Sally Richards #2

The hate came in waves.

Sally sat at her kitchen table, the only light in the room coming from her laptop’s screen. The darkness beyond the window made her reflection stark against the glass, her face pale and drawn, her graying auburn hair tangled from hours of running her hands through it. She was still in the same clothes she’d worn to campus that morning, her blazer draped over the back of her chair, her scarf discarded on the counter.

Her inbox was open, a battlefield of subject lines that cut into her like a thousand tiny wounds.

“Woke trash like you should be fired.”
“You’re a disgrace to educators everywhere.”
“Why do you hate America?”

The emails flooded in faster than she could read them. She scrolled, her eyes scanning the words but not really absorbing them. Some were nothing but strings of profanity, hate condensed into jagged sentences. Others were disturbingly articulate, the anger wrapped in a veneer of civility that somehow made it worse.

Then there were the racist ones.

Sally had always believed she was insulated from this kind of hate. She was, after all, a white woman in her fifties, with a doctorate and decades of experience in academia. She wasn’t naïve—she knew racism still existed—but she hadn’t expected to become a target of it. Yet here it was, spelled out in black and white, emails accusing her of being "woke garbage only allowed to teach because of her privilege" or implying that people like her didn’t belong in “real America.”

Her stomach churned as she clicked on another email. This one was short, just three words: “We’re watching you.”

Sally slammed her laptop shut, her chest heaving. She sat back, staring at the ceiling as if the answers to her questions were written up there. How did this happen? How had telling the truth—basic, verifiable facts about George Washington—led to this?

The silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator. Sally felt the tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them away. She had cried enough today.

A knock at the door jolted her out of her thoughts.

Her first instinct was fear. Was it a reporter? A protester? One of the students? She crept to the door and peered through the peephole. Relief washed over her when she saw who it was: Mary Wilson, her neighbor from two doors down.

Mary was holding a casserole dish, her face soft with concern.

Sally hesitated, her hand on the doorknob. She and Mary had lived on the same street for over five years, but they were little more than acquaintances. They waved to each other in passing, exchanged polite smiles at the mailbox, but they’d never had a real conversation. What could Mary possibly want now?

She opened the door.

“Mary,” she said, her voice cracking slightly.

Mary smiled, though her eyes were clouded with worry. “Hi, Sally. I hope I’m not interrupting. I just… well, I saw the news.” She held up the casserole dish. “Thought you might need a hot meal.”

Sally blinked, caught off guard. “Oh… thank you. That’s very kind.”

Mary hesitated. “Would you mind if I came in for a bit?”

Sally glanced over her shoulder, her instinct to refuse almost automatic. But then she looked back at Mary’s face, so warm and genuine, and something in her defenses crumbled.

“Of course,” she said. “Please, come in.”

The smell of shepherd’s pie filled the kitchen, rich and comforting.

Sally set the casserole dish on the counter and reached for plates while Mary took a seat at the small wooden table. The kettle on the stove began to hiss, and Sally poured them each a mug of tea, her hands trembling slightly as she carried the mugs to the table.

“Thank you again for this,” Sally said as she placed a steaming plate of food in front of Mary. “It’s been… a day.”

Mary smiled kindly. “I can imagine. It’s the least I could do.”

For a while, they ate in silence. The food was delicious, but Sally barely tasted it. Her appetite was gone, replaced by a gnawing anxiety that seemed to radiate from her chest.

Mary broke the silence first. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Sally set her fork down, her shoulders slumping. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start wherever you need to,” Mary said, her voice calm and steady.

Sally looked down at her tea, watching the steam curl and dissipate. She took a deep breath.

“They’ve put me on probation,” she said finally. “Indefinitely. When I asked how long, they just said, ‘If you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear.’” Her voice cracked, and she forced a bitter laugh. “Can you believe that? I’m being monitored like some kind of criminal, and they won’t even tell me when it ends.”

Mary frowned. “That’s awful. And the students?”

“They’re back in my class,” Sally said, shaking her head. “I have to teach them again, knowing they can accuse me of anything at any time. And I’m not allowed to talk about George Washington’s religious beliefs anymore. Or anything that might be considered… controversial.” She spat the word like it was poison.

Mary’s brow furrowed. “That doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s not,” Sally said, her voice rising. “It’s the exact opposite of right. But what can I do? If I push back, they’ll just say I’m hiding something. They’ve already decided I’m guilty.”

She leaned back in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. The words poured out of her like a dam breaking.

“I just… I don’t understand how we got here. How did the truth become the enemy? How did telling students verifiable historical facts become ‘indoctrination’? I’ve spent my entire career teaching history because I believe it matters. Because I believe we can learn from it. But now it feels like no one cares about the truth anymore. They just want… they just want—”

Her voice cracked, and she stopped, pressing her hands to her face.

“Sally,” Mary said softly, moving her chair closer. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

That was all it took. The tears came fast and hard, shaking her entire body. Sally tried to stop them, but she couldn’t.

“I just…” she sobbed. “I’ve never felt so hated. I’ve never… I didn’t think it was possible to hate someone this much over facts.”

Mary wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. “Shh. It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

But Sally didn’t feel safe. Not really. The threats, the emails, the venom in those words—it all felt so close, like it could reach out and choke her at any moment.

She cried harder, the tears spilling out of her like a flood. Mary held her tightly, murmuring soothing words. Sally didn’t hear them; the sobs drowned out everything else.

It took a long time for the tears to slow, for the shaking to stop. When Sally finally sat back, wiping her face with trembling hands, she felt exhausted, like she’d just run a marathon.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.”

Mary smiled gently. “You don’t have to apologize. You’ve been through more in the past few days than most people go through in a lifetime. Anyone would feel the way you do.”

Sally nodded, staring down at her tea. The reflection in the cup wavered and blurred, just like everything else in her life right now.

“I don’t know how to keep going,” she admitted.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Mary said. She reached out and took Sally’s hand. “You can count on me. Whatever you need.”

Sally looked up, her eyes searching Mary’s face for any hint of insincerity. But all she saw was kindness.

“Why?” she asked softly.

Mary’s expression softened. “Because it’s my Christian duty to love my neighbors. And for too long, I forgot what that really means. It means being there for people when they need you. It means showing love, not judgment.”

Sally felt her throat tighten again, but this time it wasn’t from sadness. It was something else—something warm and fragile, like hope.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Mary smiled. “You don’t have to thank me. That’s what neighbors are for.”

The two women sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea and sharing the warmth of each other’s presence. For the first time in days, Sally didn’t feel completely alone.