Friday, January 1, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 1)
New Year's Day didn't arrive with magic.
It arrived with silence, cold enough to make the windows creak, and the faint stale smell of last night's coffee still sitting in the pot because Kitty had been too tired to scrub it out before bed.
The house looked the same.
But Monica could feel the way adults treated it like a reset—like turning a calendar page meant you could pretend nothing followed you across the line.
Red Forman, in his chair, didn't look like a man who believed in fresh starts.
He looked like a man who believed in January being a scam invented to make you feel guilty for existing.
Kitty moved around the kitchen in thick socks and a robe, humming softly, trying to make the day feel lighter than it was. She kept saying things like, "It's a brand new year!" the same way she said, "It's fine!" when things were not, in fact, fine.
And Laurie—
Laurie had woken up with one clear mission.
To prove that nothing changed just because Kitty wanted it to.
Monica sat on the rug with a wooden block in her hands, toddler-calm, watching Laurie pace like a tiny storm cloud.
Laurie wasn't walking aimlessly. Laurie was hunting.
Looking for the thing that would get her the biggest reaction.
Because last night, something important had happened.
Red had carried Monica downstairs.
Red had kept Monica in his lap.
Red had spoken to Monica like she could understand him.
And even if Laurie didn't have the words for any of it, Laurie had the instinct.
Laurie had felt the shift the way animals felt thunder before it hit.
And Laurie didn't like shifts that didn't revolve around her.
Laurie's gaze flicked to Monica, narrowed, then flicked away like she didn't want Monica to see she was being watched.
Monica pretended she didn't notice.
Because the worst thing you could do with Laurie was confirm her suspicion.
Suspicion became obsession.
Obsession became escalation.
Kitty leaned into the living room doorway and smiled like she was trying to brighten the air with her face. "Who wants pancakes?"
Laurie turned instantly, arms up, mouth already open with a demanding sound.
Monica didn't move.
Monica waited.
Kitty laughed. "Okay, okay, I hear you!"
Red muttered from his chair, newspaper in hand. "Stop rewarding that."
Kitty shot him a look. "Red, she's hungry."
Red's jaw tightened. "She's not hungry. She's loud."
Kitty's smile thinned. "And she's one."
Red grunted and turned a page like the discussion was closed.
Kitty sighed—soft, tired—and disappeared back into the kitchen.
Laurie watched Kitty go, then turned back to Red, assessing him like a tiny general assessing a battlefield.
Red's attention stayed on the paper.
And Monica knew Laurie's brain, simple as it was, was doing the same kind of math Monica did—just with different goals.
Laurie knew: Kitty would respond.
Laurie was learning: Red would not.
So Laurie needed a new lever.
Something that forced Red to respond.
Monica's fingers tightened around the block.
Laurie's eyes moved to the coffee table.
The ashtray was gone—Red had shoved it out of reach weeks ago and now it lived on a higher shelf like a banned object.
Laurie's gaze moved again.
To the end table.
To Red's coffee.
To the folded newspaper.
To the lamp cord.
Laurie's eyes landed on the lamp cord and held.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Laurie crawled toward it slowly, casual, pretending innocence.
Monica stayed still, heart steady, mind already moving through options.
If Monica lunged, it would look unnatural.
If Monica made noise, Red would look up, and Laurie would learn the cord mattered.
Monica needed to stop Laurie without making it a "thing."
So Monica did what she'd been practicing since the day she could crawl:
She redirected the room.
Monica slapped her block softly against the rug—just once—then made a happy baby sound that was bright enough to cut through the quiet.
Red didn't look up.
Laurie paused, irritated.
Monica smiled wide like the block was the most exciting thing on earth and pushed it across the rug toward Laurie—an invitation.
Laurie's eyes narrowed.
Then Laurie did what Monica expected.
Laurie changed direction—not because she wanted to play, but because she wanted to take.
Laurie crawled fast, grabbed the block, and clutched it to her chest like she'd won.
Monica let her.
Monica didn't chase it immediately.
Monica just sat there, hands empty, calm.
Laurie blinked, thrown off by the lack of reaction.
Laurie's grip tightened on the block.
Laurie wanted Monica to cry.
Laurie wanted Monica to fight.
Laurie wanted proof Monica cared.
Monica gave her nothing.
Laurie stared at Monica for a beat—long enough Monica could see Laurie's frustration starting to boil—then Laurie threw the block.
Not far. Not hard.
But the sound of wood hitting wood snapped through the room like a crack.
Red's head lifted instantly. "What the hell was that."
Kitty called from the kitchen, cheerful but strained. "Just a block!"
Red's eyes narrowed at Laurie. "Don't throw."
Laurie froze, eyes wide.
Not scared—calculating.
Monica sat quietly, watching, face blank.
Red stared at Laurie like she'd personally insulted him.
Laurie's chin lifted.
She threw the block again—harder.
This time it hit the end table leg with a louder knock.
Red's jaw tightened.
Monica's pulse ticked up.
Here it was: the escalation point.
If Red snapped, Kitty would rush in, Laurie would scream, the whole room would ignite. And Monica would spend the day managing aftermath instead of learning.
Monica couldn't stop Red. Red was a force of nature.
So Monica did the only thing she could do with Red:
She gave him a different problem.
Monica toddled forward—wobbly, slow—and deliberately bumped her shoulder into the coffee table leg.
Not hard.
Just enough to make the table shift and the coffee cup wobble.
Red's eyes whipped to Monica instantly. "Hey—"
The coffee didn't spill, but it threatened to.
Red reached down and steadied the cup automatically, instinctive.
His anger diverted.
Kitty's voice called again, "Red? Everything okay?"
Red snapped back, "Yeah."
Monica stood very still, eyes wide, body toddler-clumsy.
Red stared at her, suspicion sharpening.
He knew.
He absolutely knew.
His eyes narrowed like he was trying to decide whether to call her out or pretend he hadn't noticed.
Then he looked past Monica at Laurie—still frozen, still holding her defiance like a shield.
Red's voice went low. "Both of you. Stop."
Laurie's mouth tightened.
Monica blinked innocently and toddled back to the rug like she was obeying.
Red's gaze followed her.
He muttered, barely audible, "Too damn smart."
Monica sat down and picked up a cloth toy like she hadn't just saved the room.
_____
Breakfast was pancakes and tension.
Kitty set plates down with forced cheer. "There! New Year's pancakes!"
Red grunted. "They're just pancakes."
Kitty smiled anyway. "Well, they're special because I made them with love."
Red muttered, "That's not a measurable ingredient."
Kitty's eyes flashed. "Red."
Red's mouth tightened.
Monica ate slowly, carefully, hands sticky, face calm.
Laurie ate like she was angry at the concept of food. She shoved pieces into her mouth, dropped crumbs on purpose, and watched Kitty's reaction like she was testing how much control she still had.
Kitty cleaned every crumb like it mattered.
Red's jaw got tighter with every mess.
Monica tracked the triangle:
Laurie provokes.
Kitty panics.
Red hardens.
And Monica sat in the middle like a small bomb diffuser with no tools except timing.
Halfway through breakfast, Laurie knocked her cup over.
It wasn't an accident.
The cup tipped neatly, like she'd practiced.
Milk spilled across the tray and dripped onto the floor.
Kitty gasped. "Oh my gosh—Laurie!"
Laurie made a dramatic whine, already performing innocence.
Red's chair scraped back. "God—"
Kitty snapped fast, "Red, no—"
Red's voice was sharp. "She did it on purpose."
Kitty's hands flew to grab towels. "I know, I know—"
Laurie watched them both, satisfied the room belonged to her again.
Monica's chest tightened.
This wasn't dangerous physically, but it was dangerous emotionally—because Red's anger was real now, and Kitty was in her frantic mode, and Laurie was learning she could pull them both like strings.
Monica couldn't speak.
So Monica did something else.
Monica started clapping.
Soft at first, then louder—two hands smacking together with toddler enthusiasm.
Kitty blinked, distracted mid-wipe. "Monica?"
Monica clapped again, smiling wide, like milk spills were celebrations.
Laurie paused her performance, confused.
Kitty's face softened for a second despite herself. "Oh, sweetheart—no—"
Monica clapped again and babbled, bright and nonsense.
It worked.
It didn't fix the milk.
But it broke the rhythm.
Kitty's panic slowed.
Laurie's control wavered.
Red's anger lost its clean target.
Red stared at Monica, then muttered, "Stop applauding disasters."
Monica smiled sweetly and clapped one more time.
Red's eyes narrowed—then, against his will, his mouth twitched like he was almost amused.
Almost.
Kitty caught it.
Kitty's shoulders loosened a fraction.
And just like that, the room stepped back from the edge.
Kitty finished cleaning without shaking.
Red sat back down without snapping.
Laurie glared at Monica like Monica had stolen something invisible.
Because she had.
Monica had stolen Laurie's ability to control the mood.
And Laurie wasn't going to forgive it.
_____
After breakfast, Kitty insisted on "a nice family day."
Red resisted. Kitty pushed. Red gave in, like he always did when Kitty's determination reached a certain pitch.
So Kitty bundled the twins into coats and hats, and they went outside into the yard where snow lay in thin crusty patches and the wind bit at cheeks.
Kitty laughed and tried to make it cute. "Look! Snow!"
Red muttered, "It's not snow, it's ice."
Kitty ignored him and guided the twins toward the porch steps.
Laurie stomped in the slush and squealed like she was doing something rebellious.
Monica stood quietly, watching the yard, watching the street, watching the neighbor houses with their smoke curling from chimneys.
The town looked peaceful.
It wasn't.
Peace in Point Place was always surface-level.
Underneath, it was money worries and gossip and power games.
Even in a yard.
Kitty crouched and tried to show Laurie how to make a tiny snowball.
Laurie immediately threw it at Kitty's coat.
Kitty laughed a little too hard. "Oh! You!"
Red's voice cut in. "Don't encourage it."
Kitty's smile tightened. "It's just snow."
Red's eyes narrowed. "It becomes rocks."
Kitty sighed. "Red—"
Red didn't argue further, but Monica watched him watch Laurie.
Red's gaze was the same one he'd used the night before.
Not just annoyance.
Assessment.
He was beginning to see Laurie's pattern too.
And Red Forman did not tolerate patterns he couldn't control.
Monica knew what that meant.
Laurie would push harder.
Because Laurie pushed hardest when she felt control slipping.
Sure enough, Laurie turned away from Kitty and toddled toward the porch steps—toward the open screen door Kitty had left unlatched.
Kitty's head snapped up. "Laurie—no, honey, stay—"
Laurie didn't stay.
Laurie slipped inside.
Kitty surged forward. "Laurie!"
Red's voice went sharp. "Goddamnit."
Kitty hissed, "Red!"
Red ignored her and stomped up the steps after Laurie.
Monica followed slower, toddling, letting her body look clumsy while her mind stayed sharp.
Inside, Laurie didn't go to the living room.
Laurie went straight toward Red's territory.
The garage door.
The knob was too high for her, but she reached anyway, fingers grasping air, eyes bright with determination.
Red entered behind her like a storm.
"Absolutely not."
Laurie froze.
Red's voice was low, dangerous. "Do. Not. Touch. That."
Laurie stared up at him, eyes wide, then—because Laurie had no fear of authority yet—she shrieked.
A sharp, furious scream that wasn't pain.
Challenge.
Kitty rushed in behind Red, breathless. "Red—please—"
Red didn't look at Kitty. He scooped Laurie up under the arms, lifted her away from the door, and set her down in the living room like he was relocating a problem.
Laurie screamed louder.
Kitty reached for her, panicked. "Laurie, honey—"
Red snapped, "Don't."
Kitty flinched. "Red—"
Red's eyes were hard. "She does not get what she wants by screaming."
Kitty's voice trembled. "She's upset—"
Red cut her off. "She's not upset. She's pissed."
Laurie screamed again, pure rage.
Kitty looked like she might cry.
Monica stood at the hallway entrance, watching, calculating.
This was bad.
Not "milk spill" bad.
This was the kind of fight that reshaped relationships.
Because Kitty was soft, and Red was hard, and Laurie was learning how to use that gap like a weapon.
And Monica—
Monica needed to close the gap without making herself the focus.
Monica toddled forward, slow and careful, and reached down to pick up something from the carpet.
A small mitten—Laurie's mitten—that had fallen off in the chaos.
Monica held it up.
Then Monica walked toward Red, mitten extended, babbling softly.
Red's eyes flicked to Monica, distracted despite himself.
Kitty's gaze followed too, hope flickering—anything to break the screaming.
Monica reached Red and pressed the mitten into his hand like it was important.
Red blinked, thrown off by the simple gesture.
Then Monica turned and toddled toward Laurie.
Laurie's screaming faltered mid-breath, confused by Monica approaching.
Monica knelt—awkward toddler-kneel—and held out her empty hands like she was offering help.
Laurie stared at her, face red, eyes wet with frustrated fury.
Monica made a soft baby sound and pointed toward Laurie's bare hand.
Then Monica reached toward Laurie's other mitten—still on—and tugged it slightly like she wanted to "fix" things.
Laurie blinked.
The scream died in her throat.
Because Laurie understood this kind of attention.
This wasn't Red's cold discipline.
This wasn't Kitty's frantic soothing.
This was… service.
Monica was trying to put Laurie back together.
Laurie's breathing hitched, and for a second she looked very small.
Kitty exhaled shakily.
Red stared, suspicion sharpening again.
Monica kept her movements slow, gentle, toddler-real. She reached back toward Red's hand—where Red still held the mitten—and made a small grabbing motion.
Red hesitated.
Then he handed it to her.
Monica turned and carefully slid the mitten onto Laurie's hand.
It wasn't neat. Monica's fingers weren't skilled enough.
But it was close.
Laurie stared at the mitten like she'd been given a crown.
The screaming stopped completely.
Kitty's shoulders sagged with relief. "Oh… okay."
Red stared at Monica like she'd just performed a magic trick.
Monica looked up at him briefly—wide-eyed, innocent—then turned back to Laurie and patted Laurie's arm once.
Laurie didn't scream again.
She just sat there, breathing hard, mitten on, eyes narrowed in lingering anger.
But the moment had shifted.
The room had cooled.
Kitty didn't cry.
Red didn't explode.
Laurie didn't win with screaming.
And Monica had achieved it without looking like anything more than a toddler trying to help.
Red's voice came low, suspicious. "Where'd you learn that."
Monica blinked.
Kitty forced a laugh, shaky. "She's just… sweet."
Red didn't look convinced.
But he didn't argue.
He just stared at Monica a second longer, then turned away like he didn't know what to do with the fact that his baby daughter kept… handling things.
_____
That night, after Kitty finally got Laurie down—exhausted, resentful, but quiet—and after Red retreated into the garage for a long stretch of silent thinking, Monica lay awake in her crib.
The house creaked around her. The wind pressed against the siding. Somewhere far off, a car passed on the road like a ghost.
Monica stared into the darkness and replayed the day.
Laurie was escalating faster now.
Not because Laurie was "bad."
Because Laurie was smart in her own way—social-smart, instinct-smart.
Laurie could feel shifts in attention and power, and she hated losing.
And Monica's calm—Monica's competence—was a threat to Laurie's position as "the important one."
Monica understood it.
Monica didn't even hate Laurie for it.
But Monica also knew this was only the beginning.
As they got older, the battles wouldn't be over blocks and cups and mitten tantrums.
They'd be over boys, beauty, approval.
Over who Red favored and why.
Over who the town adored and who it whispered about.
Monica's fingers curled around her blanket.
She couldn't control the whole future.
But she could control what happened inside this house—at least enough to keep it from tearing itself apart.
And tonight, while the adults clung to the fantasy of "new year, new start," Monica made herself the only promise that mattered:
She would keep learning the pressure points.
She would keep redirecting.
She would keep surviving Laurie's storms without becoming one herself.
Because the first year of this life had taught Monica something brutally simple—
In Point Place, you didn't win by being loud.
You won by being steady.
And Monica, in the dark, with her adult mind trapped in a toddler body, stared at the ceiling and stayed exactly that:
Steady.
Quiet.
Unmoved.
Already building a future nobody else in the house could see yet.