Tuesday, November 21, 1961 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 3)
Thanksgiving week in the Forman house wasn't a holiday.
It was a campaign.
Kitty treated it like something sacred—like if the table looked right and the food came out right and the kids behaved right, then the universe would stop testing her for five minutes.
Red treated it like an inconvenience he'd tolerate as long as no one got sentimental about it.
Laurie treated it like an audience.
Eric treated it like a chance to grab food off plates with both hands and face no consequences because Kitty would just wipe him off and call him "sweetie."
Monica treated it like… data.
Because holidays made adults strange.
Adults got emotional. Adults got nostalgic. Adults got stupidly honest after a drink. And in a small town like Point Place, stupid honesty was where you learned what mattered.
It was cold that morning—real Wisconsin cold, the kind that made Kitty say, "Brr!" and Red say, "It's November," like her reaction insulted him.
Kitty had been up since dawn, moving through the kitchen like she was possessed by domestic duty. There were grocery bags on the counter. A turkey thawing in a metal pan. Potatoes stacked like bricks. Celery. Onions. A brown paper sack full of rolls.
Monica sat at the kitchen table with a cup of milk, watching Kitty's hands.
Fast hands. Careful hands. Tired hands.
Kitty turned, smiling a little too brightly. "Okay, sweetheart—time to try."
Monica blinked up at her.
Kitty held up something small and ordinary that somehow carried the weight of the whole week:
A pair of training underwear.
"Big girl underwear," Kitty said softly, like it was magical. "Just for today. We're going to practice."
Laurie, perched on a chair nearby, immediately leaned forward. "I'm already a big girl."
Kitty's smile twitched. "Yes, Laurie."
Laurie narrowed her eyes at the underwear like it had personally offended her. "Why does she get special underwear?"
Kitty's voice stayed gentle, but Monica heard the strain. "Because Monica is practicing, honey."
Laurie's lip curled. "I can do it too."
Red, stepping into the kitchen with coffee in hand, muttered, "Then do it."
Kitty flinched—she always did when Red made things sound like orders instead of encouragement.
Laurie puffed up, suddenly determined out of spite. "I will."
Kitty rubbed her forehead. "Okay. One at a time."
Monica stared at the underwear.
In her former life, "milestones" had been a checklist people used to judge you with.
Talk by this age. Walk by this age. Potty train by this age.
If you were early, people praised you like you were a miracle.
If you were late, people acted like you were broken.
Monica understood, with an adult kind of bitterness, that milestones were rarely about the child.
They were about the adults.
They were about control.
So Monica needed to do this the way she did everything now:
Correct enough to be praised.
Normal enough to avoid scrutiny.
Not so advanced that someone started watching too closely.
Kitty crouched in front of Monica and smoothed her hair back. "You tell Mommy when you need to go."
Monica nodded, serious. "Yes, Mommy."
Red grunted from the doorway. "Don't baby her."
Kitty shot him a look. "Red."
Red raised his coffee like it was a shield. "I didn't say anything."
He did. He always did.
Monica slid off her chair and let Kitty guide her.
Laurie stomped after them, determined to insert herself into the moment.
"Watch," Laurie announced, like she was performing for an invisible audience. "I can do it."
Kitty's voice went tight. "Laurie, honey, not right now."
Laurie's face twisted with anger.
Monica noted it.
Milestones weren't just progress.
They were competition.
_____
By mid-morning, the house smelled like onion and butter and the faint metallic scent of cold air whenever Kitty opened the back door to shake out rugs.
Eric waddled around in jerky bursts, shrieking whenever anyone stopped him from touching something dangerous. Kitty kept scooping him up, kissing his cheek, putting him down, repeating the cycle like she was trapped in it.
Red left for the plant—extra shift, he'd muttered, like he was daring the world to criticize him for being responsible.
Kitty tried to keep the mood light. "Daddy's working hard," she chirped.
Laurie sneered. "Daddy likes work more than us."
Kitty froze—just a second—then laughed too quickly. "Oh, Laurie…"
Monica, standing near the kitchen doorway in her training underwear, watched Kitty's face carefully.
Kitty didn't correct Laurie because correcting Laurie meant a fight, and Kitty was too tired for fights today.
So Kitty ignored it.
And ignoring it taught Laurie something dangerous:
If you say a cruel thing in the right tone, adults pretend they didn't hear.
Monica tucked that away.
Then Monica felt it—a subtle pressure, real and urgent.
A milestone moment.
Kitty was stirring gravy, back turned.
Laurie was fussing with a doll, still watching Monica out of the corner of her eye like she was waiting for failure.
Eric babbled and smacked a spoon against a chair leg.
Monica could've held it and forced herself through discomfort.
But that was how accidents happened.
And accidents meant attention.
And attention meant scrutiny.
So Monica made a choice.
She walked up to Kitty, lightly tugged her sleeve.
Kitty turned, startled. "Yes, honey?"
Monica tipped her head, toddler-serious, and said softly:
"Potty."
Kitty blinked like she'd just been offered a miracle. "Oh! You have to go potty?"
Monica nodded.
Kitty nearly dropped the spoon. "Okay! Okay, sweetheart—good job, good job—"
She hustled Monica toward the bathroom like they were on a timer.
Laurie jumped up, face tight. "I can go too!"
Kitty snapped—tired finally making her sharp. "Laurie—wait."
Laurie's mouth fell open in offense.
Kitty didn't care. She was too relieved.
In the bathroom, Kitty helped Monica carefully, fussing and praising in little bursts. Monica did what she needed to do without drama.
When it was done, Kitty's face softened into something almost overwhelmed.
"Oh, Monica…" Kitty whispered, smoothing her hair. "You did it. You told me."
Monica let herself smile—small, real.
Kitty hugged her hard.
Monica stayed still inside it, absorbing the warmth and the desperation.
Because Kitty didn't hug like this all the time.
Kitty hugged like this when she felt like she'd succeeded at something that scared her.
Kitty kissed Monica's forehead. "Daddy's going to be so proud."
Monica's smile twitched.
Red didn't get proud about potty training.
Red got relieved.
Relieved meant you weren't a problem.
Relieved meant you weren't embarrassing him.
Kitty, though, carried pride like a lifeline.
They returned to the kitchen.
Kitty announced, bright and loud, "Monica told me she had to go!"
Laurie's face pinched like she'd tasted something bitter.
Eric clapped, delighted by Kitty's tone more than her words.
Kitty beamed at Laurie too, trying to soften it. "Isn't that great?"
Laurie crossed her arms. "I don't care."
Kitty's smile faltered. "Laurie…"
Laurie's voice rose. "I'm a big girl too!"
Kitty's patience snapped—just a crack. "Then act like it."
Silence hit the kitchen.
Laurie stared, shocked—because Kitty rarely snapped.
Then Laurie's face crumpled into performative tears.
Kitty immediately regretted it. "Oh—Laurie—honey—"
Laurie ran out of the kitchen, sobbing loudly enough to make sure the whole house heard.
Kitty sagged, hand pressed to her mouth. "Oh God…"
Monica watched her carefully.
Kitty wasn't just tired.
Kitty was fragile.
And Monica understood: the more Monica achieved "milestones," the more pressure shifted onto Laurie to compete, and onto Kitty to manage the fallout.
So Monica adjusted her strategy.
She leaned into Kitty's side and babbled something toddler-soft.
"Mommy good," Monica said.
Kitty blinked, tears gathering. Then she laughed shakily. "Oh… honey…"
Monica patted Kitty's arm the way Kitty patted Eric's back.
Kitty hugged her again, tighter than necessary.
Monica let it happen.
Milestone achieved. Damage controlled.
______
That evening, Red came home smelling like cold air and metal and exhaustion.
Kitty served him dinner early—leftovers from her prep, simple but warm.
Red ate in silence, shoulders tight.
Then Kitty, unable to contain herself, blurted, "Monica told me when she had to go!"
Red's fork paused.
His eyes lifted slowly to Monica, who sat at the table with her hands folded, face calm.
Monica gave him her best toddler smile.
Red stared a beat too long, then grunted.
"Good."
Kitty waited—wanted more.
Red didn't give it.
He went back to eating like the moment was done.
Kitty's face fell slightly.
Monica watched that too.
So Monica did something careful:
She reached for Red's empty water glass and pushed it toward him with both hands.
A small, obedient gesture.
Red glanced at it, then at Monica.
His mouth twitched—almost approval.
"You're not my waitress," Red muttered, but his tone wasn't harsh.
Kitty smiled like she'd been given a second gift.
Laurie sulked in her chair, eyes narrowed.
Later that night, Monica opened her Future Box and added something small: a clean square of that "big girl" underwear wrapper tag Kitty had tossed.
A ridiculous trophy.
But Monica kept it anyway.
Because in Point Place, milestones weren't just growth.
They were leverage.
And Monica was learning, even at three, how to collect leverage without anyone noticing.