The German Midwife Novels & Stories

As if struck, her entire being shook with a force while harsh breathings left her lips, slowly she turned her head to the little bed where the mother laid, barely conscious from tiredness. "A curse!" The Midwife squealed loudly, gasping for breaths as if the air in her lungs was being sucked out while the veins on her forehead because visible. "The child is a curse!!!" She shouted, her gaze going back to the baby, she stared at it disgusted, fear and horror-struck.

“Tell him I waited…” “No!” the maid sobbed, her grip tightening. “You shall tell him yourself! You will hold your child in your arms, and you will call your husband’s name, do you hear me?” But the woman’s head lolled to the side, her mouth parted in silent prayer. Her skin, bathed in sweat, began to pale beneath the flickering firelight. The midwife felt for movement beneath her hands. Her face blanched. “The child lives,” she whispered, “but he will not last long.”

“Like when he was a baby?” “Mhm,” she smiles, but it was a melancholic one. One that harbors the memories of the past, that only she could tell. A story so raw and unfabricated, that it hurt to come out of her lips. “I was Mrs. Novair’s midwife,” she told me. “I delivered Sebastian.” I was shocked. Midwifery… so that’s why she was skilled. She practiced theories of nursing and medicine. She was in the health care field.

When Georgina lifted her, blood had already pooled around them. Fortunately, Galvin had been there for a few days and quickly treated the wound. The midwife, arranged by Adelaide, was the best in the capital. Many noble families sought her services. After Galvin tended to Melinda's forehead, she noticed something was wrong—Melinda began to bleed. Although it was Melinda's due date, the fall had complicated things. "Go and bring Luna Skye," Luna Chloe said, half out of her mind with worry, her palms sweating.

They had planned that when she will be having their child, he will be beside her, holding her hands and saying soothing words to her, encouraging her. But no! That was all a daydream. She was driven by circumstances and he was snatched away from her. The mid wife stood up and exited the room. The lady was fiddling with the hem of her top in anxiety. She turned around as soon as she heard the door creak open. "How's she? How's the child? Are.. they fine?" She bombarded her with lots of questions. "Elder Witch Simone." The midwife cut her off. "The baby and Elder Witch Eleanora are quite fine. There's no cause for worry." The midwife soothed her with her words. Simone heaved a sigh of relief.

I saw how she swallowed hardly which made me confused and scared at the same time. "J-Jenny? Where is my baby? Tell me! Why aren't you answering me?" My voice trembled. I looked at the old woman standing beside her. She is the midwife. She went out for a few moments and when she came back, she was carrying a white cloth. And I know that my baby is there. I smiled as I waited for her to come to me. I can't wait to hold my baby. "H-He is dead. When you gave birth to him, after a few minutes, he died, Nathrelya..." the midwife whispered in a trembling voice.

Mery scolded harshly. “I delivered three children normally myself,” she added coldly. As Elizabeth fought for her life, the middle-aged woman felt not a trace of compassion. “Induction only multiplies the pain, Ma’am,” the midwife shot back, glaring at Mery. She couldn’t understand. Judging by her clothes, shoes, and jewelry, Mery was clearly not poor. Yet her heart was frozen. Elizabeth no longer dared to complain. She only clenched the blanket tightly, grinding her teeth to withstand the pain.

He reached into his vest and drew out the piece of vellum he had cut from the ledger—the page showing the scraped-out names. "sixteen years ago," Marcus said, his voice dropping into the small room like a stone. "The winter ward. Three pages were severed from the central register. You were the supervising midwife on shift." The old woman let out a low, hacking laugh that turned into a wet cough. She pulled her hands out from beneath her shawl, and Elena drew a sharp breath. The midwife’s fingers were gnarled, but more importantly, the tips of her index and middle fingers on her right hand were missing—sheared off cleanly at the knuckle by an old, scarred injury.

The maid knocked and opened the door. Denver’s mother sat upright, composed as always. Beside her stood an older woman with kind but observant eyes. “Come in, Selena,” she said calmly. I stepped forward and bowed my head. “Good morning.” “This is the pack’s midwife,” she continued. “She will examine you.” My breath caught, but I forced myself to nod. “Yes, ma’am.” The midwife approached gently. “Relax, child,” she said softly. I tried. Still, my shoulders remained tense as she checked my pulse, my stomach, and asked quiet questions about my health. Each touch reminded me why I was here. Not as a guest. Not as a lover.

I leaned closer to the screen, eyes narrowing as lines of authorization scrolled past. Biometric access. Legacy override. Maternal-risk protocol engagement. My stomach tightened. “Who signed you in?” I whispered, already scrolling. The name hit me like a slap. I froze. I zoomed in, breath going shallow. The midwife. Her name sat buried deep in the system, stamped with authority it had no business carrying. The credentials were old, grandfathered in under statutes that were supposed to be dormant. I leaned back slowly, the chair creaking beneath me.