Sunday, April 10, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
Monica's second birthday had come and gone three weeks ago.
There hadn't been a party.
No balloons. No parade of neighbors. No "big celebration," even though Kitty usually loved big celebrations.
Kitty had baked a small cake anyway—yellow, soft, frosted with too much sugar. Red had eaten a slice in silence like cake was suspicious. Laurie had smeared frosting on her hands and face like war paint.
Kitty had kissed Monica's cheek and said, "Two years old! Can you believe it?"
Monica could.
Monica could believe everything.
She just didn't say it.
Now, on April tenth, the house felt like it was waiting.
Kitty was big with pregnancy—moving slower, holding her lower back sometimes when she thought nobody was watching. She got out of chairs carefully. She sighed more. She napped when the twins napped, which meant the house was quiet more often.
Red came home with overtime exhaustion in his bones.
And Monica—
Monica was two, which meant people expected things.
Words. Reactions. Baby talk.
Cutely wrong sentences.
They expected her to be behind her eyes, not fully awake inside them.
Monica sat on the kitchen floor with a spoon and a pot lid, making soft clinking sounds—toddler play, harmless noise.
Kitty watched from the table, rubbing her belly absently. "You're so quiet," she murmured, voice soft.
Monica clinked the spoon again and made a small "mmm" sound like she was concentrating.
Kitty smiled, tired and fond. "You know, you could say 'Mommy.' You say it sometimes."
Monica froze inside.
She could say Mommy in perfect English.
She could say Good morning, Mother, I'd like to discuss the economic impact of layoffs on household budgeting.
But she didn't.
Because if Monica broke the mask too soon, she'd lose control of her own life before she even had hands steady enough to hold a pencil.
So Monica did the safe thing.
She looked up at Kitty, widened her eyes, and said softly, "Ma."
Kitty's whole face softened like she'd been given a gift. "Oh—yes! Yes, honey!"
Monica clinked the spoon again.
Kitty leaned back in her chair, breathing carefully. "You're a sweet girl."
From the living room, Laurie shrieked—a bored, dramatic sound—and tossed a stuffed animal across the floor.
Kitty flinched. "Laurie—please—"
Laurie laughed.
Monica kept clinking.
Let Laurie be loud.
Let Laurie be the focus.
Monica's safety depended on being seen as the easy one.
The quiet twin.
The "good girl."
Kitty shifted again, winced slightly, then pushed herself up. "Okay, I'm going to sit for a minute."
She moved toward the couch slowly.
Monica's gaze flicked to her belly, then to Kitty's face.
Kitty didn't talk about it much in front of the twins, but Monica knew what the house was waiting for.
Eric.
May 19, 1960.
A baby boy that would change the family's balance in ways nobody could predict yet.
Kitty lowered herself onto the couch with a careful breath, one hand braced on the cushion, the other protective over her belly.
Laurie toddled over and tried to climb onto Kitty like Kitty was a jungle gym.
Kitty gasped. "Laurie—no, honey—be gentle!"
Laurie wasn't gentle.
Monica stood slowly and toddled over—deliberate, clumsy-looking, toddler-real.
Kitty's eyes flicked to Monica, relief flickering. "Monica—"
Monica reached out, put one small hand on Laurie's shoulder, and patted—gentle, slow.
Then Monica made a soft, simple sound: "No."
Not a sentence.
Not a lecture.
Just one word.
Kitty froze, eyes widening.
Laurie froze too—more offended than surprised.
Kitty stared at Monica like she wasn't sure she'd heard correctly. "Did you just—"
Monica blinked wide and sweet.
Then she looked at Kitty's belly and placed her hand there lightly, like a toddler exploring.
Inside, Monica's mind was careful.
Don't say too much.
Don't do too much.
But do enough that Kitty feels supported.
That Red sees you as steady.
That the house treats you like safety.
Kitty's breath caught. Her voice softened into something almost reverent. "Oh, sweetheart…"
A kick rolled under Monica's palm.
Monica didn't jump.
But her eyes widened, toddler-appropriate surprise.
Kitty laughed softly, eyes shining. "That's your baby brother."
Monica tilted her head like she was learning. "B'bruh."
Kitty's laugh cracked. "Yes. Yes! Baby brother."
Laurie immediately screeched, jealous, and slapped Kitty's belly—not hard, but careless.
Kitty gasped sharply. "Laurie!"
Red's voice came from the doorway—he'd come in from the garage without them noticing, drawn by Kitty's gasp. "What the hell was that?"
Kitty flinched. "Red, she didn't mean—"
Red's gaze landed on Laurie, sharp. "Don't hit your mother."
Laurie's mouth twisted.
Red's eyes narrowed further, then he saw Monica's hand still resting on Kitty's belly—still, gentle.
His expression shifted in that subtle way Monica was learning to recognize.
Approval, buried under suspicion.
Red stepped closer. "You okay?"
Kitty nodded quickly. "Yes. I'm fine."
Red's jaw tightened at the phrase anyway. He glanced at Monica, then muttered, "Good."
And then, as if he couldn't help himself, Red reached down and briefly rested his hand over Monica's hand on Kitty's belly—an awkward, protective stack of hands like a silent promise.
Kitty's eyes filled again.
Red immediately pulled away like emotion burned.
"Alright," he muttered. "I'm hungry."
Kitty blinked, then forced a smile. "Okay. I can—"
Red cut her off. "Sit."
Kitty's mouth fell open. "Red—"
Red's voice stayed firm. "I said sit."
Kitty sat, startled.
Red turned toward the kitchen. "I'll make something."
Kitty looked like she might argue, but her exhaustion won.
She just whispered, "Okay…"
Monica stood beside her mother, toddler-still, while Red clattered around the kitchen like cooking offended him.
Monica's mind raced.
This was a turning point.
Not dramatic.
Not cinematic.
But meaningful.
Red was shifting—slowly—into a man who understood he might have to catch the family if the plant dropped them.
And Kitty—
Kitty was holding on by pretending everything stayed normal.
Monica couldn't fix any of it yet.
Not with a toddler body.
But she could do what she'd been doing all along.
She could act normal.
And quietly, steadily, prepare.
That afternoon, while Kitty napped and Laurie destroyed a stack of magazines in the living room, Monica found a pencil stub under the end table.
Probably dropped by Red and forgotten.
Monica picked it up carefully, heart thudding.
Her hands weren't steady. Her grip was clumsy.
But she could still do something.
She toddled to the hallway, sat with her back against the wall, and pressed the pencil to a scrap of paper she'd scavenged from the torn magazine stack.
She didn't write words.
She didn't write letters.
Not yet.
Too risky.
Instead, she drew a simple mark.
One line.
Then another.
Then a small box.
A child's scribble to anyone who saw it.
But to Monica, it was proof of control.
Proof she could begin.
She folded the scrap awkwardly and hid it under the edge of the rug near the baseboard—somewhere Kitty wouldn't look, somewhere Laurie wouldn't care about.
A tiny seed.
A tiny secret.
Act normal.
Hide the edges.
Build slowly.
Because in five weeks, Eric Forman would be born, and the house would reorder itself around him whether Monica liked it or not.
Monica stood, dropped the pencil stub back where she found it, and toddled into the living room where Laurie was ripping paper with gleeful violence.
Laurie looked up, eyes bright, and shoved a torn page toward Monica like an offering.
Monica accepted it with a soft babble and a small smile—toddler performance, harmless.
Laurie grinned, satisfied.
Kitty slept.
Red cooked in the kitchen, muttering at pans.
And Monica—two years old, trapped in a body the world underestimated—sat on the rug with her sister and played the role everyone expected.
Quiet. Sweet. Easy.
While inside, she counted days like a person who already knew the future was coming.
And this time, she intended to meet it prepared.