Tuesday, May 2, 1961 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 3)
By May, the world outside the Forman house looked alive again.
Grass returned in patches—uneven, stubborn, but green. The trees filled out slowly, like they were remembering how. The air warmed enough that Kitty opened windows, then shut them again when the wind reminded her it could still bite.
Inside the house, Kitty was already spiraling.
Because Eric's first birthday was coming up—May 19—and Kitty treated first birthdays like sacred events.
"It's his first," Kitty kept saying, voice high with emotion. "He won't remember it, but we will."
Red grunted whenever she said it, which was his way of admitting she was right without giving her the satisfaction.
Laurie demanded to know what presents Eric was getting.
Kitty told her, gently, that babies didn't get "big presents."
Laurie took that as a personal insult and became difficult on principle.
Monica, meanwhile, watched Kitty's birthday preparation like she was watching a business operation: list-making, budgeting, planning, emotional stakes.
Kitty was in her element when she had an event to control.
Red was in his element when he had a task to fix.
So on May 2, when Red unexpectedly had the morning off—something about the plant schedule shifting again—Red decided to do what Red did when he felt powerless:
He built something.
It started in the garage.
Monica followed him without being asked.
Red's garage smelled like metal, oil, and old wood. Tools hung on the wall with military precision. Red liked things that had a place and stayed there. Red liked order because order didn't betray you.
Monica stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back like she'd copied posture from adults without realizing it.
Red glanced at her. "What."
Monica blinked up, innocent.
Red sighed like toddlers were inconvenient, then jerked his chin. "Stay out of the way."
Monica nodded and stepped closer anyway—careful, quiet, close enough to watch but not close enough to "be in the way."
Red set a plank of wood onto his workbench and began measuring. His movements were confident—precise, practiced. He muttered under his breath the way he always did when he was focused.
Kitty appeared in the doorway moments later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Red, what are you doing?"
Red didn't look up. "Building."
Kitty blinked. "Building what?"
Red finally glanced at her, irritated at having to explain. "A shelf."
Kitty's face softened immediately. "Oh! For the birthday things?"
Red grunted like it was obvious.
Kitty smiled, delighted. "That's… actually really sweet."
Red's shoulders stiffened. "It's practical."
Kitty laughed softly. "Red, let me have it."
Red returned to measuring like he hadn't heard her.
Kitty stepped closer, voice lowering. "Monica, honey, don't touch Daddy's tools."
Monica nodded quickly—obedient.
But Monica's eyes stayed on the tools.
Not because she wanted to play.
Because tools meant skill.
Skill meant independence.
Independence meant survival.
Red reached for a saw.
Monica flinched internally—adult awareness of danger—but kept her face neutral.
Red caught the movement and paused.
He looked down at Monica, expression hard. "You know what that is?"
Monica could've said saw.
She could've explained teeth and cutting and wood grain.
Instead, Monica chose toddler truth.
"Sharp," Monica said softly.
Red's brows lifted slightly.
Kitty smiled. "See? She's smart."
Red's gaze narrowed—not pleased at Kitty's compliment, but interested. "Yeah."
He crouched down to Monica's level—big hands on his knees, eyes sharp.
"House rule," Red said, voice low. "You don't touch my tools."
Monica nodded.
Red's voice hardened. "Not ever."
Monica nodded again, serious.
Red watched her like he was testing her. "What do you say."
Monica answered the way she knew Red wanted—not just words, but respect.
"Yes, Dad."
Kitty's face softened instantly—she loved hearing it, loved that Monica never called them by their names, loved that Monica seemed "good."
Red's jaw flexed like he approved but refused to show it.
"Good," he muttered, and stood again.
Then he did something unexpected.
He handed Monica a small rag.
Monica's eyes widened—performative surprise.
Red's voice was flat. "Wipe that."
He pointed to a tool handle—dusty.
Kitty started to protest. "Red, she—"
Red cut her off. "She can wipe."
Kitty hesitated, then smiled like she'd decided this was adorable. "Okay… but be gentle, Monica."
Monica took the rag carefully and wiped the handle exactly as Red would've wiped it—thorough, precise.
Red watched.
For a moment, the garage wasn't just Red's space.
It was Red teaching.
Not with softness.
With responsibility.
And Monica understood: this is how Red bonds.
Not with hugs.
With tasks.
With being useful.
Red went back to sawing. The sound filled the garage—steady, harsh, real.
Monica stayed beside the workbench, wiping tool handles one by one like it was her job.
Because, in a way, it was.
Kitty hovered in the doorway, torn between pride and worry. "Red, don't make her tired."
Red didn't look up. "She'll tell me."
Kitty huffed. "She's three."
Red's voice stayed flat. "Then she'll learn."
Monica wiped quietly, hiding the adult satisfaction in her chest.
Because Red wasn't just letting her "help."
Red was giving her a place.
And Monica knew what that meant in this house:
If you had a place, you were harder to dismiss.
____
Later, Red carried the finished shelf inside—wood still smelling fresh, screws gleaming. Kitty clapped her hands like he'd built a palace.
"Oh, Red!" she beamed. "It's perfect!"
Red grunted, but his mouth twitched—almost a smile.
Kitty immediately began stacking birthday supplies on it like it had always belonged there.
Laurie appeared, saw the attention, and immediately demanded, "I want a shelf!"
Kitty laughed. "Laurie—"
Laurie stomped her foot. "MINE!"
Red's head snapped toward her. "No."
Laurie froze, stunned.
Red's voice sharpened. "You want something, you ask. You don't scream."
Kitty winced, already tired. "Red—"
Red didn't soften. "House rule."
Kitty tried to smooth it. "Laurie, honey, why don't you help Mommy with the balloons?"
Laurie pouted but followed Kitty because balloons were at least attention-adjacent.
Monica watched the exchange from the living room rug, calm and quiet.
Because Monica could see the pattern hardening again:
•Laurie pushed.
•Red shut her down.
•Kitty rescued the mood.
•Monica stayed useful and quiet.
And the longer that pattern stayed in place, the more inevitable the future became.
After lunch, when Eric went down for his nap and Laurie was distracted by balloons, Red sat in his chair with the newspaper.
Monica approached with deliberate toddler steps.
Red glanced down. "What."
Monica held up the rag from earlier—now folded neatly. A wordless message:
I did my job.
Red stared for a beat, then took the rag and set it on the end table like it belonged there.
He looked at Monica again, eyes sharp.
"Rule," Red said.
Monica waited, attentive.
Red spoke slowly, like he was carving it into her:
"You don't lie."
Monica nodded.
"You don't take what isn't yours."
Monica nodded again.
"You say please and thank you."
Monica nodded again, face serious.
"And," Red added, voice rougher, "you respect your mother."
Monica's throat tightened—not outwardly, not visibly, but inside.
Because Monica already respected Kitty.
Monica respected Kitty's effort. Kitty's exhaustion. Kitty's constant emotional labor.
Monica nodded harder, as if she could make the promise solid.
"Yes, Dad."
Red's gaze lingered on her—measuring, approving, something like pride in the shape of discipline.
Then he grunted. "Good."
Kitty, in the kitchen, watched them with soft eyes, dish towel in hand, like she was seeing something she'd always wanted:
Red giving their child something stable.
Monica sat at Red's feet quietly, flipping through a board book like a normal toddler.
But inside, Monica was doing what she always did:
Observing.
Learning.
Storing.
Because Red's rules weren't just rules.
They were structure.
And structure was something Monica could use.
Someday, she'd use it to build her own life—one Red couldn't control, one Point Place couldn't judge, one Laurie couldn't sabotage.
For now, Red's "classroom" was the garage and the living room and the quiet words he didn't realize were shaping Monica more than any gift ever could.
That night, after everyone went to bed, Monica opened her Future Box and added something new:
A tiny screw Red had dropped on the garage floor earlier.
It was small.
It was meaningless to anyone else.
But to Monica, it was a symbol.
A piece of Red's world.
A piece of skill.
A piece of structure.
Monica closed the box and returned to bed.
Outside, May wind brushed the windows.
Inside, the Forman house settled into sleep.
And Monica lay in the dark, thinking of Red's rules like they were stepping stones:
Act normal.
Stay small.
Be useful.
Learn everything.
Because in Point Place, the safest girl was the one no one saw coming.
And Monica was already planning to be unstoppable.