We moved into a house near the forest that spring. Silence, birdsong, the smell of pine — everything seemed perfect. I thought we had finally found a place where our child could grow up peacefully, far from the noise of the city.
But a week later, my son came running to me, shouting:
— “Dad! Someone’s living under the porch!”
I went outside, leaned down — and froze. In the shadows between the old boards lay a snake. Long, glossy, with a beautiful pattern on its back. It didn’t move, only watched us with calm amber eyes.
— “Don’t touch it,” I said quietly, trying to stay calm. “It’s just a snake.”
— “Is it bad?” my son asked, pressing closer to me.
— “No, not if we don’t scare it.”
I was about to call animal control to have it removed, but my son stopped me.
— “Dad, don’t! She needs somewhere to live too. We won’t bother her.”
I gave in. We decided to simply avoid the porch.
But a few days later, everything changed. One evening, it began to rain, and I noticed my son standing by the window, staring outside.
— “What are you looking for?” I asked.
— “She came out,” he said. “And there are little ones with her.”
I came closer. And sure enough, under the dim porch light, the snake lay coiled, and around her wriggled several tiny hatchlings.
A chill ran through me, but my son watched in awe.
— “She’s a mother! She’s protecting them!”
From then on, he brought out milk and warm water every day, setting small bowls near the porch. I tried to explain that snakes don’t drink milk, but he didn’t listen.
— “She just needs to know we’re not enemies,” he said.
And then something happened that I’ll never forget.
One morning, we heard a loud rustling sound. I ran outside — and saw the snake crawling straight toward my son. He stood perfectly still. I felt a surge of panic — I wanted to shout, but I couldn’t.
The snake stopped right in front of him and, to my shock, began to shed its skin. New, gleaming, smooth — she left her old shell right there before my child and slithered away into the forest.
My son picked up the shed skin, smiled, and said,
— “See, Dad? She left a gift.”
I didn’t know what to say. But from that day on, we never saw her under the porch again.
A month later, while my son was playing in the garden, I heard a faint rustle. From the grass emerged a small snake — the same pattern, the same eyes. It didn’t seem afraid — just looked at us, as if it recognized us.
My son whispered softly,
— “It’s her baby. He came to say goodbye.”
And at that moment, I understood: sometimes nature isn’t something to fear — it’s something that simply asks to be respected.
