The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

I didn’t know what Susan had said or done to Jamie before he fell asleep,
but he woke as though sleeping on the living room floor was perfectly
ordinary. He sat up, rubbed Bovril’s belly, then put the cat outside to do his
business and added coal to the fire.
The rattle of the coal scuttle woke Susan. I watched her carefully as she
opened her eyes and came to an awareness of where she was. She saw me,
and she smiled too.
Smiled.
“Good morning, Ada,” she said. “Merry Christmas.”
I wanted to bury my head in my blankets and weep and scream, but I
didn’t. Instead I said, “I can’t get up. I can’t move my arms.”
She sat up and untangled me. “I wasn’t trying to trap you,” she said. “It
seemed to soothe you, to be bundled like that.”
“I know,” I said. “It did.” I pointed to the rip on her blouse.
“It’s in a seam,” she said. “I can fix it.” She brushed my loose hair back
from my face. “Would you like some breakfast?”
We got up and went upstairs and washed our faces and used the loo. At
Susan’s suggestion we took off our good clothes and put on our pajamas and
dressing gowns. When we came back down the stairs, there was a pile of
brightly wrapped packages under the tree.
Presents.
“Looks like Santa Claus has been here,” Susan said gaily.
Seemed odd that Santa Claus would stay away all night, but come while
we were changing our clothes. I opened my mouth to say so, but saw Jamie’s
glowing face in time and shut up fast.
Jamie’s eyes were lit with joy. “He really did come! To us! He did!” he
said. “Even though Ada was bad.” He gave me a quick guilty look. “I mean
—”
“It’s okay,” I said, slipping my arm around his shoulders. “I was bad.” I
wondered if the presents were all for Jamie. Could any possibly be for me?
“Not bad,” Susan said. She helped me down the last few steps. “Not bad,
Ada. Sad. Angry. Frightened. Not bad.”
Sad, angry, frightened were bad. It was not okay to be any of those. I
couldn’t say so, though, not on that gentle morning.
I had the gifts I’d made stuffed into the pockets of my dressing gown. I