Sunday, December 31, 1961 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 3)
New Year's Eve in Point Place wasn't glamorous.
It was living rooms, cheap drinks, TV variety shows, and adults pretending they weren't scared of what came next.
Kitty loved New Year's Eve because it gave her permission to be a little festive without anyone calling her irresponsible.
Red tolerated it because it meant one night where he could drink and glare at the world with an excuse.
Laurie loved it because it meant attention and grown-ups who were slightly distracted—easier targets.
Eric loved it because Kitty let him stay up later than usual, and staying up later felt like power even if you were still in diapers.
Monica loved it because New Year's Eve made adults talk.
And when adults talked, you learned what they'd been hiding.
Snow piled up outside the windows like the world had been packed in cotton. The Forman house smelled like cigarettes and popcorn and whatever casserole Kitty had made in a panic because "what if someone stops by?"
Someone did.
Not a huge crowd—just neighbors and one of Red's plant buddies with his wife. People Kitty felt "safe" hosting. People Red could tolerate without feeling like he had to perform too much.
The living room was warm with bodies and the soft roar of the television.
Kitty moved between guests with a bright smile that never fully reached her tired eyes.
"More dip? Oh—here—let me—"
Red sat in his chair like a guard dog, drink in hand, making short conversation only when forced.
Laurie darted between adults, showing off, laughing too loud, demanding to sit in laps.
Eric toddled around, sticky-handed, delighted by the chaos.
Monica sat on the rug near the coffee table, looking like a quiet toddler with a small pile of blocks.
In truth, she was listening to every adult sentence like it mattered.
Because it did.
Near the TV, Mr. Peterson—one of Red's coworkers—was talking too loudly, already a drink too deep.
"They're saying '62 is going to be a rough one," he said, shaking his head. "Company's tightening up."
Red's jaw tightened instantly.
Kitty's smile flickered.
Mrs. Peterson made a noise, half warning. "Harold…"
Harold waved her off. "What? It's true."
Red's voice cut in, low. "It's talk."
Harold leaned forward, face flushed. "It's more than talk, Red. They're watching overtime like hawks. Watching everything."
The room shifted.
Even the neighbors stopped pretending they weren't listening.
Kitty's fingers clenched around her serving plate.
Red's eyes narrowed. "You don't know anything."
Harold shrugged, but the shrug carried fear. "I know what I hear."
Red's voice went colder. "Then hear less."
Harold laughed awkwardly. "Jesus, Red, I'm just—"
Red's stare shut him down.
Silence stretched, thick as gravy.
Kitty jumped in too fast, too bright. "Okay! Who wants more punch?"
Mrs. Peterson's smile was tight. "I do."
Neighbors laughed politely.
The conversation shifted, but the damage stayed in the air.
Monica watched Red's hand tighten around his glass.
Watched Kitty's shoulders lift like she was bracing.
Watched how quickly adults changed the subject when money got scary.
Fear was always the real guest at the party.
Later, someone turned the conversation toward the church—who'd volunteered for what, who'd been seen where, who might be "having trouble."
Point Place's favorite sport: judging people with smiles.
"You hear about the Morgans?" Mrs. Peterson murmured. "He's been drinking again."
Kitty made a soft, sympathetic sound. "Oh…"
Red grunted. "Not our business."
Mrs. Peterson ignored him. "And their boy—he's been acting out at school. They say he needs 'discipline.'"
Laurie—hovering nearby, pretending not to listen—tilted her head, fascinated.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Discipline in Point Place meant harshness.
It meant adults felt entitled to break children so they'd "behave."
Monica kept her face blank, stacking blocks slowly.
But inside, she was cataloging names, patterns, the social lattice of the town.
Who had sympathy.
Who had cruelty.
Who disguised cruelty as morality.
At one point, Kitty leaned down beside Monica, smoothing her hair. "You doing okay, honey?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty smiled. "Good girl."
Then Kitty's voice lowered, careful. "Don't repeat grown-up talk, okay?"
Monica blinked innocently.
Kitty's eyes held Monica's a beat too long—like Kitty already sensed Monica absorbed more than she should.
Monica nodded sweetly. "Okay."
Kitty exhaled, relieved.
Red glanced down at Monica, expression unreadable.
Then he looked away quickly, like he didn't want to examine why he'd checked.
______
As midnight crept closer, the adults got louder and looser.
Someone laughed too hard.
Someone spilled punch.
Harold started telling a story about a guy at the plant who'd gotten his hand caught in a machine.
Kitty winced, whispering, "Oh my God…"
Red muttered, "Idiot."
Monica listened anyway, because stories like that mattered.
They were warnings.
They were reminders that Red's job wasn't just a paycheck.
It was danger.
Harold's wife clucked her tongue. "That's why I tell Harold to be careful."
Red's eyes flicked to Kitty, sharp.
Kitty swallowed.
Because Kitty didn't tell Red to be careful.
Kitty didn't tell Red anything that implied he could fail.
Kitty prayed and smiled and hoped.
Monica watched that too.
And she understood something with adult clarity that made her chest ache:
Kitty survived by pretending things were fine.
Red survived by refusing to admit they weren't.
Two survival strategies colliding in the same marriage.
At 11:57, the television began the countdown.
Adults gathered in front of the TV with drinks in hand.
Kitty picked Eric up, bouncing him. "Look, baby! Look!"
Laurie shoved her way between adults, demanding front position.
Monica stayed on the rug, quiet, watching their faces instead of the screen.
Because faces told the truth.
At ten seconds, voices rose.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!"
Kitty smiled wide, eyes shining.
Red's mouth stayed flat, but he didn't leave.
Harold cheered too loud.
At "three," Kitty kissed Eric's cheek.
At "two," Laurie shouted like she was leading an army.
At "one," the room erupted into messy joy.
"Happy New Year!"
People hugged.
Kitty hugged Mrs. Peterson, laughing too hard.
Harold slapped Red on the back.
Red stiffened, then tolerated it.
Laurie tried to climb onto Red's lap—attention, attention, attention.
Red blocked her with one hand. "No."
Laurie pouted instantly, offended.
Kitty bent down and hugged Monica.
"Happy New Year, sweetheart," Kitty whispered.
Monica hugged her back—small arms, careful pressure.
Then Kitty turned and hugged Laurie too, because Kitty always tried to keep balance.
Monica watched it all with calm eyes.
Because she knew:
New Year's joy didn't erase New Year's fear.
It just covered it for a minute.
_____
After the guests left, the house fell quiet fast.
Kitty moved around collecting empty cups, humming softly like she was trying to keep the celebration alive.
Red stood in the living room for a long moment, staring at the dark window.
Monica sat on the rug, blocks forgotten, watching him.
Kitty glanced over her shoulder. "Red?"
Red didn't answer right away.
Then, without turning, he said, "We're fine."
Kitty's hands paused.
Her voice was soft, careful. "I didn't say we weren't."
Red's shoulders tightened. "You were thinking it."
Kitty swallowed hard. "I just… worry."
Red finally turned, eyes sharp. "Worry doesn't fix anything."
Kitty's face crumpled slightly, exhaustion making her honest. "Neither does pretending."
Silence slammed down.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Red's jaw flexed like he wanted to snap back, but he didn't.
Instead, he looked toward Monica—brief, involuntary.
Then he looked away again.
And Monica understood, suddenly and painfully:
Red didn't just carry fear about money.
He carried fear about failing his family.
He just didn't know how to say it without feeling weak.
Kitty's voice softened. "I'm just tired, Red."
Red exhaled through his nose. "Me too."
That was the closest thing to tenderness they ever exchanged.
Kitty's shoulders loosened slightly. "Okay. Let's… just go to bed."
Red nodded once.
Kitty scooped Monica up next, kissing her forehead. "Come on, honey."
Monica let herself be carried, head resting against Kitty's shoulder.
But Monica's eyes stayed open, watching Red as they passed him.
Red's gaze flicked to Monica again—measuring, quiet.
Then he muttered, rough and low:
"Night."
Monica blinked—then answered softly, respectful.
"Good night, Dad."
Red grunted.
Kitty smiled faintly, as if that small exchange soothed her.
Upstairs, the house creaked and settled into sleep.
Monica lay in bed listening to winter wind press against the glass.
Then Monica slipped out quietly, opened her Future Box, and added something new:
A small square cut from the newspaper Harold had left behind on the coffee table.
Nothing dramatic—just a headline about industry and "adjustments."
Monica didn't fully understand the exact economics of 1961 Point Place.
But she understood fear.
She understood patterns.
And she understood that if Point Place ever stopped being "fine," Monica needed to be ready long before anyone else admitted it.
She closed the box, slid it back into place, and returned to bed.
New Year's had arrived.
And Point Place had already started watching the future like it was something that might take everything away.
Monica watched it too.
Only Monica wasn't just watching.
She was planning.