Thursday, March 23, 1961 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 3)
Spring in Point Place didn't arrive like a celebration.
It arrived like an argument.
One day the snow was piled up in gray, stubborn heaps by the curb, and the next there was a thin line of mud running down the driveway like the earth had finally decided to bleed through. The air still bit at your ears, but the sun had started showing up longer, almost cocky about it—like it had won.
Inside the Forman house, the calendar page still said March, and Kitty had circled a date with a pen so hard it nearly tore the paper.
March 15.
Birthdays.
Plural.
"Three years old," Kitty kept saying as if she couldn't believe she'd survived it. "My girls are three."
Laurie heard the phrase and treated it like a crown.
Monica heard it and treated it like a warning.
Because three was the age adults started expecting proof.
Proof you were normal. Proof you were progressing. Proof you weren't "slow" or "odd" or "too quiet."
And Monica already knew how quickly a label could become a cage.
So Monica performed.
She performed being three the way other kids performed being cute.
She mispronounced words she could pronounce perfectly.
She acted surprised at things she already understood.
She stumbled when she walked too fast, because toddlers were supposed to stumble.
And she learned, with a cold kind of clarity, that adults loved an acceptable version of you more than they loved the truth.
On March 15, Kitty had thrown a small party in the living room—just family, just neighbors, just enough to feel like a celebration without giving Red a reason to complain about money.
There were cupcakes with too much frosting. There were cheap decorations. There was a photo taken with Kitty's camera, Laurie smiling like she'd invented joy.
Monica smiled too—small, polite, childlike.
Red had watched them both blow out candles and muttered, "Don't spit."
Kitty smacked his arm and laughed like he was funny.
Laurie had demanded an extra present and gotten it because Kitty was tired.
Monica had received something that mattered more than presents:
A glance from Red—long, measuring—and a quiet, gruff:
"Good."
Not happy birthday.
Not I love you.
But good.
Like Monica was something that didn't embarrass him.
That was Red's version of affection.
Monica had taken it and stored it like a coin.
Now, eight days later, on March 23, Kitty decided they were going to town again—because Kitty had a list, and lists made Kitty feel like she was winning.
Red had left early for the plant, jaw tight, the same tension clinging to him like smoke. He'd been quieter lately, and when Red got quiet it meant he was carrying something he didn't want anyone else touching.
Kitty watched him leave with that careful expression she wore now—love wrapped around worry like a scarf.
Then she turned back into a mother on duty.
"Okay!" Kitty clapped her hands. "Shoes. Coats. We're going."
Laurie ran in circles, chanting, "Town! Town! Town!" because Laurie thought town meant attention.
Eric—ten months old and solid—gurgled from his playpen, reaching toward Kitty like she was gravity.
Monica sat on the rug, fitting wooden blocks together with slow focus.
Kitty bent down beside her. "Monica, honey. Shoes."
Monica looked up with wide eyes and delayed her response by half a second on purpose.
A half-second was enough to look like a kid thinking, not a mind calculating.
Then Monica nodded, stood, and brought Kitty her shoes—already in hand because Monica had fetched them earlier.
Kitty's expression softened. "You're so… easy."
There it was again.
Easy.
Kitty loved easy because easy didn't punish her.
Red loved easy because easy didn't challenge him.
Laurie hated easy because easy stole the spotlight.
Monica let Kitty put her shoes on, then Laurie's—Laurie kicking and complaining the whole time, because Laurie needed everyone to feel her presence.
They bundled up and headed out.
______
Town was thawing.
Mud edged the sidewalks. Slush clung to the sides of the road. The air smelled like wet earth and old snow. It made Monica's skin itch with the memory of seasons she'd already lived once in another life, another place.
Kitty pushed Eric in the stroller, cheeks red from cold and effort. Laurie walked beside her, skipping, asking questions just to hear her own voice.
Monica walked on Kitty's other side, quiet, observant.
They stopped first at the small clinic.
Kitty had insisted. "It's just a check-in," she'd said, voice bright. "A three-year check."
Red had grunted when she told him, irritated. "They're fine."
Kitty had smiled too tightly. "It's routine."
Red hadn't argued further because arguing with Kitty about the kids made him look like the bad guy, and Red hated looking like anything he didn't choose.
So Kitty took them.
Inside the clinic, the air smelled like disinfectant and old paper. A nurse smiled politely, then blinked at the stroller.
"Oh my goodness," she cooed. "Look at him."
Kitty beamed. "Eric's almost one."
The nurse leaned in like Eric was a miracle. "He's so handsome."
Laurie immediately shoved herself forward. "I'm three!"
The nurse laughed. "Oh! Are you?"
Laurie puffed up proudly.
Then the nurse's eyes slid to Monica.
The pause. The measuring.
"And you must be…?"
Kitty smiled quickly. "Monica. Laurie's twin."
The nurse's brows lifted. "Twins."
Kitty nodded. "Fraternal."
The nurse's smile stayed pleasant but her eyes sharpened with that gentle curiosity adults loved to hide behind kindness.
Monica already knew what was coming.
Inside the small exam room, the doctor was an older man with tired eyes and a voice that suggested he'd seen too many coughs and too many worried mothers.
He checked Eric first—weight, ears, gums. Eric fussed, then settled when Kitty kissed his forehead.
Kitty hovered like she was trying to absorb Eric's discomfort into her own body.
Then the doctor turned to the girls.
"Laurie," he said, cheerful. "How are you?"
Laurie performed immediately—smiling, talking, showing off.
Monica waited.
When the doctor looked at Monica, Kitty tensed slightly, as if she already knew this moment mattered.
"And you," he said gently. "Monica. How are you doing?"
Monica blinked up at him.
She could've answered perfectly.
She could've spoken in clean sentences.
She could've recited facts.
She could've shown him she wasn't a toddler at all—she was a mind in disguise.
But that would be a mistake.
Because adults didn't celebrate girls who were "too much."
Adults feared them.
So Monica tilted her head and gave him exactly what he wanted:
A small, sweet, normal response.
"Gud," Monica said softly.
Good, but shortened. Baby-ish.
The doctor smiled. "Good."
Kitty exhaled like she'd been holding air.
The doctor asked Monica to point at pictures. Monica did—slowly, like she was thinking, not like she'd already known the answers before he spoke. He asked her to stack blocks. Monica stacked them, but she let one wobble—just enough to look like a kid.
He asked, "Can you count?"
Laurie shouted, "One! Two! Free!"
The doctor laughed.
Monica could count higher than any adult in this room would expect.
So she counted like a toddler, just enough to satisfy.
"One," Monica said, holding up a finger.
"Two."
"Tree."
Kitty smiled like she'd won something.
The doctor nodded. "Good. Normal."
Normal.
The word Kitty wanted.
The word Red demanded without saying.
Monica smiled politely.
Inside, she felt something cold and sharp:
This is what your life will be, Monica.
A performance.
A constant balancing act between being safe and being yourself.
Kitty thanked the doctor too many times on the way out.
When they stepped back into the cold air, Kitty's shoulders finally loosened.
"See?" Kitty chirped to nobody in particular. "Everything's fine."
Laurie kicked slush and announced, "I'm the best twin."
Kitty laughed awkwardly. "Laurie—"
Monica stayed quiet.
Because being "fine" in Point Place didn't mean you were safe.
It meant you weren't a problem yet.
______
They went to the grocery store after the clinic.
Kitty needed flour. Sugar. Butter. Things for a "nice dinner" because Red had been in a mood, and Kitty believed food could soften moods like a bribe.
Laurie demanded candy. Kitty refused. Laurie whined.
Eric started fussing in the stroller because his gums hurt.
The aisle felt too narrow. The lights too bright. The air too warm.
Kitty's patience frayed.
Monica saw the fuse.
Monica redirected.
She toddled toward the bottom shelf, grabbed something harmless—saltines—and held it up, eyes wide, mouth forming that practiced toddler shape.
"Peas," Monica said softly.
Kitty's attention snapped to Monica immediately—relief. "Oh! Crackers!"
Kitty tossed them into the cart like Monica had saved her.
Which she had.
Laurie glared, furious that Monica had interrupted Laurie's tantrum momentum.
But Kitty was smiling again, and Laurie knew tantrums worked best when adults were already fragile.
Laurie adjusted tactics: she became sweet.
"I love you, Mommy," Laurie chirped suddenly.
Kitty melted immediately because Kitty was so tired she could be bought with one sentence.
"Oh, Laurie…" Kitty sighed, kissing her forehead.
Monica watched, calm on the outside.
Inside: Laurie is learning.
Laurie wasn't just chaos.
Laurie was a strategist too.
Laurie's strategy was louder.
Monica's was quieter.
They checked out and headed home.
______
That evening, Red came home with the cold still clinging to him, shoulders tight.
Kitty served dinner—pot roast, carrots, mashed potatoes—food designed to feel like comfort.
Red ate with minimal commentary, which meant he wasn't furious but also wasn't relaxed.
Kitty watched him carefully.
At one point, Kitty mentioned casually, "The doctor said the girls are doing great."
Red's fork paused mid-air. "Yeah?"
Kitty nodded quickly. "Normal. Healthy."
Red grunted, satisfied.
Then his gaze flicked to Monica—sharp, assessing.
Monica kept her face blank and sweet.
Red's eyes narrowed slightly. "She talk?"
Kitty laughed too brightly. "Oh, yes. She talks."
Red's brow lowered. "Not much."
Kitty's smile tightened. "She's just… quiet."
Red's voice stayed flat. "Better than screaming."
Laurie, offended, shouted, "I don't scream!"
Red's eyes slid to her. "You do."
Laurie opened her mouth to argue.
Kitty jumped in quickly, voice sugary. "Laurie, eat your carrots."
Laurie pouted but obeyed because Red was watching.
Monica sat quietly, chewing slowly, acting like she was just another toddler.
Inside, Monica was already storing the night.
The questions.
The measuring.
The way Red's approval depended on Monica being convenient.
And Monica understood with adult clarity:
Convenient daughters were loved conditionally.
But they were still loved.
So Monica held the mask in place.
Because surviving Point Place wasn't about being brilliant.
It was about being brilliant without anyone seeing you bleed.
That night, after the house quieted, Monica slipped out of bed and opened her Future Box.
She added a small folded scrap from the clinic—a sticker the nurse had given her, a cartoon bear.
It was childish.
It was harmless.
It was also proof: Monica had passed another test.
Monica closed the box and slid it back into place.
Then she returned to bed and stared into the dark.
Three wasn't freedom.
Three was the beginning of being evaluated.
So Monica would keep performing.
Because someday—years from now—Monica would stop performing.
Someday she would be powerful enough that Point Place couldn't punish her for being ahead.
But for now?
For now, she stayed small.
And she kept her secrets.