Monday, March 7, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 1)
By March, Point Place didn't look like winter anymore—it looked like the after of winter.
Snow had shrunk into dirty piles along fence lines and the edges of the road, like the town was trying to pretend it had always meant to be this gray. The yard was a mess of slush and dead grass. The sky stayed low and pale, pressing down on rooftops as if it didn't trust the ground to behave.
Monica stood at the living room window with her hands on the sill, toddler-steady, watching the street like it was television.
Kids in wool coats and knit caps walked past with lunch pails swinging. Men in work jackets moved toward their cars. A woman down the street shook out a rug on her porch like she was trying to beat the season out of it.
Everything looked ordinary.
Which was how Point Place liked it.
Ordinary meant you didn't have to ask questions.
Ordinary meant nobody had to admit they were scared.
Behind Monica, Kitty hummed while she folded laundry with too much energy—like she could fold fear into neat squares if she worked hard enough. Laurie sat on the rug surrounded by toys, bored and offended by the fact that the world didn't exist to entertain her.
Red's lunch pail waited by the back door.
He was already gone—boots, coat, coffee, a muttered "bye," and the click of the door shutting behind him like a period at the end of every morning.
Monica watched Kitty's shoulders tense and release every time that door clicked.
Kitty talked more on days like this. She filled the house with sound so the quiet didn't have room to say anything cruel.
"Okay," Kitty announced, like she was starting a show. "We're going out."
Laurie perked up instantly—out meant people.
Monica didn't move from the window, but her focus sharpened.
Out meant information.
Kitty gathered diaper bags and blankets and the twins' little coats. Laurie fought her coat like it was an enemy. Monica let Kitty dress her without fuss—quiet cooperation that kept Kitty calmer.
Kitty exhaled in relief the moment Monica's arms slid into the sleeves.
"You're such a good girl," Kitty murmured, kissing Monica's forehead.
Laurie made a sharp sound of protest, offended that praise existed.
Kitty shifted, automatically soothing. "You too, Laurie—oh, honey—stop squirming."
Monica watched the pattern like it was math.
Laurie demanded. Kitty responded. Red resisted. Monica stabilized.
They bundled out into the crisp cold, the air smelling like wet dirt waking up under snow and the faint bite of chimney smoke. Kitty drove toward town, radio low, her eyes flicking too often to the rearview mirror.
Not checking traffic.
Checking them.
Checking that she still had control.
They weren't going to church today.
They were going downtown.
Point Place's downtown was a handful of storefronts, a diner, a hardware store, a bar that men pretended was a "social club," and a grocery that smelled like paper bags and apples and floor cleaner.
Kitty parked close to the grocery, hauled the twins out, and pushed them inside.
Warmth hit them, along with that distinct grocery smell—produce, old cardboard, coffee beans, and something faintly sweet from the bakery section.
Kitty smiled automatically at the cashier.
"Morning, Kitty!"
"Hi, Diane!" Kitty chirped, as if "morning" meant anything. "How are you?"
Diane's smile tightened in that way Monica was learning to read. "Oh, you know."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "Oh, I know."
Monica watched it unfold like a ritual.
Nobody said what they meant.
They circled it with jokes and polite faces.
Kitty pushed the cart down the aisle, Laurie wriggling in the seat, Monica sitting quietly beside her. People passed them and said things like, "Oh my goodness, look at them!" and "They're getting so big!" and "Kitty, you must be exhausted."
Kitty laughed like exhaustion was charming.
Monica watched their eyes.
Point Place people looked at toddlers like toddlers were cute—until the toddlers became kids.
Then they became neighbors' kids.
Then they became talk.
In the canned goods aisle, Kitty paused, scanning shelves. Laurie reached for a can and slapped it off the shelf on purpose.
It hit the floor with a loud metallic clunk.
A nearby woman turned. Her expression pinched.
Kitty flushed. "Laurie! Oh my gosh—honey—"
Laurie grinned.
Kitty snatched the can up and placed it back, then wiped Laurie's hands like that would erase the sound.
"I'm so sorry," Kitty said quickly to the woman.
The woman's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Kids."
Kitty laughed too fast. "Right? Kids."
Monica sat still, watching the woman walk away.
Kitty's shoulders rose and fell.
Then Kitty leaned closer to the twins, voice low. "We do not do that."
Laurie made a dramatic noise like she was dying.
Monica didn't react.
Because reacting made Laurie feel powerful.
Instead, Monica turned her gaze toward the end of the aisle, where two men stood near the coffee display, talking in low voices.
One of them wore a plant jacket.
His posture had that same stiffness Red carried home.
The other man's voice drifted over—quiet but sharp.
"…heard it's going to be Henderson's line first…"
The plant-jacket man muttered, "…they'll do it slow, they always do…"
Monica's mind clicked.
Layoffs.
Not just a rumor in Red's jaw anymore.
It was in the grocery store, in the coffee aisle, carried like contraband between men who didn't want their wives to hear.
Kitty pushed the cart forward, not looking at them, but Monica saw the way her mother's smile thinned as she passed.
Kitty had heard too.
She just pretended she hadn't—because to acknowledge it out loud would make it real.
At the checkout, Diane leaned over the register, eyes flicking toward the twins and then toward Kitty's face.
"You hear anything?" Diane asked, too casual.
Kitty's smile locked into place. "About what?"
Diane's brows lifted. "The plant."
Kitty's laugh came out sharp. "Oh—no, no—Red says it's fine."
Diane's smile tightened again. "Yeah."
Kitty's hand clenched on the cart handle.
Monica watched the exchange and stored it away.
Point Place was a town where everyone knew everyone, but nobody ever wanted to be the first to say the truth.
As Kitty gathered the bags, Diane's voice dropped, almost kind.
"If you need anything…"
Kitty blinked, startled, then forced a brighter smile. "Oh, thank you. We're fine."
We're fine.
Monica heard it like a bell.
Adults rang that phrase like it warded off disaster.
Outside, the wind slapped cold into their faces again. Kitty loaded groceries into the car with too much speed, as if rushing could keep the fear behind her.
On the drive home, she detoured past the plant.
Not close enough to stop—just close enough to see it.
The factory loomed, gray and heavy, smoke crawling out of stacks into the pale sky.
Monica stared at it, toddler-wide-eyed, while her adult mind measured it like a threat.
That building wasn't just where Red worked.
It was the foundation of their whole household.
If it cracked, everything cracked.
Kitty drove faster after they passed it.
_____
That night, Red came home later than usual.
The house was dim, dinner already eaten, Kitty moving quietly as she cleaned, Laurie half-asleep on the couch with a blanket, Monica sitting on the floor with a cloth book in her lap.
The back door opened and the cold slipped in with Red.
He looked tired in a way that wasn't just physical—like his anger had been running all day and finally ran out of fuel.
Kitty turned instantly, soft smile on her face like she'd practiced it in the mirror. "Hi."
Red grunted, hanging his coat. "Yeah."
Kitty's voice stayed gentle. "Long day?"
Red's jaw tightened. "Overtime."
Kitty's breath caught. "Oh."
Red didn't look at her. He washed his hands at the sink, hard, as if scrubbing off the day.
Kitty hovered a few steps away, dish towel clutched like a lifeline. "Did… did you have to?"
Red's eyes flicked toward her—sharp warning. "We need it."
Kitty swallowed. "Okay."
Monica watched from the floor.
Laurie shifted in her sleep and made a small whining sound.
Red's gaze flicked toward the couch, irritation flaring automatically—then he saw Laurie asleep, and his expression softened by a fraction before hardening again.
Monica filed that away too.
Red Forman didn't like Laurie's noise.
But he still cared.
He just didn't know how to show it without feeling like it made him weak.
Kitty spoke again, softer. "I went to the store today."
Red grunted. "Yeah?"
Kitty hesitated, then said carefully, "People are… talking."
Red's hands stilled under the faucet.
Silence thickened the kitchen.
Then Red turned the water off, grabbed a towel, and said flatly, "People always talk."
Kitty's voice trembled. "Red…"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Not in front of the kids."
Kitty's gaze flicked to Monica, who sat quietly, watching like a statue.
Red's eyes followed Kitty's gaze—and his expression tightened.
He knew.
He knew Monica was listening in her own way, even if she couldn't speak it.
He didn't like that.
He liked control.
And Monica's quiet intelligence was the one thing in the house he couldn't fully control.
Red crossed the room, crouched, and lifted Monica into his arms with that stiff carefulness he'd been showing more lately.
Monica leaned into him—small, warm, steady.
Red muttered, mostly to Kitty but aimed at Monica like it mattered, "Everything's fine."
Kitty's eyes filled.
Red's jaw clenched. "I said it's fine."
Kitty nodded too fast. "Okay."
Monica rested her cheek against Red's shoulder and stared over his collar at Kitty.
Kitty wiped at her eyes quickly and turned away to fuss with dishes she'd already cleaned.
Red held Monica a beat longer than necessary.
Then, quiet enough that Kitty might not hear, he muttered into Monica's hair:
"People can talk all they want. We don't listen."
Monica blinked slowly.
Because she was listening.
She had to.
Point Place was breathing different now—tight, shallow, afraid.
And Monica could feel the way that fear was going to change everything long before anyone admitted it out loud.