Friday, May 13, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Eric Forman is born Thursday, May 19, 1960.)
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
By mid-May, Point Place had stopped pretending it was spring and started acting like it had always been warm.
The snow was a memory. The air smelled like damp dirt and fresh-cut grass. The windows were open in the daytime, and at night you could hear crickets outside the Forman house like the world was practicing for summer.
Inside, the house didn't feel like summer.
It felt like a countdown.
Kitty Forman moved through rooms like she was trying to outrun time—one hand bracing her lower back, the other carrying piles of laundry, tiny folded shirts, stacks of clean towels. She called it "nesting." Red called it "making everyone miserable."
Laurie called it attention.
And Monica—
Monica watched the whole thing like a person standing in the doorway of a storm, measuring the direction of the wind.
Kitty's belly was big now. Not just pregnancy-big—end big. Her movements were slower, careful, and there were moments when she froze for a second with her eyes squeezed shut like she'd been punched from the inside. Then she'd inhale, smile too brightly, and say, "Oh! Just a little kick."
Laurie didn't like the kicks.
Laurie didn't like anything that reminded her the house was about to revolve around somebody else.
So Laurie had begun doing what Laurie did best.
Testing the seams.
That morning, Monica sat on the kitchen floor with a wooden spoon and a pot lid, tapping softly—clink, clink—a harmless toddler sound that made Kitty feel like the world was still manageable.
Laurie, on the other hand, stood on a dining chair like a tiny tyrant, both hands on the table, bouncing on her toes.
Kitty looked up too quickly. "Laurie—sit down, honey."
Laurie didn't sit.
Laurie bounced higher, mouth open in a delighted squeal.
Kitty's face tightened. "Laurie—please don't—"
Red's voice came from the living room, already sharp. "Get her down."
Kitty sighed—half plea, half exhaustion. "Red, I'm trying—"
Red's newspaper rustled. "Try harder."
Kitty's eyes flashed, but she swallowed it. She always swallowed it lately. Like she was afraid if she didn't, she'd spill something she couldn't put back.
She waddled over, one hand braced on the chair back. "Laurie, Mommy needs you to—"
Laurie chose that exact second to stomp on the chair seat hard enough to make the chair scrape.
Kitty startled, belly shifting forward, balance wobbling.
Monica's entire body went cold.
Not because Kitty fell—she didn't.
Because Monica saw the almost.
Red did too.
The newspaper snapped shut.
"Jesus—" Red stood so fast his chair legs screeched. "Kitty."
Kitty's mouth went tight. "I'm fine."
Red glared at Laurie like Laurie was personally responsible for every bad thing in the world. "Get down."
Laurie stared up at him and made a loud, dramatic whine—pure performance.
Red didn't flinch.
He marched over, grabbed Laurie under the arms, and lifted her off the chair like she was a bag of flour. He set her down on the floor—firm, final—and pointed toward the living room.
"You. Corner."
Laurie blinked, stunned.
Kitty blinked too. "Red—she's two—"
Red's voice cut like a blade. "Then she can be two in the corner."
Laurie's mouth opened.
Kitty braced for screaming.
Instead, Laurie's eyes flicked—quick, calculating—toward Monica.
Because Laurie had learned something this past month:
When Red's attention drifted to Monica, Laurie could steal it back by making Monica the problem.
Laurie turned, toddled straight to Monica, and slammed her hand down onto Monica's pot lid so hard the spoon jumped.
Clang.
Then Laurie shoved the lid away like it was trash.
Monica didn't react.
Monica's face stayed calm.
Monica's hands stayed still.
Laurie waited—hungry—for Monica to cry.
Monica didn't.
Laurie's cheeks flushed. Her jaw tightened. She shoved Monica's shoulder, not hard enough to knock her over, but hard enough to be mean.
Kitty gasped. "Laurie!"
Red's head snapped.
In the same instant, Monica did the only thing that ever worked on Laurie without lighting the whole house on fire.
She redirected.
Monica scooted forward, grabbed the pot lid, and held it out—offering it back like a gift.
Laurie froze, confused.
Monica babbled softly—gentle nonsense sounds—and patted the lid twice like it was fun, like it was shared.
Laurie's angry focus wavered.
Because Laurie didn't want to be soothed.
But Laurie did want to be important.
Monica's offer made Laurie feel like she still owned the room.
Laurie snatched the lid out of Monica's hands and clutched it possessively.
Kitty exhaled shakily, hand over her belly like she'd been holding her breath.
Red stared at Monica like she'd just done something he didn't have a name for.
Then he looked at Laurie—now quiet because she'd "won"—and said flatly:
"Corner."
Laurie's mouth tightened, but she didn't scream.
She stomped toward the living room, pot lid held like a trophy.
Kitty's shoulders sagged in relief.
She looked down at Monica, eyes soft. "Sweetheart…"
Monica blinked up at her mother, wide-eyed and innocent.
Red muttered, low enough Kitty might not hear, "She's not normal."
Kitty's head snapped. "Red."
Red's jaw clenched. "I mean—" He swallowed hard, annoyed at himself. "She listens."
Kitty's voice sharpened. "You say that like it's bad."
Red didn't answer.
He just stared at Monica a beat longer than necessary, then turned away like the feeling in his chest was an inconvenience.
_____
The nursery wasn't really a nursery yet.
It was a corner of their bedroom where Kitty had shoved a crib against the wall and stacked folded blankets like they were fortifying it. A small dresser had been cleared out—half baby clothes, half Kitty's old linens, because Kitty didn't know how to make space without keeping something.
That afternoon, Kitty sat on the bed with a stack of tiny white onesies in her lap, folding and refolding the same one like she needed her hands to stay busy.
Monica sat on the carpet near the doorway, turning the pages of a cloth book. Laurie sat closer to Kitty, watching the pile of baby things with narrowed eyes.
Laurie didn't speak much yet. She had words, sure—sharp little toddler words—but she didn't do full sentences. She preferred impact over clarity.
But she understood exactly what those onesies meant.
Kitty smiled down at Laurie. "Soon you're going to be a big sister."
Laurie's face twisted like she'd been insulted.
Kitty laughed nervously. "A big sister! You'll help Mommy, won't you?"
Laurie slapped the onesie out of Kitty's hands.
Not out of play.
Out of spite.
The fabric fluttered to the floor like a white flag.
Kitty froze, breath catching.
Monica's chest tightened.
Kitty's voice went careful. "Laurie… honey…"
Laurie made a sharp sound and pointed at the crib, then shoved her finger toward the wall like she wanted it gone.
Kitty's eyes filled instantly—emotion too close to the surface these days. "Oh—Laurie…"
Red's voice came from the doorway. "What happened."
Kitty flinched. "Nothing."
Red stepped in anyway, eyes scanning. His gaze landed on the onesie on the floor.
Then it landed on Laurie.
Then it landed on Monica—quiet as always, watching like a hawk in toddler skin.
Red's jaw tightened. "Pick it up."
Laurie stared up at him, defiant.
Red didn't blink. "Pick. It. Up."
Laurie's mouth opened—scream loading like a weapon.
Monica moved before the scream could detonate.
She toddled forward—slow, clumsy toddler steps—picked up the onesie herself, and held it out toward Kitty with a soft babble.
Kitty's face crumpled. "Oh, Monica…"
Red's eyes narrowed.
Because Monica had just done it again—diffused the moment, stole Laurie's power without making it obvious.
Red's voice went low, dangerous. "No."
Monica froze, onesie still in her hands.
Red pointed at Laurie, voice like iron. "She picks it up."
Laurie blinked, stunned that Red hadn't accepted Monica's rescue.
Kitty whispered, "Red…"
Red didn't look at her. "If she doesn't learn now, she'll get worse."
Kitty swallowed hard.
Monica stayed still, eyes wide, holding the onesie like a neutral object suddenly turned into a battleground.
Laurie stared at Red.
Red stared back.
The room held its breath.
Then Laurie—very slowly—reached out and grabbed the onesie from Monica's hands.
Laurie didn't pick it up from the floor like Red wanted.
But she took it.
And in Laurie's mind, taking was the same as controlling.
Laurie shoved the onesie onto the bed. Sloppy. Aggressive. But not thrown.
Red's jaw flexed like he wanted to demand more.
Then Kitty let out a shaky breath and said quickly, "Good! Good job, Laurie!"
Red's gaze snapped to Kitty.
Kitty flinched but didn't back down. "She did it."
Red muttered, "Barely."
Kitty's eyes flashed. "Barely is still progress."
Red stared at Kitty—long, tense.
Then he looked away like he didn't want to fight with his pregnant wife over a onesie.
"Fine," he muttered. "But she's not slapping your hands anymore."
Kitty nodded quickly, relief flooding her. "Okay."
Monica backed away quietly, returning to her book like none of it had happened.
Inside, Monica filed the moment away as a warning:
When Eric comes, Laurie's jealousy won't be cute.
It will be dangerous.
Not to Eric—yet. Laurie was too little.
But dangerous to Kitty's calm.
Dangerous to Red's temper.
Dangerous to the fragile balance Monica had been holding together with nothing but timing and silence.
_____
On Tuesday night, May 17, the air felt thick—humid, stormy, wrong.
Kitty paced the living room, rubbing her belly, smile thin. "It's probably nothing."
Red's jaw tightened. "You've said that four times."
Kitty tried to laugh. "Well—what do you want me to say?"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Say the truth."
Kitty's laughter died. She swallowed. "I think it's close."
Red exhaled hard through his nose like he'd been expecting it and still didn't feel ready.
Laurie toddled around the room with a doll, ignoring the tension until Kitty winced sharply mid-step and grabbed the back of the couch.
Red's entire posture snapped into alert. "Kitty."
Kitty's eyes widened. "Oh—"
Red stepped toward her. "That one?"
Kitty breathed in, slow. "Maybe."
Red's mouth tightened. He glanced toward the phone like it might bite him.
Monica sat on the rug, calm, watching everything.
Laurie stared at Kitty, then at Red, sensing the shift—attention moving away from her.
Laurie's face hardened.
Laurie began to whine.
Kitty breathed through it. "Laurie, honey—"
Laurie whined louder.
Red snapped without meaning to. "Stop it."
Laurie screamed.
Kitty flinched like the scream was a slap.
Monica moved—quiet, quick.
She crawled to Laurie and shoved a stuffed animal toward her, babbling brightly like it was the best thing in the world.
Laurie grabbed it, distracted for half a second—
Then Kitty gasped again, louder, and folded forward.
Red's face drained. "That's it."
Kitty's voice shook. "Red—"
Red was already moving. "Phone."
Kitty panted. "Hospital."
Red reached for the phone with hands that looked too big for something so small.
His voice stayed flat, but it wasn't calm. It was control forced over panic. "This is Red Forman. My wife's in labor."
Monica watched him speak like she was watching a man step into a role he'd never practiced out loud.
Kitty gripped the couch, breathing hard. Laurie stared, confused now—attention ripped away from her completely.
And when Laurie felt unimportant, Laurie got vicious.
Laurie shoved Monica.
Harder than before.
Monica toppled sideways onto the rug—soft landing, no injury, but the intent was clear.
Red's head whipped around. "Laurie!"
Laurie froze, eyes wide, then shrieked as if she had been attacked.
Kitty made a sound of distress. "Oh my god—Red—"
Red didn't move toward Laurie. He didn't comfort. He didn't soothe.
He pointed. "You—corner."
Laurie screamed louder.
Monica stayed still on the rug, blinking, letting the toddler tears well—not because she was hurt, but because it served her.
It made her look small.
It made her look like a normal two-year-old.
And it made Red's protective instinct flare in a direction that didn't fracture the room.
Red's gaze flicked to Monica, sharp, then back to Laurie with pure fury.
"You touch her again, you're gonna wish you were never born," Red muttered—low enough Kitty didn't hear the words clearly, but Monica did.
Kitty gasped with another contraction and clutched Red's sleeve. "Red—please—"
Red's focus snapped back to Kitty instantly. "I'm here."
The doorbell rang.
Neighbor.
Church friend.
Somebody Kitty had called earlier "just in case."
A woman stepped in—older, brisk, hair in tight curls—eyes going wide at the sight of Kitty bent over.
"Oh! Kitty!" she exclaimed. "Okay, okay—Red, you go. I've got the girls."
Red didn't like it.
Red didn't like anyone "having" his kids.
But Kitty moaned, and Red's face hardened into necessity.
He nodded once. "Fine."
Then he turned to Monica, crouched, and spoke low—only for Monica.
"Be good."
Monica blinked up at him.
Red's jaw tightened. "Protect your mother."
Then he caught himself—caught the absurdity of asking a two-year-old to protect anyone—and he shook his head like he hated his own fear.
But he still kissed Monica's forehead.
Quick. Rough. Real.
Then he grabbed Kitty's coat and guided her out.
Kitty turned back once, eyes wet. "Monica—Laurie—Mommy—"
Monica lifted one hand and made a soft babble like she understood.
Kitty's face crumpled. Then she was gone.
The door shut.
The house—suddenly—felt hollow.
Laurie screamed.
The neighbor woman bounced Laurie and shushed her, frustrated. "Oh, Laurie—honey—no—"
Monica stood, wiped at her own tears, and stared at the closed door.
Because Monica knew what the house didn't:
This wasn't just a baby coming.
This was a shift in gravity.
_____
Thursday, May 19, 1960 arrived with rain.
Not heavy rain—thin spring rain that turned the road dark and made everything smell like wet earth.
Red came home midafternoon, face exhausted, hair damp, eyes bloodshot.
The neighbor woman stood up instantly. "Red!"
Laurie squealed and ran to him, arms up, suddenly sweet—because Laurie could sense the moment mattered.
Red didn't pick her up.
He walked past her and crouched in front of Monica.
His hands landed on Monica's shoulders—firm, grounding.
Monica stared up at him, still and wide-eyed.
Red's voice was low and rough. "It's a boy."
Monica blinked.
Red swallowed hard like the word meant too much. "Your brother."
Then, quieter, like he couldn't help himself: "He's healthy."
The neighbor woman clapped her hands. "Oh, Red! Congratulations!"
Red didn't react to her celebration.
He just looked at Monica like he needed her to be steady.
Monica made a soft sound—happy baby babble—small smile.
Red exhaled, relief flickering. He stood and looked around the room like he'd forgotten where he was.
Kitty wasn't there.
The house felt wrong without Kitty's voice.
Red muttered, "I'm going back."
The neighbor woman blinked. "Back?"
Red's jaw tightened. "Kitty's tired. She wants me there."
The neighbor woman nodded quickly. "Of course."
Red's gaze flicked to Laurie, then to Monica.
His face tightened like he was trying to split himself into three.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out something small—wrapped.
He placed it into Monica's hands.
A tiny plastic rattle from the hospital gift shop.
Monica stared at it, then up at him.
Red's voice went low. "You're still my kid."
Monica's chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt.
Red straightened, then looked at Laurie. "Don't be a brat."
Laurie's mouth opened in offense.
Red cut her off. "I mean it."
Then he left again, rain and responsibility swallowing him whole.
Monica stood in the living room with a rattle in her hands and the knowledge that everything had just changed.
And Laurie—
Laurie stared at the door, then at Monica, then at the rattle.
Laurie's eyes narrowed.
Because Laurie finally understood.
Someone new had arrived.
And Point Place didn't have enough attention for all of them.