Chapter 2: The Snake Bride

My sister refused.

She stood at the kitchen table, fists clenched so tight her knuckles were white. Hannah’s voice shook, but she was fierce—“No way. I’m not doing it. I don’t care what some old snake wants, or what Uncle Ray says.” Her chin jutted out, stubborn in that way only she could be. She glared at Mom, voice cracking but steady: "You’re asking too much. You always do."

My mom dropped to her knees, begging so hard her hands scraped raw against the linoleum.

The thud of her knees hitting the linoleum echoed through the house. Mom's tears dripped onto the floor, streaking her palms red where the skin split open. She grabbed at Hannah's pant leg, leaving red smears. Her voice was ragged—torn between desperation and shame.

Her voice was thick with tears: “If you won’t help your brother, what am I supposed to do—just lay down and die?”

She sobbed so hard I thought she might actually collapse. It was the kind of crying that made the neighbors stop and stare through the window, and made even the town dogs go quiet. Mom’s words sounded more like a threat than a plea, and in that moment, I saw how broken she’d become.

Neighbors crowded the front yard, all shouting their opinions, their spit practically drowning out my sister.

Our place was never private—word got around fast, and soon the whole block was standing in the frostbitten grass, bundled in thrift-store coats, arguing and whispering. Mrs. Jenkins from next door muttered something about "bad blood," and Mr. Harlan just shook his head, like he’d seen it all before. Some shouted advice, others muttered prayers, a few just watched, eyes wide with morbid curiosity. Hannah’s voice barely carried over the din, lost in a wave of gossip and concern.

My sister finally nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks.

The moment stretched forever before she broke, shoulders shaking as she gave in. Tears cut clean lines down her face, shining under the harsh kitchen light. The kitchen light buzzed overhead, the only sound besides her quiet sobbing. It was the first time I saw her look small.

Only then did my mom scramble up and tell Uncle Ray to hurry and set up some kind of backwoods wedding ceremony, the way folks used to do when they believed in curses and omens, between my sister and the three-colored snake.

Mom wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, leaving a pink smear. She hustled to the porch and grabbed Uncle Ray by the arm. "Go on, Ray, you know the old ways—set it up, quick as you can!" The urgency in her voice was almost manic, desperate for something to fix the unfixable.