Saturday, February 10, 1962 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 3)
By February, Point Place felt trapped.
Snow made everything smaller.
The streets narrowed under drifts. The sky stayed gray. The cold pressed into the house through every seam, every window, every gap in the doorframe.
Even Red's patience shrank with the daylight.
Kitty tried to make winter "cozy."
Red treated winter like an enemy.
Laurie treated winter like boredom—and boredom made her dangerous.
Eric, now nearly two, treated winter like a personal insult because it meant he couldn't run outside freely without Kitty panicking.
And Monica treated winter like a test of endurance.
Cabin fever didn't just make people restless.
It made them cruel.
That morning, the wind rattled the windows hard enough to make Kitty mutter, "Oh my goodness," as if the weather was being rude.
Red had been pacing since breakfast, irritated at the sound of the wind, irritated at the lack of control, irritated at a newspaper headline Kitty had tried not to read aloud.
He'd already snapped once about the thermostat.
"Stop touching it," he'd barked.
Kitty had lifted her hands, defensive. "I wasn't touching it!"
Red glared anyway. "Then don't think about touching it."
Kitty went quiet, jaw tight.
Monica watched it all from the living room rug, where she sat with crayons and paper—Kitty's attempt at "quiet activity."
Laurie hovered nearby like a shark.
Eric toddled in circles, smacking toys against furniture.
Red went into the garage because he couldn't stand the house.
Then, ten minutes later, Red came back inside because the garage was too cold.
He stomped into the living room, rubbing his hands. "It's freezing."
Kitty, from the kitchen, called carefully, "Well, that's February."
Red muttered something unpleasant under his breath.
Laurie saw the opening.
When Red was irritated, he was a weapon Laurie could aim—if she could get him to swing in Monica's direction.
Laurie slid onto the rug beside Monica, smiling too sweetly. "Draw."
Monica blinked, toddler-calm. "Draw."
Laurie grabbed a crayon—red—and scribbled hard on her own paper, then leaned over and scribbled on Monica's paper too.
Monica's hand paused.
Monica didn't care about the drawing.
But Monica cared about the intent.
Laurie wanted conflict.
Monica could feel it like static.
Monica lifted her paper slightly away, nonchalant, and continued drawing on the edge.
Laurie's smile tightened.
She tried again—scribbling across Monica's page harder.
Then Laurie did the thing she knew would force adult intervention:
Laurie reached over and snapped Monica's crayon in half.
The crack was sharp in the quiet room.
Kitty's head snapped up from the kitchen doorway. "Laurie!"
Eric squealed, delighted by the sudden attention.
Monica stared at the broken crayon.
A normal child might cry.
Monica's throat tightened with the impulse to perform distress—because tears earned sympathy.
But sympathy was a trap.
Sympathy made adults focus.
Focus made them question.
And Monica didn't need questions.
Not from Red.
Red's footsteps approached—heavy, irritated. "What now."
Kitty's voice went tight. "Laurie broke Monica's crayon."
Red stepped into the living room like the cold had followed him.
He looked down at the rug—at the broken crayon, at Monica's quiet face, at Laurie's innocent posture.
Laurie widened her eyes and did her best imitation of helplessness. "It broke."
Red's gaze sharpened. "Did it break on its own."
Laurie hesitated—too long.
Kitty's hands clenched in her apron.
Monica's mind moved fast.
If Red decided Laurie was lying, he'd punish Laurie harshly.
If Red punished Laurie harshly, Laurie would blame Monica.
If Laurie blamed Monica, the house would become war.
Monica didn't want war.
Not now.
So Monica did what she'd been learning to do:
She redirected the adult.
Monica picked up both halves of the crayon, held them up to Red like a report, and said calmly:
"Broken."
Red stared at her.
Monica tilted her head and added, toddler-soft, "Fix?"
Red blinked.
Kitty blinked too—surprised by Monica's tone.
Red looked at the crayon, then at Monica again.
The anger in his shoulders shifted—not gone, but pointed somewhere else.
Because "fix" was Red's language.
Fixing was control.
Red exhaled through his nose. "It's a crayon."
Monica nodded, solemn.
"Not fix?" Monica asked, like she genuinely wanted to understand.
Red's mouth twitched—almost humor, almost approval.
He crouched down, snatched the broken pieces from Monica's hand, and—after a moment of irritated thought—wrapped masking tape around the snapped ends, pressing them together.
Kitty's mouth fell open slightly. "Red…"
Red glared at the crayon like it offended him. "There. Fixed."
He shoved it back into Monica's hand.
Monica held it carefully, as if it were priceless. "Thank you, Dad."
Red grunted and stood. "Laurie—stop breaking things."
Laurie pouted, but she couldn't argue without exposing herself.
Red stalked away, irritated but defused.
Kitty stared after him, then looked down at Monica like she'd just witnessed a miracle.
Monica went back to drawing.
Laurie watched Monica with narrowed eyes.
Because Laurie had tried to provoke punishment.
And Monica had turned it into a moment with Red.
A moment of approval.
Laurie hated that more than punishment.
_____
Later, Kitty attempted a winter "treat"—hot chocolate for the girls, warm milk for Eric. She set little mugs on the table, trying to force cheer into the room.
"Careful, it's hot," Kitty warned.
Laurie took a sip and immediately made a face. "It's yucky."
Kitty's smile tightened. "It's cocoa."
Laurie pushed her mug away dramatically, then reached for Monica's mug—because Laurie didn't want cocoa, Laurie wanted Monica's cocoa.
Monica slid her mug back instinctively.
Laurie's fingers closed around the handle anyway.
The mug tipped.
Hot chocolate splashed across the table—thankfully not on skin, but enough to stain and shock.
Kitty gasped. "Oh my gosh—!"
Eric shrieked, startled, then began crying because crying made adults rush.
Kitty lunged for a towel. "Okay—okay—everyone back—"
Red's voice cut from the living room, sharp. "What."
Kitty's voice rose—stress cracking through. "Laurie spilled the cocoa!"
Red's footsteps started—heavy, angry.
Laurie's eyes flicked to Monica.
And then Laurie did something calculated:
She pointed at Monica.
"She did it."
The room went cold.
Kitty froze with the towel in her hands, eyes wide.
Eric cried louder, sensing tension.
Monica's chest tightened—anger, not fear.
Not at Laurie lying.
At Laurie choosing this.
Choosing to aim Red at Monica.
Red entered the kitchen, face hard, eyes sharp. "What."
Kitty stammered, "I—I saw Laurie—she—"
Laurie cut in, louder. "Monica did it! She took my cup!"
Kitty looked trapped between truth and exhaustion.
Red's eyes narrowed and landed on Monica.
And Monica understood: this was the moment she'd been preparing for.
If Monica defended herself too clearly, she'd look "too aware."
If Monica stayed silent, Red might believe Laurie.
If Red believed Laurie, the pattern would set:
Laurie could scapegoat Monica whenever she wanted.
Monica couldn't allow that.
So Monica did what she always did.
She stayed toddler-simple.
Monica pointed at the table. Pointed at the spilled cocoa.
Then she pointed at Laurie's mug—the one pushed away earlier, still sitting untouched.
Then Monica held up her own mug—still mostly full.
"Mine," Monica said, soft and calm.
Then she pointed at Laurie, and said one word:
"Her."
Kitty's mouth parted—relief.
Because Monica had shown evidence without sounding like a courtroom.
Red stared at the mugs.
He wasn't stupid. He just hated being forced to judge.
Red's jaw flexed. He looked at Laurie.
Laurie's mouth opened to protest.
Red's voice dropped low. "Don't lie to me."
Laurie froze, eyes shiny.
Red's gaze sharpened. "You spill it."
Laurie's lip trembled.
Kitty's eyes filled with tired tears—because this was exactly the kind of moment she dreaded: truth, tension, consequences.
Laurie tried a last tactic—sobbing loudly. "I didn't mean—!"
Red's voice cut sharp. "I don't care what you meant."
Kitty flinched. "Red—"
Red didn't look at Kitty. "Clean it up. And then you sit."
Laurie's sobs hitched. "I'm three!"
Red's face stayed stone. "Then you learn now."
Kitty's hands shook as she wiped the table—half cleanup, half trying to keep the peace.
Monica stood still beside her chair, calm on the outside.
Inside, she felt the shift:
Laurie had crossed a line.
And Red had snapped it back into place.
But Monica didn't feel victorious.
Victory in this house always had a cost.
Because Laurie's eyes—through tears—locked on Monica.
And Monica could see it clearly:
Laurie wasn't just jealous anymore.
Laurie was keeping score.
______
That afternoon, after Red went back to pacing and Kitty finally got Eric down for a nap, Laurie sat on the living room rug with her doll, silent in a way that wasn't peaceful.
Monica sat nearby with her paper and crayons.
The house was quiet—dangerously quiet.
Kitty moved around softly, as if loud footsteps might spark another explosion.
Monica could feel Laurie's attention like a weight.
Finally, Laurie spoke, voice low and sharp.
"You told."
Kitty's head snapped up from the kitchen doorway. "Laurie—"
Monica didn't look at Kitty.
Monica looked at Laurie, face toddler-neutral.
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "You told Daddy."
Monica blinked slowly. "No."
Laurie's voice rose. "Yes!"
Kitty started forward, exhausted. "Laurie, honey—"
Monica lifted a hand—small, subtle—like she was only gesturing.
Then Monica said softly, carefully:
"Truth."
Kitty froze.
Laurie stared like she didn't understand the word as a concept, only as an insult.
Monica kept her voice gentle, toddler-simple. "Truth good."
Laurie's mouth twisted. "Daddy likes you."
Kitty's throat tightened. "Laurie…"
Monica's chest ached—not because Laurie was wrong, but because it was already shaping their lives.
Monica made a choice.
She scooted closer—slow, non-threatening—and offered Laurie her taped crayon.
A repaired thing.
A symbol.
"Draw," Monica said softly.
Laurie stared at the crayon like it was a trap.
Then Laurie snatched it and scribbled hard on her own paper, aggressive and messy.
Monica didn't stop her.
Monica let her have the outlet.
Because that was the point:
Redirect without triggering Red.
Redirect without escalating Kitty.
Redirect without turning Laurie's anger into a weapon.
Kitty exhaled shakily, relief washing over her face.
She turned away quickly, wiping at her eyes as if dust had gotten in them.
Monica kept drawing quietly, letting Laurie scratch rage into paperAnd Monica thought, with a calm she didn't feel:
If Laurie is going to keep testing boundaries, I have to keep choosing which fires to put out.
And which ones to let burn just enough to teach her without destroying us.
That night, Monica added something new to her Future Box:
The little strip of masking tape Red had used to fix the crayon.
A ridiculous scrap.
But it mattered.
Because it was proof of a rule Monica intended to live by:
If you can redirect Red into fixing instead of punishing, you can keep the whole house from collapsing.
Monica closed the box, crawled into bed, and listened to the wind drag snow against the window.
Point Place felt sealed shut by winter.
And inside the sealed house, Monica could feel the long shape of the future pressing closer.
Not in years.
In patterns.
Laurie would keep testing.
Red would keep tightening.
Kitty would keep trying to soften everything.
Eric would keep watching, learning where attention lived.
And Monica—Monica would keep adapting.
Quietly.
Relentlessly.
Because surviving Point Place wasn't about being good.
It was about being smart enough to stay standing when everyone else started tipping.