Sunday, January 1, 1961 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 2)
New Year's Day in Point Place was quieter than New Year's Eve—like the town had yelled all its wishes into the dark and woke up embarrassed about it.
Snow sat on rooftops in thick, lazy piles. The street outside the Forman house was clean except for tire tracks and footprints that had already started to fill back in. The sky was pale and endless, the kind of winter sky that made everything feel smaller.
Inside, the house smelled like yesterday's stew and Kitty's stubborn attempt at warmth—coffee, cinnamon, and the faint burn of something on the stove she insisted was fine.
Red sat at the kitchen table in his undershirt, hair still flat from sleep, staring at a newspaper like he could intimidate it into giving him better news. He hadn't shaved yet. He looked more human like this—less armor, more man.
Kitty moved around him with quiet energy, trying not to crash into Red's mood. She had Eric in her arms—nine months and solid, cheeks pink from warm sleep. Eric made soft noises and grabbed Kitty's finger like it was the most important thing in the world.
Laurie sat on the living room floor in a nightgown, ripping a bow off a Christmas box like she was finishing a job she'd started two weeks ago. She'd woken up angry, the way she often did now—angry that Eric existed, angry that the world didn't revolve around her, angry that Monica never gave her the satisfaction of a dramatic reaction.
Monica sat cross-legged near the tree—still up because Kitty hadn't had the heart to take it down yet—and played with a string of tinsel, letting it slide through her fingers like she was mesmerized by sparkly nonsense.
She wasn't.
She was watching everything.
Because New Year's Day was when adults got brave enough to talk about what they didn't want to talk about the rest of the year.
Red folded the newspaper with sharp irritation. "They're raising the price of everything."
Kitty tried to sound light. "Well, that's what they always say."
Red snorted. "Yeah. And then it happens."
Kitty set coffee down near him carefully. "It's a new year. Maybe it'll be good."
Red's mouth flattened. "Maybe pigs will fly."
Kitty sighed like she'd expected that answer. "Red…"
He stared at the paper again, then muttered, "Plant starts up tomorrow."
Kitty's smile faltered. "I know."
Red's jaw tightened. "They've got new 'efficiency' crap."
Kitty went still.
There it was again.
Efficiency.
A word that sounded harmless until you lived in a town where one factory decided whether your kids got braces or shoes or a college fund.
Kitty tried to steer it away. "Well, maybe it won't be anything."
Red's eyes flicked up. "Kitty."
Her shoulders tightened. "I'm just saying—"
Red's voice stayed flat, final. "Don't."
Kitty swallowed the rest of her sentence and turned away, busying herself with the sink because being busy meant she didn't have to cry.
Monica's fingers tightened on the tinsel.
Adults avoided reality like it was contagious.
Monica didn't have that luxury.
Not with an adult mind trapped behind a toddler face.
Laurie suddenly stood up and stomped into the kitchen, drawn by the conversation like a shark drawn by blood.
"Cookie!" she demanded, pointing toward the counter.
Kitty startled, blinking back the tension. "Not before breakfast."
Laurie's mouth twisted. "COOKIE!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Stop yelling."
Laurie glared at him—bold, fearless, learning. "COOKIE!"
Eric made a little startled sound, then began to fuss.
Kitty's face tightened immediately. "Shh, honey—"
Red pushed back his chair. "God—"
The room teetered—one tantrum away from Red exploding, Kitty dissolving, Eric crying, and Monica spending the next hour cleaning up emotional shrapnel while pretending she was just playing.
So Monica moved.
Not fast.
Not obvious.
Toddler-slow, toddler-clumsy—so nobody could accuse her of planning.
She toddled to the counter, reached up on tiptoe, and grabbed something that looked harmless: a napkin ring Kitty had left out—bright plastic, useless, distracting.
Monica waddled back and held it up to Laurie like it was treasure.
Laurie's scream died mid-breath.
Because Laurie liked being offered things. It meant attention. It meant Monica was doing something for her.
Laurie snatched the ring and immediately started banging it against the table like a drum.
Kitty exhaled in relief she didn't even try to hide. "Oh—thank you, Monica."
Red watched Monica for a beat too long.
That look again—approval, suspicion, and something like grudging respect he refused to acknowledge as emotion.
Then Red grunted and sat back down like he'd decided not to explode today.
Monica returned to the living room with the tinsel, calm on the outside.
Inside, she noted the pattern again:
When Red is on edge, you don't argue. You redirect.
When Kitty is fragile, you give her a win.
When Laurie is primed to detonate, you offer her something shiny.
That was life in the Forman house.
A constant balancing act.
______
After breakfast—after Kitty forced Laurie to eat eggs, after Eric smeared food all over his face and Kitty laughed like it was adorable instead of exhausting, after Red snapped at the weather report like it had personally insulted him—Kitty declared she needed "just one thing" from town.
Red didn't argue. He never argued when Kitty said she needed something, not anymore. Maybe because he knew she didn't say it unless she really needed to leave the house.
So they bundled up. Coats. Hats. Gloves. Eric wrapped like a burrito. Laurie complaining the whole time. Monica quiet as a shadow.
Town was slow on New Year's Day. A few cars. A few families walking like they were proving they had resolutions. The grocery store was open but sleepy, the aisles half-empty, the cashier bored.
Kitty drifted toward the magazine rack while Red grabbed essentials.
Laurie ran toward the candy display like she owned it.
Monica stayed close to Kitty.
Because magazines were information.
And information was power.
Kitty's fingers hovered over glossy covers—women smiling too hard, hair curled perfectly, lipstick sharp. She pulled one out and flipped pages, eyes brightening for a second like she could imagine herself as someone else.
Red appeared beside her with a basket. "What are you doing."
Kitty smiled nervously. "Just looking."
Red's brows lowered. "We don't need it."
Kitty's voice tightened. "Red, it's a magazine. It's not a car."
Red muttered, "It's money."
Kitty lifted her chin. "I want it."
A rare moment.
Kitty choosing something just because she wanted it.
Red stared at her like he didn't know what to do with that, then he made a sound of irritation and dropped a few bills on the counter with the groceries like he was paying a fine.
Kitty bought the magazine.
Monica watched the whole exchange closely and filed it away:
Kitty wants beauty.
Red thinks beauty is waste.
Money is the fight neither of them names out loud.
Back home, Kitty set the magazine on the coffee table like it was a prize she'd earned.
Laurie immediately tried to grab it.
Kitty snapped, sharper than usual. "No."
Laurie froze, shocked.
Kitty breathed out and softened her tone, but she didn't soften the boundary. "That's Mommy's."
Red glanced up from his paper, surprised.
Monica noticed too.
Kitty had drawn a line.
That was new.
Monica sat on the rug and waited until Kitty got distracted by Eric.
Then Monica did what she'd been practicing for months:
She stole the information without stealing the object.
Monica toddled past the table, bumped it gently like a clumsy toddler, and let one page flutter loose where nobody noticed.
A page with a hairstyle—higher volume, sleeker shape. A hint of what was coming in the next decade.
Monica scooped it up like it was an accident and carried it toward the hallway.
No one stopped her, because toddlers carried paper all the time.
In her room, Monica folded the page small—careful, precise—then hid it under her mattress for later.
Not her Future Box yet.
Not where Laurie might find it.
Under the mattress was safer.
Then Monica sat on the bed, staring at her hands.
Because the hairstyle wasn't the only thing she'd noticed.
There was an ad on the page too—tiny, boring to everyone else.
A company name.
A product.
A hint of where money would go later. Where trends would pull people. Where investment would matter if you had the time and knowledge.
Monica couldn't invest as a toddler.
She couldn't march to Red and say, "Buy stock, Dad."
But she could do what she'd been doing since she was born into this body:
Collect.
Store.
Prepare.
Monica slipped off the bed and toddled back into the hallway like nothing happened, face blank and sweet.
Act normal.
Stay small.
Keep your secrets.
Because 1961 had already started the way every year in Point Place started:
With adults pretending they weren't scared.
And Monica refusing to pretend.