Monday, June 12, 1961 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 3)
June didn't feel like freedom in Point Place.
It felt like pressure building under skin.
The air grew thicker. The sun stayed up longer. The neighborhood kids got louder, and the adults got touchier—as if warmth made their problems harder to ignore instead of easier.
In the Forman house, summer meant Kitty opened windows and tried to pretend fresh air could fix everything.
It didn't.
Eric had officially entered the stage where he wanted to be everywhere at once. He'd just turned one last month, and Kitty had celebrated like it was a national holiday. Now she spent her days chasing him from furniture to table legs to stairs, heart in her throat and hair slipping out of her rollers faster than she could pin it back.
Laurie—three, loud, bored—had discovered a new hobby:
Mess.
Mess got reactions. Reactions were attention.
Monica watched it all with the calm of someone who'd already lived long enough to know what people turned into when they felt overlooked.
Red came home from the plant that afternoon with his face set in a flat line that meant the day had been unpleasant but not catastrophic. He tossed his lunch pail down like it insulted him, washed his hands with rough efficiency, and stepped into the living room to find Kitty mid-chase.
"Eric—no—honey—!" Kitty gasped, lunging as Eric wobbled toward the lamp table like it was calling his name.
Red's eyes narrowed immediately. "Kitty."
Kitty froze, breathing hard. "He's fast."
Red stared at Eric like the child had personally offended him by developing mobility. "He's not fast. You're just flailing."
Kitty's face flushed. "I am not flailing, Red Forman."
Red grunted. "You look like you're wrestling an octopus."
Kitty opened her mouth to argue, then stopped, because arguing meant wasting energy she didn't have.
Laurie took advantage of the tension instantly.
She darted past Kitty and grabbed the nearest thing she wasn't supposed to touch: a glass ashtray Red kept on the end table—more habit than use, but still his.
"Laurie!" Kitty snapped.
Laurie held it up like a trophy.
Red's gaze snapped to her, sharp and dangerous.
"Put it down," Red said, low.
Laurie blinked at him, chin lifting. She didn't move.
Kitty's shoulders tightened. "Laurie, honey—"
Red's voice cut through both of them. "Now."
Laurie's eyes watered—not fear, not sadness—outrage that her performance wasn't being indulged.
And Monica felt the room tilt.
Red was tired. Kitty was stretched thin. Eric was one wobble away from disaster. Laurie was holding glass like she wanted the universe to test her.
So Monica did what she'd been learning to do all year:
Redirect without getting caught directing.
Monica slid off the rug and toddled toward Laurie, not fast, not urgent—just curious, like any toddler might be drawn to something shiny.
Laurie watched her approach with suspicion, ashtray still in hand.
Monica stopped an arm's length away and lifted her own hands, empty and open.
Then she made a soft sound—sweet, toddler-soft—and pointed toward the kitchen doorway where Kitty kept a tin of those little animal crackers.
Monica didn't say cookies.
She didn't need to.
Laurie's gaze flicked toward the kitchen automatically.
Kitty, desperate for any distraction, seized it. "Laurie! Do you want an animal cracker?"
Laurie hesitated, torn between rebellion and sugar.
Red's eyes stayed locked on Laurie like a threat.
Finally, Laurie shoved the ashtray onto the table—not gently, but not breaking it either—and stomped toward the kitchen, victory in her posture because she'd been "offered" something instead of "forced."
Kitty exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for an hour. "Okay—okay—animal crackers—"
Red watched Laurie disappear, then his gaze slid to Monica.
Monica stood still, face blank and sweet.
Red's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he could sense something under the surface but didn't know what to name it.
He grunted and looked away, like he refused to investigate it too closely.
"Kitty," Red muttered, "move the damn lamp table."
Kitty blinked. "Right now?"
Red's mouth flattened. "Unless you want him eating glass and wiring."
Kitty's lips pressed together, then she nodded quickly. "Okay."
She started pushing furniture around, muttering under her breath.
Red turned toward the hallway, grabbing his work shirt from the back of a chair. "I'm going to the garage."
Kitty called after him, tone sharp with exhaustion. "Of course you are."
Red didn't respond.
He never did when Kitty's voice carried that edge.
He just went where he could control things.
Monica watched him disappear—and felt that familiar pull in her chest.
Red's garage wasn't warm the way Kitty's kitchen was warm.
But it was steady.
It was rules and order and tools that did what they were supposed to do.
And Red—when he was in the garage—was easier to read.
Monica followed.
______
The garage smelled like oil and sawdust and sun-warmed metal. The door was cracked open, letting in a strip of afternoon light.
Red was already at his workbench, measuring a plank with the kind of focus that made the world around him disappear.
He didn't look up when Monica stepped inside.
"Stay out of the way," he said automatically, like it was a prayer.
Monica nodded and stayed quiet, hands clasped behind her back, watching him work.
Red's movements were rough but precise. He marked the wood, then reached for his saw.
Monica's body stayed calm—toddler posture, toddler stillness—but inside she tracked every motion: how his wrist angled, how he stabilized the plank, how he didn't rush the cut.
Red muttered to himself while he worked, a steady stream of irritation at nothing and everything: measurements, weather, the plant, the world.
Monica listened anyway.
Because Red's muttering was information.
Red finished the cut, set the saw down, and finally glanced at Monica.
"What."
Monica blinked up at him.
Her mind raced through possibilities: ask to help, risk looking "too capable," get sent back inside. Or stay quiet and miss the chance.
So Monica chose the safe middle.
She pointed toward the scrap pile near the bench—small offcuts Red always tossed aside.
"Help," Monica said softly.
Red stared at her like she'd just asked to drive the car.
"You're three."
Monica nodded once, serious.
Red's mouth tightened. He looked like he was about to say no—out of habit, out of caution, out of the belief that children made messes.
Then his eyes shifted to the scattered scraps, the tiny nails on the bench, the rag he used to wipe tools.
Red exhaled through his nose like he'd decided something.
He reached down and handed Monica a small rag.
"Wipe," he said, pointing at the dusty handles of a few tools.
Monica took the rag carefully.
"Yes, Dad."
Red's jaw flexed—approval disguised as irritation.
"Don't touch the sharp parts," he added.
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red watched her for a beat longer than necessary, then went back to work.
Monica began wiping tool handles the way she'd wiped them before—slow, thorough, careful.
Not because she cared about dust.
Because the task mattered.
Red didn't hand out tasks unless he trusted you not to ruin them.
And Monica understood Red's version of affection now:
Useful meant valued.
Quiet meant safe.
Competence meant respect.
Monica wiped and listened as Red worked through another plank.
After a while, Red said, without looking at her, "You know why we keep things clean?"
Monica paused, rag in hand.
This was one of those moments Red pretended wasn't teaching.
Monica answered like a toddler—simple, safe.
"Nice," Monica said.
Red snorted. "Not 'nice.'"
He tapped the wrench on the bench. "If you don't take care of your tools, they fail. Then you're screwed."
Monica's fingers tightened slightly on the rag.
Red's voice stayed flat. "Same with cars. Same with… anything."
Monica looked up at him with wide eyes, like she was absorbing wisdom instead of already understanding the metaphor.
Red glanced down at her again.
"Rule," Red said.
Monica sat very still.
"Work first," he said. "Then play."
Monica nodded. "Work."
Red grunted. "Yeah."
He returned to his plank, but Monica could feel the shift: Red was calmer now. More grounded. Talking wasn't easy for him, but building was. Teaching through building came naturally.
And Monica sat in that calm like it was shelter.
______
Inside the house, Kitty's voice rose—frustrated, sharp.
"Laurie, stop it!"
Monica's spine tightened.
Red's head snapped toward the door. "What now."
Kitty's voice came again. "Laurie! No—don't—!"
Eric started crying.
Red's face hardened instantly.
Monica set the rag down neatly.
Red strode toward the door like he was about to go to war.
Monica moved fast—but not fast enough to look suspicious. Just fast enough to stay with him.
Inside, Kitty was trying to pry something out of Laurie's hands: one of Eric's teething rings.
Laurie was yanking it away, shrieking, delighted by Eric's crying.
Eric's face was red, furious and hurt.
Kitty looked like she might cry.
Red entered like a storm.
"Laurie," Red said, voice low.
Laurie froze mid-yank.
Kitty looked up, relief and fear mixing on her face. "Red, she—"
Red didn't look at Kitty. He stared straight at Laurie.
"Give it," Red said.
Laurie's lips trembled. She clutched the ring tighter, eyes shiny.
Red's voice sharpened. "Now."
Laurie made a sound—half sob, half scream—and threw the ring onto the floor like a weapon.
Eric wailed louder.
Kitty sagged, scooping Eric up. "Oh—honey—shh—"
Red's gaze didn't move from Laurie. "You don't take from the baby."
Laurie's chin lifted, defiant again. "Mine!"
Red's hand twitched like he wanted to grab her shoulder.
Kitty flinched—always afraid of the moment Red crossed from words to something else.
Monica stepped forward before the line could break.
She didn't speak. She didn't touch Red. She didn't challenge him.
She simply bent down, picked up the teething ring, and carried it to Eric with both hands like she was delivering a sacred object.
Kitty blinked at Monica, startled.
Monica held it up to Eric, babbling softly like she was just "helping the baby."
Eric's crying hiccuped as he grabbed it.
Kitty's shoulders loosened in relief so obvious it hurt to watch.
Red's hand relaxed slightly at his side.
And Laurie—watching Monica solve the problem without anyone needing Laurie—looked like she'd been slapped.
Not by Red.
By Monica's quiet competence.
Red turned his attention to Kitty finally. "Watch her."
Kitty's eyes flashed—offended. "I am watching her."
Red's mouth flattened. "Then do better."
Kitty's face crumpled, exhausted.
Monica stood still in the center of the room, hands at her sides, face neutral.
Inside, her mind ran cold calculations:
Red wasn't wrong that Laurie needed watching.
But Kitty was drowning.
And Red—Red didn't see drowning. He saw failure.
Which meant Monica had to do what nobody else in this house could do yet:
Be the buffer.
Not loudly.
Not obviously.
Just steadily.
_____
That night, when the house finally settled, Red sat in his chair with the newspaper while Kitty rocked Eric to sleep, humming softly to calm her own nerves more than his.
Laurie sulked on the couch, chewing her lip, plotting her next attention-grab.
Monica approached Red's chair and stood beside him, small and silent.
Red didn't look up at first. Then he did.
"What."
Monica lifted the rag from earlier—folded neatly—and held it out.
A quiet report.
Work done.
Red stared at it for a beat, then took it and set it on the end table like it belonged there.
His eyes stayed on Monica longer than usual.
Then Red said, low enough that it almost sounded like he didn't mean to speak:
"Good job."
Kitty looked up from Eric, surprised.
Laurie's head snapped toward them, eyes narrowing.
Monica kept her face sweet and calm, as if she didn't understand the weight of those two words.
But inside, Monica felt it settle like a brick:
Red's approval wasn't loud.
It was powerful.
And it shaped everything in this house—Kitty's exhaustion, Laurie's jealousy, Eric's eventual resentment.
Monica tucked the knowledge away, because she already knew:
If Red gave you "good job," you had a place.
And if you had a place…
You survived.
That night, Monica added a small thing to her Future Box: a smooth washer Red had dropped near the garage door.
Metal. Practical. Ordinary.
A symbol of belonging to Red's world.
Then Monica lay in bed listening to summer wind press against the window.
June was warm.
But Point Place was still a cold kind of place.
So Monica kept performing.
And she kept preparing.