Saturday, July 22, 1961 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 3)
By late July, Point Place felt like it was sweating.
The air was heavy. The sun was relentless. Even the adults looked irritated by the fact that summer existed.
Kitty tried to make it feel pleasant anyway—fresh lemonade, open windows, laundry hung outside. She wore sundresses and smiled too much, like she was trying to force the season into being kind.
Red hated the heat. Red hated bugs. Red hated the way Kitty insisted on opening windows "for air" like air was worth letting flies in.
And Laurie?
Laurie was thriving.
Because heat made adults slower.
Slower adults were easier to manipulate.
Eric—fourteen months now—had learned to walk in jerky bursts, like a tiny drunk man. He wanted to follow everyone, touch everything, taste everything.
Kitty hovered around him like a guardian angel with fraying wings.
Monica watched the house with that constant alertness she couldn't turn off.
And she watched Laurie most of all.
Because Laurie had evolved past random tantrums.
Laurie had discovered timing.
Laurie knew when Red was most likely to snap.
Laurie knew when Kitty was too tired to fight.
Laurie knew when Eric was most likely to cry.
And Laurie knew—deep in her toddler bones—that if she made the right chaos at the right time, she controlled the room.
That afternoon, Kitty announced they were going to have "company."
Just neighbors. Mrs. Dworkin from down the street, her husband, and their son—a boy around Hyde's age who'd been "kept back" once already and looked like he'd rather eat nails than talk to adults.
Kitty said it like it was casual.
But Monica could hear the tension under it:
Kitty wanted the neighborhood to like them.
Red wanted the neighborhood to mind its business.
Company meant pressure.
Company meant performance.
Red grunted when Kitty told him. "Why."
Kitty smiled too brightly. "Because it's nice."
Red muttered, "It's pointless."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Red…"
Red sighed like he'd been forced to tolerate socializing under protest. "Fine."
Monica watched Kitty move faster after that, like she was trying to prove to Red (and herself) that "nice" was worth the effort.
Laurie immediately began spinning around the living room like a tornado, thrilled by the idea of an audience.
Monica stayed quiet, observing.
When the Dworkins arrived, Kitty turned into her public self: warm, chatty, laughing too much.
Red stood stiffly in the doorway, polite in the way that meant I am enduring this for my wife, don't push me.
Mr. Dworkin shook Red's hand too long. "Hot one today, Forman."
Red's eyes narrowed. "It's July."
Mr. Dworkin laughed like Red was joking.
He wasn't.
Mrs. Dworkin cooed over Eric. "Oh, he's so handsome."
Kitty glowed. "Thank you."
Laurie shoved herself between them instantly. "I'm three!"
Mrs. Dworkin laughed. "Oh! Big girl."
Laurie preened.
Then Mrs. Dworkin's gaze slid to Monica.
The pause.
The measuring.
"And this one…?" she asked, voice polite but curious.
Kitty hurried. "Monica. Laurie's twin."
Mrs. Dworkin blinked. "Twins."
"Fraternal," Kitty added quickly, as if that made everything less strange.
Mrs. Dworkin smiled. "She's quiet."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "She's shy."
Monica gave a small, sweet smile and let it stick.
Company settled into the living room. Kitty served lemonade. Red sat with stiff posture, barely touching his glass. Mr. Dworkin made small talk about the plant. Red responded with grunts and short sentences.
Then Mr. Dworkin said something that made Red's jaw tighten:
"They're saying there may be another 'shift adjustment' come fall."
Kitty's hand paused mid-pour.
Red's eyes sharpened. "Who's saying."
Mr. Dworkin shrugged. "Just talk."
Red's voice went cold. "Then shut up about it."
Silence snapped tight across the room.
Kitty laughed too loudly, too fast. "Oh, Red—"
Mrs. Dworkin's smile faltered.
Mr. Dworkin blinked, embarrassed.
Laurie sensed the tension and—because she couldn't help herself—decided to throw gasoline on it.
She grabbed Eric's sippy cup off the end table and held it up like a trophy.
Eric saw it and reached, whining.
Kitty's eyes widened. "Laurie, honey—give that back to Eric."
Laurie grinned. "No."
Eric's whine became a cry.
Kitty stood quickly, trying to stay polite in front of company. "Laurie. Give it back."
Laurie held it higher.
Red's face darkened.
Monica felt the fuse light.
Red's pride had already been bruised by plant talk in front of strangers. Now Laurie was humiliating Kitty and making Eric cry in front of guests.
Red's temper rose like a wave.
And Monica—Monica moved.
She didn't rush. She didn't snatch.
She turned it into a "game."
Monica toddled toward Laurie with slow, curious steps, babbling softly like she was just excited.
Laurie's eyes narrowed—suspicious.
Monica stopped, looked up at Laurie, and pointed toward the Dworkins' son—sitting in the corner, quiet, staring at the floor like he'd rather be anywhere else.
Then Monica did something calculated:
She handed the boy one of her toys—a small wind-up car Red had fixed for her earlier.
It was a peace offering.
A distraction.
The boy blinked, startled.
He took it anyway, wound it up, and set it on the floor.
The little car zipped across the carpet.
Laurie's attention snapped to it instantly—because movement was more interesting than power.
Eric stopped crying for half a second, fascinated.
Kitty exhaled in relief.
And Red—Red's gaze shifted away from Laurie's defiance and toward the toy skittering across the floor.
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly—not gone, but redirected.
Laurie lowered the sippy cup without realizing it, eyes locked on the car.
Monica slid closer, still babbling, and gently took the cup from Laurie's loosened grip—like it was nothing, like it was normal.
Then Monica carried it straight to Eric and placed it in his hands.
Eric made a pleased sound and began chewing on it like he'd won.
Kitty's shoulders sagged in relief so visible it almost hurt.
Mrs. Dworkin blinked, impressed despite herself. "Oh… she's helpful."
Kitty's smile became real for the first time all afternoon. "She is."
Red watched Monica for a beat too long.
Then he grunted, as if to say yeah, she is.
Laurie—realizing she'd lost control of the room without anyone scolding her—turned sharply toward Monica.
Her eyes flashed with rage.
Because Laurie didn't mind losing.
She minded losing to Monica.
Laurie stomped forward and shoved Monica's shoulder—harder than usual.
Monica stumbled.
Kitty gasped. "Laurie!"
Mr. and Mrs. Dworkin went stiff.
The boy froze mid-wind-up, eyes wide.
Red's chair scraped back.
His voice dropped into that dangerous quiet. "Laurie."
Laurie froze instantly, fear flickering across her face.
Kitty's hands shook as she reached for Monica. "Oh—Monica—honey—are you okay?"
Monica could've cried.
A normal toddler would.
But Monica knew crying in front of guests would create a new story:
Red's quiet twin gets bullied.
The Forman house is chaos.
That girl is… odd.
So Monica forced her face into a small, calm smile.
"I 'kay," Monica said softly.
Kitty's eyes filled anyway—half relief, half exhaustion.
Red stared at Laurie like he was deciding punishment.
Laurie's lip trembled.
Then Kitty—saving the social situation with sheer will—laughed too brightly. "Kids, right? Oh! Who wants more lemonade?"
Mrs. Dworkin smiled awkwardly. "Yes, kids…"
Mr. Dworkin cleared his throat and stared at his glass.
The moment passed, but the damage stayed.
Because Laurie had shown the guests what she was capable of.
And Monica had shown them something too:
That she didn't react the way other kids did.
Quiet. Controlled.
Useful.
After the Dworkins finally left, Kitty shut the door and sagged against it like her bones were tired.
Red turned toward Laurie, voice sharp. "What did I say about hitting."
Laurie's chin lifted reflexively. "She—"
Red cut her off. "I don't care."
Kitty's voice cracked. "Laurie, why would you push her?"
Laurie's eyes flashed with angry tears. "Because!"
Kitty stared, helpless. "Because what?"
Laurie's shoulders shook. She couldn't explain jealousy in words yet. She couldn't explain the feeling of being replaced by Monica's calm competence.
So Laurie did what she always did:
She turned it into drama.
Laurie screamed.
Red's face hardened. "That's it."
He grabbed Laurie and hauled her toward the hallway. Laurie kicked and shrieked. Kitty flinched like the sound physically hurt her.
Monica stood still in the living room, hands at her sides.
Inside, her mind went cold:
If Red punishes Laurie too harshly, Laurie will hate Monica more.
If Kitty protects Laurie too much, Laurie will never stop.
If nobody intervenes, this becomes the foundation of their relationship.
Red shoved Laurie into her room—firm, not violent, but absolute—and slammed the door.
"Stay," Red said through the door, voice like steel. "Until you learn."
Laurie's screams muffled.
Kitty pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wet.
Eric began to fuss again, sensing the tension.
Monica moved quietly to Eric and patted his shoulder, babbling softly.
Kitty looked down at Monica—her quiet twin—and her expression shifted into something complicated:
Gratitude.
Guilt.
Fear.
Because Kitty could feel it now.
Monica was three, and already she was the glue.
And Kitty was terrified of what happened if the glue cracked.
Red returned to the living room, jaw tight.
He looked at Monica.
For a moment, his expression softened—just slightly.
Then he cleared his throat like softness offended him and muttered, "Good job."
Kitty blinked, stunned, like she hadn't expected Red to say it out loud.
Monica's face stayed sweet and calm.
Inside, she absorbed the words like a weight.
Because "good job" came with a cost:
It made Laurie hate her more.
It made Kitty rely on her more.
And it made Red—Red see her as the stable one.
The one who didn't break.
That night, Monica lay in bed listening to Laurie's occasional sniffles through the wall.
The house was quiet again, but the tension remained—sticky as summer heat.
Monica stared into the dark and thought:
I can redirect tantrums.
I can prevent explosions.
But I can't stop resentment from growing roots.
Not yet.
So Monica did what she always did:
She stayed quiet.
She stayed useful.
And she kept preparing for the day she'd be old enough to build a life so solid that no one in this house could knock it over.