Friday, February 10, 1961 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
February in Wisconsin wasn't cute.
February was a threat.
Wind slapped the sides of houses like it was angry. Snow turned gray near the street from car exhaust and boots. The cold crawled into bones and stayed there.
Inside the Forman house, everyone was packed together like the walls had shrunk.
Kitty was tired of winter. Tired of being indoors. Tired of washing the same clothes and wiping the same counters and hearing the same cries and complaints.
Eric was teething now. His cheeks were red. He drooled constantly. He fussed more than he slept, which meant Kitty slept even less.
Laurie was restless—three years old and full of energy with nowhere to put it. She'd started inventing trouble just to watch adults react.
Monica watched Laurie the way you watched a match near curtains.
Careful.
Ready.
Because Laurie had started to learn something dangerous:
If she couldn't get attention by being cute, she could get attention by being a problem.
That morning, Red came home for lunch—rare. The plant had some "adjustment" meeting, and the men were being shuffled like pieces on a board. Red was irritated before he even opened the door.
The house felt it the second he stepped inside.
Boots hitting hard. Jacket thrown on the hook like it offended him. The air shifting.
Kitty moved fast, too bright. "Red! You're home!"
Red grunted. "Yeah."
Kitty tried to make it feel normal. "I was just—Eric's been fussy—Laurie's been—"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Kitty."
She stopped talking immediately.
Monica sat on the rug with blocks, stacking and unstacking like an angelic toddler.
Laurie sat at the table with crayons, scribbling violently like she was trying to stab the paper.
Eric was in Kitty's arms, chewing on his fist and whimpering.
Red sat down, face tight. "What's for lunch."
Kitty hurried. "Soup. I saved some from last night."
Red grunted approval—soup meant predictable. Predictable meant safe.
Kitty served him quickly, hovering like she didn't want to breathe wrong.
Red ate like he was angry at the spoon.
Laurie watched Red the way she watched weather—trying to decide if she could push.
Then Laurie did what Monica had been bracing for.
She stood up, walked right over to Red, and knocked her crayon cup onto the table.
Crayons scattered everywhere—rolling onto the floor, bouncing near Red's boots.
A deliberate mess.
A test.
Kitty inhaled sharply. "Laurie—"
Red froze mid-bite. Slowly set his spoon down.
His eyes lifted, locking on Laurie.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Laurie's chin lifted—defiant, daring him.
Monica's heart kicked hard.
This was the dangerous edge: Red had come home tense. Eric was fussy. Kitty was exhausted. Laurie was testing.
If Red snapped, it would become a full explosion—screaming, crying, fear that settled into the house for days.
Monica moved.
Not to scold Laurie.
Not to compete.
To redirect.
Monica slid off the rug, toddled across the floor, and began picking up crayons—slow, focused, toddler-serious.
She didn't look at Red.
She didn't look at Laurie.
She made it a game.
Monica held up a blue crayon and babbled a soft sound like she'd discovered treasure.
Kitty's eyes snapped to Monica immediately—relief flashing. "Oh! Monica's helping."
Laurie's attention flicked to Monica, irritated. "No!"
Red's gaze shifted—away from Laurie's defiance, toward Monica's calm.
The tension in his jaw didn't disappear, but it redirected.
Exactly what Monica needed.
Red's voice came low. "Pick it up."
He was speaking to Laurie.
But he was watching Monica.
Laurie's face twisted, furious that Monica had changed the focus.
She stomped her foot. "No!"
Red's hand tightened around his spoon.
Kitty's shoulders tightened, ready to intervene.
Monica acted fast.
She scooped up three crayons and waddled toward Laurie, holding them out like an offering. Not a surrender—an exchange.
Laurie froze.
Crayons were control. Crayons were hers.
If Monica offered them back, Laurie could feel like she won something without continuing the war.
Laurie snatched the crayons and shoved them into her cup with dramatic force.
Then—because she still needed to prove she wasn't defeated—she shoved the cup slightly, making it wobble.
Red's voice sharpened instantly. "Don't."
The single word landed like a slap.
Laurie stiffened.
Kitty held her breath.
Monica stayed still, face blank and sweet, hands at her sides like she was harmless.
Red stared at Laurie for a long beat, then went back to eating like nothing happened.
A near-miss.
Kitty exhaled shakily and whispered, "Thank you," to nobody and everybody.
Monica returned to the rug and sat down again.
Inside, Monica noted the lesson with a kind of grim satisfaction:
Redirecting works, but only if it doesn't look like you're controlling the room.
Red hates feeling manipulated.
So you make it look accidental.
You make it look like you're just… good.
Laurie watched Monica from the table with narrowed eyes—anger simmering under her skin.
Because Laurie understood something too, even if she couldn't name it:
Monica had power in this house.
Not loud power.
Quiet power.
The kind that made adults breathe easier.
The kind that made Red soften.
The kind that made Kitty grateful.
And Laurie hated that more than anything.
____
Later, when Red went back to work and Kitty finally got Eric down for a nap, the house fell into an uneasy quiet.
Laurie drifted into Monica's room like she owned it.
Monica sat on the floor with a book—just pictures, nothing suspicious—turning pages slowly.
Laurie stood in the doorway, arms crossed in toddler imitation of adult anger.
"You," Laurie said, voice small but sharp.
Monica blinked up at her, innocent.
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Mine."
Monica didn't respond.
Laurie stepped closer. "Daddy. Mine."
There it was.
Not a toy.
Not a cookie.
Red.
Laurie wanted Red's attention like it was oxygen—because she could feel it slipping toward Monica in ways she couldn't understand.
Monica tilted her head as if confused, then did something careful and strategic:
She held up the book.
An offer.
Not because Laurie wanted the book—Laurie didn't care about books.
But because the offer communicated something important in toddler language:
I'm not fighting you.
Laurie stared at the book, suspicious.
Then she slapped it out of Monica's hands.
The book hit the floor.
Monica didn't cry.
Monica didn't react.
She simply picked it up and set it back in her lap like it didn't matter.
Laurie's face twisted—frustrated that Monica wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
Laurie shoved Monica's shoulder.
Monica rocked slightly, then steadied herself.
Still no crying.
Still no reaction.
Laurie's breathing sped up—anger searching for a target.
Monica looked up at Laurie then—steady, calm—and did the one thing that always disarmed Kitty and usually made Red pause too:
Monica softened her face.
Not fake sadness. Not fear.
Just… smallness.
A reminder: I'm little.
Laurie hesitated.
Because even Laurie—chaotic, jealous Laurie—didn't always want to be the villain. She just wanted attention.
Monica picked up the book again and patted the space beside her.
Laurie glared, then slowly sat down—too close, shoulder pressed hard into Monica's like a silent threat.
Monica turned the page and pointed at a picture, babbling softly.
Laurie watched for half a second.
Then she yawned—dramatic, bored.
But she stayed.
And Monica stored the lesson too:
Laurie isn't evil.
Laurie is hungry.
And in this house, hunger turns into violence if it isn't managed.
Monica kept turning the pages, calm as a lake on the outside.
Inside, she planned for the years ahead—when Laurie's jealousy wouldn't be crayons and shoves, but words and manipulation.
When Eric would grow into the role of "baby" and then "ignored" and then "resentful."
When Point Place would watch them all like entertainment.
For now, Monica's job was simple:
Act normal.
Stay quiet.
Redirect without being seen.
Because in the Forman house, survival wasn't about winning fights.
It was about preventing explosions before anyone noticed the fuse was lit.