Her garage contained sandpaper, clamps, and several chairs she insisted would look beautiful once she finished restoring them.
Abigail teased her.
"You know you could just buy new chairs."
Simone looked offended.
"And miss the satisfaction of fixing these?"
"You sound like Grandpa."
"Good."
Her family no longer organized every gathering around the history of the Riverside case.
Birthdays became birthdays.
Holidays became holidays.
People argued about recipes and travel plans.
Children spilled drinks.
Someone forgot to bring ice.
Someone else arrived late.
The ordinary disorder of family life returned.
Simone treasured it.
For years, she had feared that grief and public responsibility would consume every corner of her existence.
Now she understood that living well did not mean forgetting.
It meant allowing the past to occupy its rightful place without surrendering everything else to it.
On a spring afternoon nearly forty years after the Riverside Park incident, Simone returned to the city for an educational exhibit.
The event was organized by a group of young historians studying the relationship between public records and civil rights.
Most of the organizers had not been born when the original confrontation occurred.
They knew the case through archived video, court records, and interviews.
One student approached Simone after the presentation.
He was nineteen, thoughtful, and visibly nervous.
"Ms. Carter, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Do you ever wish the video had never been recorded?"
Simone looked at him.
"That's an interesting question."
He shifted.
"I mean, it made everything public. Your injury. Your brother. Your family."
She nodded.
"Sometimes I wish I had never needed the video."
The student waited.
"But I'm grateful it existed."
"Because it proved what happened?"
"Yes. And because it allowed people to examine claims against something independent."
She paused.
"Still, remember that recording is not the same as justice. Someone had to preserve the footage. Investigators had to authenticate it. Lawyers had to present it fairly. Jurors had to examine it. Institutions had to respond."
The student considered that.
"So the camera wasn't what saved you?"
"It helped."
She smiled gently.
"But people still had to choose what to do with the evidence."
He looked down at his notebook.
"One more question?"
"Go ahead."
"Do you hate him?"
Simone knew whom he meant.
Bradley Matthews had died several years earlier after his release from prison.
She had read the brief notice.
She had felt no desire to comment publicly.
Now, standing before a young man who had inherited the story as history, she considered the question carefully.
"I don't organize my life around him anymore."
The student looked uncertain.