Her hands were unsteady before she spoke, though few would have noticed. The room was loud with music and laughter, glasses raised, stories traded too quickly to linger. Yet Sally Struthers felt only the weight of memory pressing forward—years carried quietly, shaped by loyalty, restraint, and choices made in silence.
When she stepped into the open space, she did not come armed with accusation. She came with recollection. Her voice, when it arrived, was measured and soft, as if careful not to bruise the past even while naming it. She spoke of beginnings—of youth and shared ambition, of long hours and borrowed confidence, of believing that proximity and trust were enough to protect what mattered. Continue reading…
