Sunday, December 31, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
New Year's Eve wasn't a party in the Forman house.
Not yet.
Not with a baby. Not with a toddler who treated attention like oxygen. Not with Red carrying plant tension in his bones like a second skeleton.
New Year's Eve was quieter—Kitty trying to make it feel special with whatever energy she had left, Red pretending he didn't care while secretly caring too much, and the house holding its breath like it didn't know what 1961 would bring.
Snow fell lightly outside all day, turning the street white and soft.
Inside, Kitty cooked like cooking was an exorcism.
Stew simmered. Bread warmed in the oven. The kitchen smelled rich and safe.
Red sat at the table with coffee, staring at the newspaper without really reading it.
Eric gurgled in his carrier, fat cheeks glowing in the warm air.
Laurie was already in a mood—restless, bored, sensing that something was "different" about the day and determined to make that difference belong to her.
Monica stayed quiet.
She played with blocks near the tree—the small Christmas tree Kitty had insisted on, decorated with cheap ornaments and too much tinsel. Monica didn't care about the tree the way a toddler was supposed to.
Monica cared about the feeling in the house.
The tightness in Red's jaw.
The careful brightness in Kitty's voice.
The way Laurie kept glancing at Monica like she was deciding whether to attack.
By late afternoon, Kitty declared, "We're going to do something fun tonight."
Red grunted. "Fun."
Kitty shot him a look. "Yes, Red. Fun."
Red muttered, "This house doesn't do fun. It does bills."
Kitty's smile tightened. "This house is doing fun anyway."
Red watched her for a beat—then looked away like he didn't want to admit he admired her stubbornness.
Kitty turned to the girls. "We're going to stay up late."
Laurie squealed, instantly thrilled. "Late!"
Monica didn't squeal.
Monica blinked, sweet and obedient.
Kitty clapped her hands. "We're going to have cocoa and play games and—"
Red cut in. "They're toddlers, Kitty."
Kitty glared. "So?"
Red's voice was flat. "So they'll ruin it."
Kitty snapped, rare steel. "Red Forman, I gave birth five months ago and I'm still standing. We can handle hot cocoa."
Red's mouth twitched like he almost smiled.
Almost.
It started fine.
____
Kitty put on music—soft records, nothing loud. She poured cocoa into small cups—mostly milk, mostly for the ritual. Laurie got marshmallows and immediately began demanding more.
Kitty tried to keep it light. "Just two."
Laurie screamed.
Kitty sighed, rubbing her temple. "Laurie—"
Red's voice came sharp. "Stop screaming."
Laurie's scream became louder purely out of spite.
Eric startled and began to fuss.
Kitty stiffened, overwhelmed, voice cracking. "Oh—Eric—shh—"
Red stood abruptly, chair scraping. "Jesus—"
And Monica, watching the moment tipping toward disaster, moved.
Monica toddled to Laurie and held out her own marshmallows.
An offering.
A distraction.
Laurie paused mid-scream, eyes flicking to the marshmallows like a predator spotting weakness.
Laurie snatched them and shoved them into her mouth.
Kitty exhaled, relief flooding her face. "Thank you, Monica."
Red stared at Monica—again—that look that always hovered between pride and suspicion.
Then Red looked at Laurie—marshmallow-stuffed, smug—and his jaw tightened.
He waited until Eric settled again, then he spoke.
Low. Firm. Final.
"Alright."
Kitty blinked. "Alright… what?"
Red looked at Monica first, then Laurie, then back to Monica as if Monica was the one he expected to understand.
"House rules," Red said.
Kitty's brows lifted. "Red…"
Red cut her off with a look. Not cruel—just immovable.
"No screaming," he said. "No hitting. No throwing things. No whining."
Laurie blinked, offended.
Red's gaze sharpened. "You want something, you ask. You don't act like an animal."
Kitty tried to soften it. "Red, she's two—"
Red's voice stayed flat. "Then she can learn at two."
Monica watched him, still as a statue.
Red's eyes locked onto Monica. "You. You already know this."
Kitty's breath caught, subtle.
Laurie's eyes narrowed instantly—because Red had just said, out loud, that Monica was different.
Monica's chest tightened.
Red was giving Monica pride.
l
He was also giving Laurie ammunition.
Red shifted his focus to Laurie. "When you're told no, you accept no."
Laurie's lip trembled—not fear, not sadness—rage.
Red's voice lowered further. "You test me, you lose."
Kitty's hands tightened around her cocoa cup. "Red… it's New Year's Eve."
Red's jaw flexed. "Exactly."
He looked at Kitty then, and for a second his voice softened—barely. "We're not going into the next year with this house being a circus."
Kitty's face softened too—tired love and tired fear.
Monica watched them both and understood:
Red wasn't just making rules for the kids.
He was making rules because the world felt unstable, and rules made him feel like he could hold it together.
Red crouched down in front of Monica—big hands on his knees, eyes sharp.
"You hear me?" he asked.
Monica nodded slowly, obedient.
Red's gaze searched her face like he was trying to see where "normal" ended and "something else" began.
Then Red said the most Red thing in the world:
"Good."
He straightened, then looked at Laurie. "You hear me?"
Laurie stared back, stubborn.
Kitty held her breath.
Then Laurie—very slowly—nodded.
Not because she agreed.
Because she knew Red meant it.
Red grunted, satisfied, and walked away like he'd just fixed the house with a speech.
Kitty exhaled shakily and tried to regain the festive tone. "Okay! Now—who wants to play a game?"
Laurie shoved cocoa around on the table, bored already.
Monica sat quietly, mind racing.
Because Red's rules didn't just shape behavior.
They shaped identity.
Monica = good.
Laurie = difficult.
Eric = precious.
That triangle would harden over years if nobody intervened.
And Monica already knew where it led:
resentment.
____
Later, when the house finally quieted—when Laurie crashed hard on the couch, sugar spent, when Eric slept in Kitty's arms—
Red sat in his chair with his coffee like he was bracing for midnight even if he pretended he didn't care.
Kitty sat on the couch, rocking gently, eyes half-closed.
Monica lingered near Red like she'd done before, small hands clasped.
Red glanced down at her. "What."
Monica lifted a board book from the shelf and held it out.
Red's mouth tightened like reading offended him.
But he took it anyway.
Kitty watched from the couch, eyes soft.
Red sat back and opened the book, voice stiff, awkward, real.
Monica climbed up beside him, leaned into his arm.
Red read slowly, every word deliberate.
Not because he loved reading.
Because he understood, even if he'd never say it:
This was how Monica anchored herself to him.
This was how she made him hers.
Near midnight, Kitty whispered, "Red… it's almost twelve."
Red grunted. "Yeah."
Kitty smiled softly. "Happy New Year."
Red looked at her—longer than usual—and for a second his face softened enough that Monica saw the man under the armor.
"Yeah," Red murmured. "Happy New Year."
Then he looked down at Monica.
His hand—large, rough—rested on Monica's head for a beat.
Not a pat.
Not a shove.
A steady weight.
A promise.
"You're gonna be alright," Red said quietly—so quietly it felt like he wasn't sure he wanted anyone to hear him say it.
Monica's throat tightened.
She made a soft toddler sound and nodded.
And in her mind, she answered the truth she couldn't speak:
I know. Because I'm going to make sure of it.
After they went to bed, when the house finally settled into silence, Monica waited.
Then she slipped out of her room with practiced quiet, moved down the hallway, and crouched by the closet.
She pulled out her Future Box, opened it, and stared at the pennies.
She added one more.
A 1960 penny—small, dull, real.
Not valuable now.
But symbolic.
A marker.
A proof she'd survived another year.
Monica closed the box and slid it back behind the towels.
Then she returned to bed, heart steady.
1961 was coming.
Point Place would keep watching.
The plant would keep tightening.
Laurie would keep testing.
And Monica would keep acting normal—
while building her future in silence.