Monday, November 28, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
By the end of November, Point Place looked like it had been rubbed raw by wind.
The trees were stripped down to bare bones. The sky sat low and heavy. Every breath outside tasted like cold metal, and every house on the street seemed to be playing the same game—pretending it wasn't winter yet while quietly preparing for it anyway.
Inside the Forman house, Kitty was already in holiday mode.
Holiday mode meant cinnamon. It meant waxy red candles. It meant Kitty insisting on "making things nice" even when the house was held together by sleep deprivation and Red's mood swings.
And it meant Kitty humming while she cleaned, like if she kept singing the house wouldn't fall apart.
Monica sat on the living room rug with a wooden spoon and a plastic bowl, stirring imaginary soup the way toddlers were supposed to.
Her eyes, however, were on everything else.
Laurie was on the couch—kicking, pouting, bored in the way only a toddler who was used to attention could be bored. Eric was in his carrier near Kitty's feet, blinking up at the world with fat cheeks and a face that made strangers melt. Kitty moved between kitchen and living room in quick circles, wiping, straightening, making lists in her head.
Red was still at work.
Red meant the house had air in it.
Not peace—Kitty was too tired for peace.
But air.
The phone rang mid-morning.
Kitty froze for half a second, eyes flicking to it like it might be bad news. Then she smoothed her robe and answered with that bright voice she used when she needed to convince the world she was fine.
"Hello! Forman residence!"
Monica watched Kitty's face change as she listened.
Not fear.
Not grief.
That tight, polite tension Kitty saved for other women.
"Oh—hi, Eileen," Kitty chirped.
Monica's attention sharpened.
Mrs. Eileen— one of the neighbor women Kitty tried to be friends with because Kitty believed if the neighborhood liked her, her family would be safe.
Kitty laughed too brightly. "Yes, we're doing well! Eric's getting so big, you should see his cheeks!"
Monica stirred her imaginary soup slower, listening.
Kitty's smile faltered, just slightly. "Oh… really?"
A pause.
Kitty's voice went careful. "Well, I'm sure that's just talk."
Another pause.
Kitty's eyes flicked toward the hallway—toward Red's coat hooks, toward the space Red filled even when he wasn't home.
Kitty's laugh turned thin. "No, Red hasn't said anything."
Monica's grip tightened around the spoon.
Plant talk.
It was always plant talk.
Kitty kept smiling while her eyes dulled. "Uh-huh… mm-hmm… well, I'm sure everything will be fine."
She ended the call with that same bright chirp, hung up, and then stood there for a beat too long staring at the receiver.
Laurie noticed instantly—Kitty's attention had shifted away from her.
Laurie slid off the couch and stomped toward the kitchen like she was preparing a tantrum.
Monica watched Kitty swallow, straighten, and turn back into a person.
Kitty clapped her hands once, too loud. "Okay! Girls! We're going to go to the church hall."
Laurie paused mid-stomp, suddenly interested. "Go?"
Kitty nodded quickly. "Yes! There's a little holiday bazaar. We're going to say hi, and Mommy needs to pick up a few things."
Monica didn't react outwardly.
Inside, she did the calculation instantly:
Church hall = women + gossip + eyes.
Eyes meant danger.
Eyes meant labels.
Eyes meant people deciding what the Formans were.
Kitty bent down, smoothing Monica's hair. "Monica, sweetie, you'll be good, right?"
Monica nodded, wide-eyed toddler obedient.
Kitty exhaled like she'd been given permission to breathe.
_____
The church hall smelled like coffee and old wood.
Tables lined the room—baked goods, knitted scarves, crafts, handmade ornaments. Women stood in clusters wearing coats and polite smiles. The kind of polite smiles that meant we're being friendly but we're also watching you.
Kitty entered with Eric in his carrier and Laurie's hand in hers. Monica followed close, quiet as a shadow.
"Kitty!" someone called.
Kitty's face brightened instantly, grateful for recognition. "Hi!"
A woman leaned in to look at Eric. "Oh my goodness, he's adorable."
Kitty beamed. "Thank you."
Another woman—older, sharper—looked down at Laurie. "And this must be Laurie."
Laurie smiled sweetly, practiced already.
Then the woman's gaze shifted to Monica.
It always shifted to Monica.
It always paused a beat too long.
"This one's… quiet," the woman said.
Kitty's smile tightened. "She's shy."
The woman hummed, unconvinced. "Hmm."
Kitty laughed too quickly and moved on, steering them toward a bake table as if cookies could erase discomfort.
Monica stayed calm on the outside, but her mind sharpened with that familiar irritation:
Adults got nervous when girls weren't convenient.
Monica wasn't loud, so she wasn't "cute."
Monica wasn't needy, so she wasn't "easy."
Monica watched, so she wasn't "normal."
Kitty chatted with a few women, picking up a pie and a tin of cookies she didn't need but bought anyway because saying no felt rude.
Laurie started tugging toward a table with ornaments, whining for something shiny.
Kitty tried to soothe. "Laurie, not right now."
Laurie's whine rose louder.
Kitty's cheeks flushed—public embarrassment.
Monica reacted before the tantrum could bloom.
She toddled toward a table near the wall where a box of small candy canes sat as freebies for kids. Monica grabbed one and held it out toward Laurie like a gift.
Laurie's whine paused.
Candy canes meant attention.
Laurie snatched it and immediately began licking it like she'd invented sugar.
Kitty exhaled, relief flickering across her face. "Oh—thank you, Monica."
Monica smiled, small and sweet.
Inside, she repeated the rule:
Offer Laurie a distraction. Offer Kitty relief. Keep the room calm.
That was how you survived Point Place.
Near the coffee station, the men had their own cluster—smaller than the women's, but louder in the way men were when they thought nobody could force them to be polite.
Monica drifted closer—not obviously, not in a way that drew attention—just enough to hear.
"…heard they're going to 'restructure' after the new year…"
"…Burkhart's tightening things…"
"…not layoffs, not yet…"
"…don't say that in front of the wives…"
"…you didn't hear it from me…"
Monica's stomach went cold.
Kitty's smile stayed fixed as she chatted, but her hands tightened around the pie tin.
She was listening too.
She just didn't want anyone to know she was listening.
Because women were expected to pretend they didn't understand money until it was already gone.
Monica watched Kitty's face—those tiny shifts, the way Kitty's eyes flicked toward the men and then away again like looking would make it real.
Then Kitty's gaze landed on Monica, like she needed Monica to be harmless right now.
Monica widened her eyes and babbled softly—toddler nonsense.
Kitty's shoulders loosened slightly.
She needed Monica to stay small.
She needed Monica to be one less thing to worry about.
Monica played the part perfectly.
But inside, Monica stored every word she'd heard.
Restructure. Tightening. After the new year.
It wasn't immediate disaster.
But it was the kind of quiet threat that became disaster if you ignored it.
____
When they got home, the house felt colder.
Not temperature—Kitty had the furnace going.
Cold in the way the air held tension now.
Kitty set the pie down, hung her coat, and started fussing over Eric like she could fuss her fear into disappearing.
Laurie ran straight to her toys, sugar-fueled and smug.
Monica lingered near the hallway, watching Kitty like she was watching a dam crack.
The front door opened.
Red.
His boots hit the floor hard. His work jacket smelled like cold and plant air. He walked in with that familiar heaviness.
Kitty brightened instantly. "Hi!"
Red grunted. "Yeah."
Kitty tried to sound casual. "We went to the church hall today."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Why."
Kitty laughed lightly. "Just to get out. And I got pie."
Red's gaze flicked to the pie tin like it might be an expense he didn't approve of.
Kitty hurried. "It was for the bazaar—"
Red cut her off with a grunt, then looked toward Monica.
Monica stared back, wide-eyed, toddler blank.
Red's expression shifted slightly—approval, suspicion, something else.
Then his eyes moved to Eric.
Red's mouth softened for half a second before he caught himself and made it hard again.
Kitty said, carefully, "Some of the men were talking today."
Red's jaw tightened. "Talking about what."
Kitty hesitated.
Monica's heartbeat kicked up.
Kitty chose her words like she was walking on glass. "Just… about the plant."
Red's face went flat. "People talk."
Kitty swallowed. "They said—after the new year—"
Red snapped, sharp. "Kitty."
Kitty flinched.
Red's voice dropped, warning. "Don't."
Kitty's eyes flashed—hurt and frustration. "Red, I'm not trying to upset you. I'm just—"
Red's jaw flexed. "I know what's going on at the plant."
Kitty went quiet.
Red muttered, "And I don't need church gossip to tell me."
Then he turned away like the conversation was over, like fear was something you could end by refusing to speak it aloud.
Kitty stood there, blinking fast.
Monica felt anger rise in her chest—adult anger, sharp and powerless.
Because refusing to talk didn't stop reality.
It just meant Kitty carried it alone.
Monica moved slowly toward Kitty, climbed up against her leg, and hugged her knee.
Kitty startled, then looked down.
Her face softened and crumpled at the same time. She stroked Monica's hair with shaking fingers.
"Oh, Monica…"
Monica stayed still, pressing her cheek to Kitty's robe.
Act normal. Act small.
But anchor your mother when your father won't.
That night, after everyone was asleep, Monica lay in bed listening to the house settle.
She could hear Red and Kitty's muffled voices through the wall—Red's low, Kitty's soft and strained.
Then silence.
Monica stared into the dark and thought:
Everybody knows everybody in Point Place.
And everybody talks.
Monica couldn't control the plant.
She couldn't control Red's pride.
She couldn't control Kitty's worry.
But she could control one thing:
She could keep learning.
Keep storing.
Keep preparing.
Because the world was already moving.
And Monica refused to be caught unprepared.