Monday, January 1, 1962 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 3)
New Year's Day wasn't a celebration in the Forman house.
It was cleanup.
It was Kitty moving slowly through the living room with a tired smile, collecting cups and ashtrays and napkins like the mess was proof she'd managed to keep the world together for one more night.
It was Red waking up with a headache and the kind of irritation that made him act like the entire concept of time passing was personally offensive.
It was Laurie waking up with energy like she'd slept on batteries.
And it was Monica waking up with the same thought she always woke up with now:
Don't let today become a story people tell about you.
Downstairs, Kitty was already humming. The radio was low, just enough to fill the spaces where her worry liked to sit.
Monica padded into the kitchen in socks, hair a little wild, face soft and toddler-normal. She rubbed her eyes once—performative—then climbed into her chair like she was simply beginning a day.
Kitty turned from the counter with a bright, too-early smile. "Good morning, sweetheart."
Monica blinked up at her. "Morning, Mommy."
Kitty's expression softened instantly, like Monica's polite little voice gave her something solid to stand on. Kitty reached out and smoothed Monica's hair.
"I'm making eggs," Kitty chirped. "Daddy's… still sleeping."
Kitty said it carefully, as if saying Red is cranky would summon him.
Laurie burst in like she'd been waiting behind the doorway for her cue. "I'M HUNGRY."
Kitty flinched, then recovered. "Good morning, Laurie."
Laurie huffed. "I want pancakes."
Kitty smiled too hard. "We're having eggs."
Laurie's eyes narrowed, already calculating. "I don't like eggs."
Kitty's shoulders tightened. "You did yesterday."
"That was yesterday," Laurie snapped.
Monica watched Laurie's face more than her words. The way her eyes flicked toward Kitty's hands, toward the stove, toward the fridge—tracking power the way Monica tracked danger.
Laurie wanted control.
And on a morning when Red was sleeping and Kitty was tired, Laurie thought she could take it.
Kitty turned back to the pan, stirring. "You can have toast too."
Laurie leaned against the counter like a tiny tyrant. "I want pancakes."
Kitty's voice stayed sweet but thinner. "Not today, honey."
Laurie's mouth tightened.
And Monica could feel it—the pressure shift.
Laurie wasn't going to accept "no" quietly today.
Laurie had company energy in her blood from last night. Laurie had watched adults laugh and talk and bend to social rules, and Laurie had learned the lesson she always learned:
If people are tired, you can push harder.
Monica kept her face calm and reached for her cup of milk, taking a slow sip like she didn't feel the fuse lighting.
Kitty set a plate of eggs down in front of Monica first—soft scrambled, cut small.
"Here you go, sweetheart."
Monica smiled. "Thank you, Mommy."
Kitty's face warmed—tiny victory.
Then Kitty slid Laurie's plate down.
Laurie stared at the eggs like they were an insult. "No."
Kitty exhaled. "Laurie…"
"No," Laurie repeated, louder.
Eric began babbling from the living room—awake now, crawling toward the kitchen doorway with the determination of a little man who believed the world belonged to him.
Kitty's eyes flicked toward the living room, then back to Laurie, caught between two fires.
Monica watched the doorway too—because Red's bedroom was right above them.
Noise traveled.
And Red didn't wake gently.
He woke like a door slamming.
Laurie, sensing the leverage, picked up her fork—and flung it.
The fork clattered off the floor with a sharp metal smack.
Kitty jumped. "Laurie!"
Eric squealed, startled.
Monica's heart did that cold little drop it always did when the house teetered.
Because Red would hear that.
Because Red would come down, and Red wouldn't see "tired child" or "holiday stress."
Red would see disrespect. Chaos. A wife overwhelmed.
Red would see failure.
And Red would clamp down.
Monica slid off her chair—fast, but not suspicious-fast. Just toddler-fast. She picked up the fork, walked to the sink, and dropped it in with a small clink.
Then she turned back and did the only thing that reliably redirected Laurie without making it obvious Monica was redirecting.
Monica reached into the breadbox and pulled out the loaf—heavy for her small hands, a little awkward. She carried it like it mattered.
Kitty blinked. "Monica—honey—"
Monica held it out toward Laurie, chin tipped, toddler-serious. "Toast."
Laurie hesitated—because toast wasn't pancakes, but toast was choice. Toast was power.
Kitty seized the opening. "Yes! Toast. Laurie, do you want toast?"
Laurie's eyes narrowed, but she couldn't resist a decision she got to "make."
"Yes," Laurie snapped. "With butter."
Kitty nodded too fast. "Okay."
Monica set the loaf on the counter and climbed back into her chair, face calm. She took another sip of milk.
Laurie watched her like she suspected something, but she didn't have the language for it. Laurie only had instinct.
And her instinct told her Monica had just stopped something.
Kitty buttered toast with shaking hands that steadied as the crisis passed. "Here you go, Laurie."
Laurie ate with an exaggerated chew, still performing defiance.
Eric crawled into the kitchen and began smacking the cabinet with his hands, babbling like he was cheering.
Kitty sighed and scooped him up. "Okay—okay—good morning, baby…"
Monica watched the stairs.
No footsteps.
No Red.
They'd gotten through it.
But Monica didn't relax.
Because Laurie was still hungry for control, and this was only breakfast.
_______
Red came down an hour later, hair flattened on one side, face set hard. He wore the same expression he wore at the plant: everything is stupid and I'm the only one who sees it.
Kitty straightened instantly when he entered the kitchen, like his presence rewired her posture.
"Morning, Red," Kitty said brightly.
Red grunted.
He poured coffee like the mug was the only thing he trusted.
His eyes swept the kitchen—plates, toast crumbs, Eric strapped in his highchair now, smearing egg on his tray.
Then his gaze landed on Laurie.
Laurie froze—because she could play Kitty, but Red was harder.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Why's there a fork in the sink."
Kitty blinked. "Oh—um—"
Laurie's mouth opened, ready to lie.
Monica moved first.
Monica lifted her own fork—clean, safe—and pointed at her plate.
"Fork," Monica said simply, as if she were naming objects like a normal toddler.
Red's eyes flicked to Monica.
Then to the sink.
Then back to Kitty.
Kitty laughed nervously. "Oh—Monica helped clean up."
Red grunted.
He didn't ask further.
Which was what Monica needed.
Because if Red asked further, he'd discover the truth, and truth led to punishment, and punishment led to Laurie blaming Monica, and blame led to war.
Monica kept her face neutral and ate quietly.
Red sat down, coffee in hand. He stared at the newspaper like it owed him money.
Kitty hovered—half making herself busy, half waiting for Red to explode over something.
Laurie, bored now that Red was present and control was harder, shifted tactics.
She slid off her chair and drifted toward the living room with the lazy confidence of a child who believed she could do whatever she wanted.
Kitty called after her. "Laurie—where are you going?"
Laurie didn't answer.
Monica watched Laurie's path.
Straight toward the end table.
Straight toward Red's things.
The ashtray. The newspaper. The small jar where Red kept spare change and screws and odd bits that smelled like metal.
Laurie's fingers hovered.
Monica's pulse tightened.
Because Laurie wasn't going for candy or toys.
Laurie was going for Red's property.
And that was the kind of boundary that didn't bend—it snapped.
Monica slid off her chair again and walked after Laurie, keeping her footsteps light.
Laurie's fingers closed around the jar.
Monica reached out—not to grab it, not to fight—just to touch it too.
Two toddlers sharing a forbidden object looked less suspicious than one toddler stealing.
Laurie glanced at Monica, eyes narrowing.
Monica babbled softly, toddler-nonsense, and smiled like it was a game.
Laurie hesitated—then lifted the jar slightly like she was showing it off.
The screws inside rattled.
Red's head snapped up.
"What are you doing."
Laurie froze.
Kitty's breath caught.
Monica didn't move fast. Fast looked guilty.
Instead, Monica tilted her head and made a small sound—confused toddler—then pointed at the jar.
"Rattle," Monica said.
Like she was simply describing a sound.
Red's eyes narrowed, tracking the object, then the child, then Kitty—like he was deciding whose fault this was.
Kitty rushed in, voice too bright. "Oh! Laurie, honey, that's Daddy's."
Laurie's lips trembled—fear rising.
Red's voice dropped. "Put it down."
Laurie's fingers clenched.
Monica could feel the moment split:
Either Laurie put it down and lost—humiliated—or Laurie refused and Red erupted.
Monica couldn't let Laurie refuse.
Not today.
Not with Red already tense.
So Monica did what she'd learned to do in the library and the kitchen and every high-pressure moment:
Offer Laurie a different "win."
Monica pointed toward the hallway closet, where Kitty kept the box of holiday decorations she'd been too tired to put away.
Then Monica said the word Laurie couldn't resist:
"Pretty."
Laurie's gaze flicked toward the closet.
Kitty grabbed the thread instantly. "Oh! Laurie, do you want to help Mommy put away the decorations?"
Laurie hesitated—still gripping the jar—caught between forbidden power and offered power.
Kitty took a step toward her, hands out. "Give Daddy his jar, and you can help me."
Red's eyes stayed locked on Laurie like a vise.
Finally, Laurie shoved the jar onto the table with a clatter—too hard, not breaking, but loud enough to feel defiant.
Red's jaw tightened.
But it was down.
Crisis defused.
Kitty didn't waste the opening. She scooped Laurie by the hand and hustled her toward the closet. "Come on—helper!"
Laurie went because "helper" meant attention.
Monica stayed near the table and placed a small hand on the jar, steadying it like it mattered.
Red looked at Monica again, a fraction softer.
"Stay out of my things," Red muttered, but his tone wasn't sharp.
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red grunted.
Monica walked back to her chair, posture calm.
Inside, her mind ran:
Laurie is escalating. She's testing Red's boundaries because she can't control him.
And she's watching me.
She knows I keep stopping her.
That was the dangerous part.
Stopping Laurie wasn't enough.
Monica had to stop Laurie without Laurie realizing Monica was stopping her.
Because once Laurie realized Monica was the barrier, Laurie would turn all her force onto Monica.
And Monica was still only three.
_____
Later, while Kitty stuffed tinsel into boxes and muttered about how "next year I'm doing less," Laurie wandered in circles, bored.
Monica sat on the floor near them, quietly stacking wooden blocks with the kind of careful precision that made Kitty smile and made Laurie irritated.
Laurie finally snapped. "Why you always good."
Kitty blinked. "Laurie—"
Monica's blocks paused.
Monica kept her face blank and child-soft.
Laurie's eyes narrowed, voice lower, almost accusing: "Daddy likes you."
Kitty's mouth opened, but no words came out at first.
Because Kitty couldn't deny it.
Not convincingly.
Monica felt something cold and heavy settle in her stomach.
This was the root.
This was what would grow.
Kitty forced a laugh that sounded like it hurt. "Daddy loves you too, Laurie."
Laurie scoffed. "No."
Kitty's eyes shone with tired tears.
Monica didn't look at Kitty.
Monica looked at Laurie.
And Monica made a choice.
Not a dramatic one.
A small one, careful enough to be toddler-normal.
Monica picked up her block tower—small, simple—and shoved it toward Laurie.
An offering.
A peace treaty.
Laurie stared at it like it might bite her.
Monica smiled. "Play."
Laurie's fingers twitched.
She wanted to knock it down—power, destruction, proof she could ruin Monica's "goodness."
But Kitty was watching.
And Kitty looked fragile.
So Laurie did something else instead:
She took a block and stacked it on top.
Kitty exhaled in visible relief, like the whole house had just steadied.
Monica held her smile.
Inside, she thought:
This is how I survive her.
I give her wins. I redirect her anger away from Red.
And I keep Kitty breathing.
Because if Kitty broke…
Red would harden.
Laurie would escalate.
Eric would cry.
And Monica would be stuck in the wreckage.
New Year's Day ended like that—small victories, small redirects, small offerings.
But Monica went to bed knowing something sharper than before:
1962 wasn't starting gentle.
And neither was Laurie.