Thursday, September 22, 1960 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
Fall didn't arrive in Point Place like a date on a calendar.
It arrived like a mood.
The air turned sharper overnight—cool enough that Kitty closed the windows in the morning, then reopened them by lunch because the sun still insisted on being warm. The trees along the street started to look tired, like they were preparing to let go. The neighborhood smelled like damp leaves and laundry detergent and the first faint hint of someone's furnace clicking on "just to test it."
Inside the Forman house, everything sounded different now that Eric was old enough to make noise on purpose.
Not the newborn cry—need, hunger, panic.
This was a new stage.
Eric could coo. He could protest. He could make a little "eh-eh-eh" sound that made Kitty melt like butter and made Red's expression soften before he caught himself.
Kitty moved through the house with that constant split-focus mothers got—one ear on Eric, one eye on Laurie, and the rest of her attention scattered across the kitchen, the laundry, the dust, and whatever Red's mood was when he walked in the door.
Laurie had adapted to Eric's existence the way Laurie adapted to anything she didn't like:
By becoming a problem in every room.
She was almost three now—still small, still cute enough that strangers laughed when she got loud, but old enough to understand exactly what attention felt like and how quickly it could be taken away from her.
Monica—two and a half—was the opposite.
Monica had become a ghost in her own house.
Not ignored. Not unloved.
But watched.
Kitty watched her like she didn't understand what she was seeing.
Red watched her like he didn't like that he understood.
And Laurie watched her like she was waiting for Monica to slip so she could bite.
It was Thursday morning when Kitty announced they were going out.
"Come on!" she sang, too bright for no reason except that she needed the brightness to keep herself upright. "We're going to town."
Laurie squealed, immediate excitement—town meant people, and people meant Laurie could perform.
Monica didn't squeal. Monica slid off the couch quietly and stood by Kitty's legs like a well-trained shadow.
Kitty dressed them both in sweaters. Laurie fought hers like she was being attacked. Monica lifted her arms obediently, letting Kitty pull fabric over her head and smooth it down.
Kitty's hands paused on Monica's shoulders. Her eyes softened. "You are so easy."
Monica blinked up at her.
Inside, Monica's mind tightened.
Easy kept her safe.
Easy kept Kitty calm.
Easy kept Red from barking.
Easy kept Laurie from seeing Monica as competition—at least, not openly.
So Monica did what she'd been doing for months:
She acted like a child.
A real child.
A normal child.
Kitty packed the diaper bag—still, even though Monica didn't need diapers all day anymore. Habit. Anxiety. Control. Eric went into his carrier, snug against Kitty's chest.
Red appeared in the doorway, already in his work clothes, lunch pail in hand.
He glanced at Kitty, then at the girls, then at Eric.
"Where you going?" he asked.
Kitty smiled. "Just to town. Groceries. Maybe the library—"
Red's brows lifted. "Library."
Kitty's smile stayed bright. "Just to look."
Red's gaze flicked to Monica.
Monica stared back, wide-eyed toddler blank.
Red's mouth tightened, like he didn't believe in "just looking."
Then he grunted. "Be back before dark."
Kitty laughed like that was ridiculous. "Red, it's nine in the morning."
Red didn't smile. "Still."
Then he looked at Monica again—one more beat longer than necessary—and muttered, almost like an order:
"Be good."
Monica nodded, small and obedient.
Red left.
The door shut.
Kitty exhaled like she'd been holding air in her chest the entire conversation.
Monica watched the way Kitty's shoulders dropped once Red was gone.
That was something Monica understood with painful adult clarity:
Kitty loved Red.
Kitty also lived inside Red's moods.
The house did too.
_____
Town was the same collection of small comforts and small judgments.
The grocery smelled like apples and floor cleaner. The cashier smiled with her mouth but not her eyes. Women in coats that looked newer than Kitty's leaned together and talked in low voices like secrets were a hobby.
Kitty smiled at everyone.
"Hi!"
"Oh, yes, he's getting so big!"
"Thank you!"
"Oh, you're sweet!"
Eric made soft noises in his carrier, and Kitty glowed. People cooed at him like he was a miracle that belonged to the whole town.
Laurie soaked up attention too—smiling, waving, letting people call her "pretty."
Monica stayed close to Kitty, quiet and watchful.
Kitty pushed the cart down the cereal aisle, scanning boxes.
Laurie reached for a bright one and immediately began whining for it.
Kitty sighed. "Laurie, no—"
Laurie whined louder.
Kitty's smile tightened as a woman nearby looked over.
Monica did the math instantly.
If Laurie escalated, Kitty would be embarrassed.
If Kitty got embarrassed, she'd get brittle.
If Kitty got brittle, Red would hear about it later in the tone of her voice and snap, and the whole night would turn into tension.
So Monica moved.
She toddled toward the bottom shelf and grabbed something harmless—a small box of plain crackers—and held it up with both hands like it was treasure.
Then she did something she'd been practicing privately, in mirrors and in silence:
She made her face look eager.
She widened her eyes.
She let her mouth form something toddler-simple.
"Peas," Monica said softly—careful mispronunciation. Please, but flattened into a child's mouth.
Kitty's attention snapped to Monica instantly. Relief washed over her face like sunlight. "Oh—Monica wants crackers!"
Kitty grabbed the crackers and dropped them into the cart like she'd been given permission to ignore Laurie's tantrum.
Laurie froze, furious that Monica had stolen the moment without raising her voice.
Kitty leaned down, kissed Monica's hair. "You're such a good girl."
Monica smiled—small, sweet.
Inside, Monica reminded herself:
That's the trick.
Offer Kitty a softer problem so she can ignore the louder one.
Act normal. Act easy. Act like a child.
Laurie, denied, turned her attention to sabotage.
She reached for the cart handle and yanked hard, making the cart jerk.
Eric startled and began to fuss.
Kitty stiffened immediately. "Laurie!"
A couple in the next aisle glanced over.
Kitty's cheeks flushed.
Monica could feel her mother's embarrassment like heat.
Laurie grinned, pleased.
Monica didn't fight Laurie.
Monica redirected again.
She pointed at Eric with a soft "oh!" and made a gentle shushing sound—overdone, toddler-theatrical.
Kitty saw it and latched onto the narrative Monica offered.
"Shh, Laurie," Kitty whispered, turning it into a game. "Baby brother's sleeping."
Laurie looked toward Eric, then toward the watching adults.
Public eyes mattered.
Laurie liked being seen as cute in public.
So Laurie sucked in her tantrum like it never existed and patted the carrier too hard.
Kitty winced but smiled anyway. "Gentle. Gentle."
Monica stayed quiet, watching.
It wasn't victory.
It was survival.
After groceries, Kitty surprised Monica by actually going to the library.
The Point Place library was small and smelled like old paper and wood polish. It had a children's corner with low shelves and a worn rug with faded colors. A woman behind the desk looked up and smiled politely, then blinked when she saw Eric.
"Oh," she said softly, the way people did with babies. "Congratulations."
Kitty smiled proudly. "Thank you."
Laurie ran toward the children's corner immediately.
Monica followed slowly, heart ticking faster.
Books.
Even the smell made Monica's adult mind ache—memory, desire, control.
Monica knelt near the bottom shelf and traced a finger over spines she couldn't openly read yet, not in a way that would raise questions.
Laurie grabbed a picture book and began flipping pages violently, bored.
Kitty sat in a chair, rocking slightly with Eric.
The librarian came around the desk and drifted closer, voice lowered. "Your twins are… close in age."
Kitty laughed softly. "They're twins."
The librarian blinked. "Oh! I thought—well, they don't look identical."
Kitty smiled. "Fraternal."
The librarian nodded slowly, eyes flicking to Monica again. "And she's… quiet."
Kitty's smile tightened in that way Monica recognized. "She's just shy."
The librarian hummed like she wasn't convinced. "Some kids are old souls."
Kitty's laugh came out too fast. "Oh, yes. Monica's always been… different."
There it was.
Different.
It hung in the air like a label.
Monica stayed crouched by the shelf, turning her face toward a picture book and pretending to be absorbed.
Inside, she catalogued every word.
The librarian leaned in closer, voice softer. "Does she talk much?"
Kitty hesitated.
Monica's body went still.
Kitty answered carefully. "She talks. Just… when she wants."
The librarian's eyes narrowed with gentle curiosity. "Hmm."
Monica didn't look up.
Don't give them a show.
Don't give them proof.
Kitty picked up a board book and carried it over, crouching beside Monica. "Honey, look! Animals."
Monica took the book obediently.
Kitty's eyes searched Monica's face like she wanted to see something—anything—that proved Monica was normal.
Monica knew what Kitty needed.
So Monica acted.
She pointed at a cow and made a soft toddler sound: "Moo."
Kitty's face lit with relief that was almost painful. "Yes! Moo!"
The librarian smiled, satisfied. "Oh. Well. There you go."
Kitty laughed too brightly, like she'd just passed a test. "See? She's fine."
Monica blinked sweetly.
Inside, she repeated the rule again:
Act normal.
Give them small proof.
Never give them the whole truth.
_____
That night, after Red came home, after Eric cried and Kitty rocked him, after Laurie refused to eat dinner just to see what would happen—
Monica got her moment.
It happened in the kitchen.
Kitty was exhausted. Her hair was loose. She stood at the sink with her hands in warm water, washing dishes slowly like she was trying to scrub the day away.
Red sat at the table, drinking coffee, jaw tight.
Laurie had finally fallen asleep on the couch, sprawled like she owned the place.
Eric was down for now, miraculously quiet.
Monica stood by the doorway, small hands clasped together, watching.
Red glanced at her. "Go to bed."
Monica didn't move.
Kitty turned, surprised. "Monica?"
Monica swallowed and did something she'd been planning for weeks—testing how far she could push without breaking the mask.
She lifted her chin slightly and spoke.
Not an adult sentence.
Not a complex thought.
Just a simple, toddler-level request, shaped carefully.
"Book," Monica said.
Kitty blinked, then smiled softly. "You want a book, honey?"
Monica nodded.
Kitty's face warmed like she'd been given permission to love Monica out loud. "Okay. Okay, we can do a book."
Red's eyes narrowed. "She didn't want a book earlier."
Kitty shot him a look. "Red."
Red grunted. "She's always watching."
Kitty's shoulders tightened. "Red, don't—"
Red waved it off like it wasn't worth arguing. "Fine. Give her a book."
Kitty dried her hands quickly and went to the small shelf in the living room. She returned with a board book and handed it to Monica like it was a peace offering.
Monica took it carefully.
Then Monica did the second part.
She looked at Red—direct eye contact, steady—and said the next word she'd been practicing in her head for months:
"Dad."
Kitty's breath caught.
Red froze.
The room went still in a way it never did, not even when Eric slept.
Red stared at Monica like he couldn't decide if he was proud or suspicious.
Monica held his gaze, wide-eyed, innocent.
Red's voice came out rougher than usual. "Yeah?"
Monica lifted the book slightly.
A child's gesture.
But the meaning underneath was clear:
Read to me.
Be here.
Kitty's eyes filled instantly.
Red's jaw flexed hard, like emotion was a muscle he hated using.
Then, after a beat, he stood.
He took the book from Monica's hands and sat on the couch.
Monica climbed up beside him—toddler-clumsy, careful—and leaned against his arm.
Kitty stood in the kitchen doorway, hands pressed to her mouth like she didn't want to ruin it with a sound.
Red opened the book.
His voice was stiff and awkward, like reading offended him.
But he did it anyway.
He read each page like it was a job he didn't understand but refused to fail.
Monica listened, calm on the outside, heart tight on the inside.
This was what Monica wanted.
Not the book.
Not the words.
The bond.
Because Monica's adult mind knew something her toddler body couldn't fix yet:
Red Forman was a fortress.
If Monica could keep Red close—if she could become a part of his pride and his purpose—she could survive Point Place.
She could survive Laurie's jealousy.
She could survive whispers.
She could survive whatever "efficiency" meant at the plant.
So Monica lay against Red's arm, eyes half-closed, acting like a sleepy little girl—
while inside, she planned.
Act normal.
Act sweet.
Act small.
And build your future quietly, one careful moment at a time.