sentence could take it away.