And the first time she returned home after dark, she paused in the driveway longer than necessary.
She knew rationally that her house was secure.
She also knew that fear didn't always disappear because a person understood the facts.
Her counselor encouraged her to recognize the experience without allowing it to define her.
Naomi began making time for ordinary routines.
She cooked dinner with Imani.
Walked through the neighborhood.
And resumed quiet evenings reading on the sofa.
She also learned to speak about what happened without treating every conversation as an official briefing.
One evening, Imani asked whether she was still angry.
Naomi considered the question.
"Sometimes."
Her daughter looked surprised.
"I thought you were supposed to forgive people."
Naomi smiled gently.
"Forgiveness isn't something you can order yourself to feel."
Imani nodded.
Then asked whether Naomi thought Grant understood what he'd done.
Her mother took a slow breath.
"I don't know."
She paused.
"But understanding is his responsibility."
Imani looked toward her.
Naomi continued.
"My responsibility is to heal, do my job well, and make sure what happened leads to better decisions wherever we can improve them."
For several seconds, her daughter remained quiet.
Then she leaned against Naomi's shoulder.
"I'm glad you're home."
Naomi kissed her forehead.
"Me too."
The following spring, the Eastbridge Children's Hospital Foundation began preparing for its annual charity gala.
The foundation's director contacted Naomi about attending.
Naomi hesitated.
The previous year's event had been the last peaceful public appearance before the garage incident.
She wondered whether returning would make the evening feel strange.
Then Imani overheard the conversation.
"Mom, you have to go."
Naomi laughed.
"Have to?"
Her daughter nodded emphatically.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Imani walked toward the closet where the repaired gown was stored.
She opened the door.
Inside hung the extraordinary black-and-olive-gold couture dress.
Its lace corset had been restored.
The sheer gloves were repaired.
And the enormous metallic satin skirt once again formed the dramatic sculptural folds Imani loved.
Her daughter touched the protective garment cover.
"Because you looked amazing in this."
Naomi smiled.
"That's not the only reason to attend a fundraiser."
Imani turned toward her.
"I know. But that man doesn't get to be the last person who sees you wearing it."
For a moment, Naomi was silent.
She looked toward the gown.
Then toward her daughter.
The words struck something deep inside her.
She had avoided the dress for months because it reminded her of Grant's hands, the Lexus hood, and the humiliation of standing cuffed while neighbors recorded.
Imani saw something different.
She remembered her mother smiling before the gala.
The beautiful earrings.
The elegant black gloves.