Wednesday, February 3, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 1)
Winter in Point Place didn't sparkle.
It pressed.
It pressed against the windows until the glass sweated cold, pressed snow into thin gray piles along the roadside, pressed people indoors with their worries and their gossip and their tight little smiles. Even the Forman house seemed to shrink under it—rooms warmer, hallways narrower, voices sharper.
Monica woke before the sun.
Not because she wanted to.
Because her body—still toddler-small, still toddler-tired—had its own rules. And because Laurie, in the crib across the room, had discovered a new form of entertainment: kicking the wooden bars until they rattled.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Laurie wasn't crying.
Laurie was announcing herself.
Monica lay still, eyes open in the dark, watching the ceiling where moonlight made the plaster look like it had cracks.
The floorboards creaked outside the bedroom.
Kitty's footsteps—light, careful, like she hoped if she moved quietly enough, life wouldn't ask her for anything today.
The door opened a sliver.
"Girls?" Kitty whispered. "Oh—Laurie, honey…"
Laurie's feet stopped for half a second, like she was pleased to be acknowledged, then started again—harder.
Kitty sighed softly, the sound of a woman who loved her children but was also very aware that she hadn't slept properly since March 1958.
Monica turned her face toward Kitty and made a small, soft sound—just enough to be noticed.
Kitty's eyes adjusted to the dark. Her expression softened immediately when she saw Monica's calm gaze.
"Oh, Monica," she whispered, relief sliding into her voice. "Hi, sweetheart."
Kitty moved to Monica's crib first—as she often did lately, without realizing the habit she'd built. She reached in, brushed Monica's hair back, and smiled like Monica's quiet was a warm cup of tea.
Laurie kicked again, offended.
Kitty flinched. "Okay. Okay. Laurie too."
She crossed the room and lifted Laurie out, and Laurie immediately clung to her like a small dictator reclaiming her territory.
Monica watched Kitty's posture change under Laurie's grip—how Kitty's shoulders tensed, how her mouth pulled tight before smoothing back into a smile.
It wasn't that Kitty loved Laurie less.
It was that Laurie demanded love like payment.
Monica sat up and waited, small hands gripping the crib rail.
Kitty turned back and lifted Monica next, balancing both toddlers like she'd been doing it her whole life.
"It's early," Kitty murmured, as if scolding the universe. "It's too early."
Down the hall, a door opened with a heavier sound.
Red.
His footsteps came slower than Kitty's, deliberate and solid. The house always changed when Red moved through it—less softness, more shape.
He appeared in the doorway, hair rumpled, undershirt visible, eyes already narrowed like the day had started wrong simply by existing.
"What's all that racket?" he muttered.
Kitty tried to sound cheerful. "The girls are awake."
Red's mouth flattened. "It's still dark."
Kitty gave him a look. "Yes, Red. That's what 'early' means."
Red grunted and walked past them toward the bathroom, but his gaze flicked to Monica—quick, assessing, like he was checking whether she looked too awake.
Monica blinked at him, wide-eyed and sweet.
Red's jaw tightened, as if he didn't trust sweetness.
Laurie pointed at Red and made a sharp sound, half babble, half command.
Red didn't even glance at her. "No."
Kitty huffed. "Red."
Red called from the bathroom without any softness. "She's not the boss."
Laurie made an offended noise and tightened her grip on Kitty's robe.
Kitty kissed Laurie's temple automatically, soothing. "I know, I know."
Monica just watched.
This was Point Place in miniature: one person trying to keep the peace, one person refusing to bend, and one person learning exactly which pressure points got the fastest response.
_____
By the time the kitchen lights came on, the whole house felt awake—even if it wasn't ready.
Kitty moved around making oatmeal, clinking bowls, trying to create warmth with routine. Red sat at the table with his coffee, newspaper open, but his eyes weren't really reading. His jaw looked set in that way that meant he was already thinking about the plant.
His lunch pail sat by the back door.
His boots were lined up like soldiers.
Monica sat in her highchair, bib tied, small hands sticky with banana. Laurie sat in her own highchair beside her, already smearing oatmeal on the tray like it was finger paint.
Kitty made a distressed sound. "Laurie—no, honey—"
Laurie grinned.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Stop letting her do that."
Kitty snapped, "I'm not letting her, Red, I'm—"
Red cut in, voice flat. "Then stop it."
Kitty's face tightened, then softened again as she tried to swallow irritation. "Okay. Laurie, look at Mommy."
Laurie immediately looked away.
Kitty sighed and wiped the tray, then wiped Laurie's hands, then wiped again because Laurie shoved her fingers back into oatmeal on purpose.
Monica kept eating calmly, eyes tracking everything.
Red folded the newspaper once, sharp, and stood. "I'm going."
Kitty turned, instantly alert. "Already?"
Red lifted his lunch pail. "Yeah."
Kitty's voice went careful. "How's it been?"
Red's mouth tightened. "Fine."
Kitty didn't accept "fine," but she'd learned to approach Red's worry like you approached a stray dog—slow, calm, no sudden movements.
"Red," she tried gently. "You said last week—"
Red cut her off with a sharp look. "Not in front of the kids."
Kitty swallowed. "They're babies."
Red's gaze flicked to Monica. "Some babies listen."
Kitty's eyes flicked to Monica too, and for a second her expression went uncertain—like she wanted to deny it and also couldn't.
Monica stared at Red, calm and quiet.
Red leaned down, close enough that Monica could smell coffee and winter air. His voice lowered.
"Be good."
Monica blinked once.
Red's eyes narrowed as if he was waiting for something—some sign Monica understood.
Monica lifted her hand and patted the tray twice. A small, obedient rhythm.
Red's mouth tightened, then he muttered, "Yeah," like that was enough, and straightened.
Kitty moved closer, smoothing Red's sleeve. "Drive safe."
Red grunted, then paused in the doorway like he'd forgotten something.
He turned back, eyes on Monica, and for a brief second the mask slipped—just a crack.
"Don't let her…" Red's gaze flicked toward Laurie, "…terrorize the house."
Kitty gave him a look. "Red."
Red's mouth flattened. "I'm serious."
Monica made a soft baby sound—not laughter, but something close.
Red's eyes narrowed again like he heard it.
Then he left, shutting the door behind him with that final click that always sounded like responsibility.
Kitty stood still a moment, staring at the door.
Monica watched her mother's shoulders rise and fall with a quiet breath.
Then Kitty turned back to the kitchen and forced brightness like she was putting on lipstick.
"Okay!" Kitty announced, too cheerfully. "We're going to get dressed and go see people today."
Laurie squealed, pleased at the word "people."
Monica stayed calm.
People meant information.
_____
Kitty bundled the twins into coats and hats so thick they could barely move. The air outside bit hard, crisp and mean. Monica's cheeks stung almost instantly, but she didn't fuss. Laurie fussed enough for both of them—thrashing, angry at sleeves, furious at being contained.
Kitty wrestled Laurie into the car seat, hair coming loose, breath puffing white in the cold.
"Oh my god," Kitty muttered, not quite under her breath. "You are going to be the death of me."
Laurie stared at Kitty like she'd won.
Monica sat quietly in her seat, eyes scanning the street.
Point Place looked sleepy in winter—smoke curling from chimneys, cars lined up with frost on the windshields, sidewalks edged with old snow. But it wasn't really sleepy.
It was watchful.
Even the quiet houses felt like they were listening.
Kitty drove toward town, heater blasting, radio murmuring softly.
They weren't going to the grocery store first.
Kitty was going to the church.
On Wednesdays, the church hall hosted a midmorning mothers' group—coffee, donuts, polite conversation. Kitty called it "getting out of the house."
Red called it "women gossiping."
Monica called it what it was: community surveillance disguised as kindness.
The church parking lot was half-full. Kitty parked near a cluster of station wagons and stepped out into the cold, pulling the twins free with practiced speed.
The moment Kitty walked in, warmth hit them—heat, perfume, coffee, and the soft roar of voices. Women turned like flowers to sunlight.
"Kitty!"
"Oh, Kitty Forman!"
"Bring the girls over here!"
Kitty's face lit up, relieved to be seen. "Hi! Hi!"
Hands reached for the twins. Laurie leaned into attention like she was born for it. Monica stayed in Kitty's arms, gaze steady, watching.
A woman with a tight curl set and bright lipstick reached toward Monica. "This one is always so quiet."
Kitty smiled politely. "She's… observant."
The woman laughed, but her eyes lingered on Monica like she was trying to read her. "Well. Maybe she'll be the smart one."
Kitty's smile twitched.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Maybe.
In Point Place, "smart" wasn't always praise. It was also suspicion.
Kitty shifted Monica to her hip and moved deeper into the hall. Chairs were set up in a loose circle. A table with coffee and donuts sat at the side. A few older kids ran around near a bulletin board decorated with paper hearts—Valentine's crafts starting early.
A teacher-looking woman was pinning up a sign: SUNDAY SCHOOL ENROLLMENT — SPRING SESSION.
There it was: the school vibe, the church's version of education.
Monica watched older children—four, five, six—practice writing their names on papers while mothers chatted.
Laurie reached for a paper heart and crumpled it immediately.
Kitty gasped. "Laurie—no—"
Laurie grinned.
A few women laughed lightly. "Oh, she's spirited."
Kitty laughed too, but it sounded strained. "Yes. Very."
Monica watched how the women framed it.
Spirited. Strong-willed. A handful.
Words that excused Laurie.
Words that would become Laurie's armor.
Kitty sat with the circle, balancing both twins. Coffee was poured. Donuts were passed. Conversation drifted like smoke—soft and friendly until you listened close enough to hear the sharpness underneath.
"…the price of eggs is ridiculous."
"…Frank at the plant says they're cutting hours again."
"…my husband says not to worry, but he's been quiet."
"…they're talking about the union again."
"…if they strike, what are we supposed to do?"
"…we'll manage. We always manage."
Kitty's hands tightened slightly on Monica's coat.
Monica's mind sharpened.
Red had said "fine," but the hall was full of women saying "cutting hours" with tight mouths.
A woman across from Kitty leaned in. "Kitty, how's Red?"
Kitty's smile flickered. "Oh, he's fine."
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Is he? My Harold said Red's department had a meeting."
Kitty's laugh came too fast. "Oh, you know Red. He doesn't tell me anything."
Several women chuckled knowingly, but the sound carried the weight of fear disguised as humor.
Monica stared at the donut table, but she wasn't thinking about donuts.
She was thinking about patterns.
Meeting. Hours. Union talk.
Red's jaw tightening with every month.
This wasn't a one-day worry. This was a slow squeeze.
Laurie began fussing again, bored of adult talk. She squirmed, then let out a sharp cry.
Kitty bounced her gently. "Shh—Laurie—"
Laurie screamed louder.
Heads turned. Smiles tightened.
Kitty's face flushed with embarrassment. "Oh—she's tired—"
Laurie wasn't tired.
Laurie wanted the circle to become about Laurie.
Monica watched Kitty's shoulders tense, watched the panic flicker in her mother's eyes—the fear of being judged.
Kitty's social standing mattered more than she admitted.
In Point Place, being "a good mother" was currency.
Laurie was spending Kitty's currency like she didn't care.
Monica did something small—so small no one would label it unnatural.
She leaned toward Laurie and pressed her forehead lightly against Laurie's arm, then made a soft babble—gentle, rhythmic.
It wasn't a word.
It was a sound that felt like comfort.
Laurie's scream faltered, surprised by the contact.
Kitty blinked down at them.
Monica repeated the soft babble, then patted Laurie's sleeve once—steady, calm.
Laurie sniffed, still angry, but the screaming stopped.
The women relaxed again, turning back to their coffee like nothing had happened.
Kitty exhaled shakily.
She leaned down and whispered, barely audible, "Thank you, Monica."
Monica stared up at her mother with wide eyes and innocence.
Inside, she was simply taking notes:
Kitty's fear isn't Red.
Kitty's fear is people.
And people were everywhere.
______
When they left the church hall, Kitty looked lighter—like she'd refilled something in herself by being around others, even if those others were walking bundles of anxiety and judgment.
In the parking lot, she paused near two women still talking by a car.
"…he said they might freeze promotions."
"…and what about bonuses?"
"…who even gets bonuses anymore?"
"…Red Forman does overtime like it's a religion."
"…well, someone has to."
Kitty's hand tightened on the car door handle.
Monica watched her mother's face—how Kitty smiled politely as they passed, but her eyes looked strained.
Kitty strapped the twins in with a little more force than usual.
Then she got behind the wheel and sat there a moment before turning the key.
Her voice came soft, almost to herself. "We're fine."
Monica stared out the window at the gray sky.
Adults said "we're fine" the way they said "it'll pass."
Sometimes it did.
Sometimes it didn't.
______
Red came home after dark.
The house had already settled into evening routine—dinner dishes, bath time, Kitty trying to keep Laurie from climbing onto the counter while Monica sat quietly with a cloth book in her lap, turning pages like she understood story even without words.
The back door opened, and cold air slid in with Red.
He stepped inside smelling like metal and oil and winter. His shoulders looked heavier than they had that morning. His boots thudded on the mat like punctuation.
Kitty turned instantly, face brightening. "Hi!"
Red grunted, shrugging off his coat. "Yeah."
Kitty approached, cautious. "How was it?"
Red's jaw tightened. "Fine."
Kitty's smile faltered. "Red…"
Red didn't explode. He didn't raise his voice.
He just moved to the sink, washed his hands harder than necessary, and stared at the water like he wanted it to carry his thoughts away.
Kitty hovered behind him, dish towel in hand, waiting.
Monica watched from the living room doorway.
Laurie toddled toward Red, arms up, demanding attention.
Red didn't lift her.
He stepped around her as if she was furniture.
Laurie froze, stunned by the refusal.
Then Laurie screamed—sharp, furious.
Kitty flinched. "Laurie—honey—"
Red's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Stop."
Laurie screamed again.
Red turned, eyes hard. "I said stop."
Kitty moved quickly, scooping Laurie up. "She just wants you—"
Red snapped, quieter but more dangerous. "I don't have it today, Kitty."
Silence hit the room.
Kitty went still.
Laurie's screaming faltered, confused by the sudden tension.
Monica watched Red's face. His mouth was tight, eyes tired, posture rigid like if he loosened even a little, something inside him would spill out.
Kitty's voice softened. "What happened."
Red stared at the floor for a beat.
Then, finally, the truth slipped through—not dramatic, not emotional, just heavy.
"They're talking layoffs."
Kitty's breath caught. "Red…"
Red's voice stayed flat, but it was the flatness of a man forcing control over fear. "Not mine yet. But… it's coming for somebody."
Kitty's eyes filled with tears she tried to hide. "Oh my god."
Red's jaw clenched. "Don't."
Kitty swallowed hard, nodding like she'd been trained. "Okay. Okay."
Red turned away again, as if the admission had cost him.
Monica's chest tightened.
There it was—finally spoken aloud.
Whispers becoming real.
The squeeze was tightening.
Laurie began fussing again, picking up on Kitty's panic.
Kitty bounced her too quickly, trying to soothe, but Kitty's hands were trembling now.
Red looked at Laurie, irritation flaring.
Then Red's gaze flicked to Monica.
Monica sat quietly, watching him.
Red stared for a long beat.
Then he did something unexpected.
He crossed the room and lifted Monica—just Monica—into his arms.
Kitty blinked, startled. "Red?"
Red didn't answer.
He held Monica against his chest, one hand firm on her back like he needed something solid.
Monica leaned into him, quiet and steady.
Red's voice came low, rough. "You hear all that noise today?"
Monica blinked.
Red's mouth tightened. "Ignore it."
Kitty's voice trembled. "Red—"
Red cut her off with a glance, then spoke to Monica again like Monica was the only person in the room he could talk to without losing face.
"You don't worry," he muttered. "You just—" He swallowed hard. "You just do what you're supposed to do."
Monica stared up at him with calm eyes.
Red's grip tightened slightly, protective.
Kitty wiped at her eyes quickly, turning away like she didn't want anyone to see.
Laurie watched from Kitty's arms, eyes narrowed—jealousy sparking even through toddler confusion.
Monica filed that away too.
The town was tightening.
The house was tightening.
And when men like Red felt squeezed, they held on harder to whatever they could still control.
Right now, that control was Monica's quiet obedience.
Monica didn't fight it.
She stayed steady.
Because steadiness was a weapon in a world built on pressure.
And tonight, as Red stood in the living room holding Monica while Kitty tried not to cry and Laurie watched with hungry resentment, Monica understood something important about Point Place:
This town didn't explode all at once.
It suffocated slowly.
With whispers. With layoffs. With pride. With women smiling through fear and men swallowing anger until it became hardness.
Monica rested her head against Red's shoulder, toddler-small, eyes open.
And in the quiet, she made herself another note for the Future Box:
Plant trouble isn't a rumor anymore.
It's a timeline.
And if Monica was going to survive it—if she was going to build anything that didn't depend on Red's overtime and Kitty's smiles—she would have to start thinking beyond the house.
Beyond the town.
Beyond the winter that made Point Place breathe like it was bracing for something worse.
Because Monica had been reborn into a place that loved pretending everything was fine.
And Monica, even at not-quite-two, could already see the cracks forming under the paint.