Friday, March 23, 1962 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
Spring didn't arrive in Point Place like a promise.
It arrived like a negotiation.
The snow melted in ugly patches first—gray, gritty, reluctant—before the air softened and the sun started hanging around long enough to feel real. Kitty took it as a personal victory. Red treated it like the weather had finally stopped being stupid.
Monica turned four eight days ago.
Kitty had made a cake with pink frosting and too many sprinkles. Red had watched the whole birthday unfold like it was a strange ritual, but he'd still reached into his pocket and dropped a shiny nickel into Monica's palm like it was a medal.
Laurie had gotten jealous immediately.
Eric had gotten frosting on his eyebrows.
Nothing changed.
Everything changed.
Four meant people stopped calling you a baby, but they didn't stop treating you like one. Four meant you were old enough to be expected to behave—old enough to be scolded with meaning.
Monica understood that, even if she kept her face small and soft and toddler-simple.
That morning, Kitty was on her knees in the hallway with a bucket of soapy water, scrubbing baseboards like the dirt had insulted her.
"Spring cleaning," she announced, a little too brightly, as if saying the words could force the season into place. "Everything has to be fresh."
Red grunted from the living room chair. The newspaper was open, but his eyes weren't moving like he was really reading. His coffee sat untouched, cooling.
The plant was in his bones today—tension, silence, weight.
Laurie sat at the kitchen table, kicking her feet and whining that the soap smell was "gross."
Eric toddled between rooms, delighted by the bucket, trying to shove his hands in it every time Kitty turned away.
Monica stood near the doorway and watched, quiet.
Kitty caught her looking and softened instantly. "Monica, sweetheart—why don't you go play?"
Monica nodded. "Okay, Mommy."
She didn't move right away.
Because Red had folded the newspaper down a little.
And when Red looked at Monica like that—like he was thinking—it usually meant something was about to happen.
Red tapped the edge of the coffee table with his finger once.
"Mon," he said.
Kitty's head snapped up, surprised. Red didn't use nicknames often. Not for the girls. Not for anyone.
Monica stepped closer, careful and small. "Yes, Dad?"
Red stared at her for a beat too long, then jerked his chin toward the garage door.
"Come on."
Kitty blinked hard. "Red—where are you taking her?"
Red didn't look at Kitty. "Garage."
Kitty's voice went tight. "It's cold in there."
Red's tone stayed flat. "She's got socks."
Kitty's hands clenched around her rag. "Red, she'll get into tools—"
Red finally looked at Kitty, eyes sharp. "She won't."
Kitty's mouth opened, then shut.
Because Red didn't say that like a guess.
He said it like a fact.
And Kitty—tired, wary, quietly grateful—let it happen.
Laurie perked up instantly. "I wanna go!"
Red didn't even blink. "No."
Laurie's mouth fell open. "Why not?"
Red didn't answer.
He just stood up, grabbed his jacket, and opened the door.
Monica followed.
Not because she was obedient—though she made it look like that.
Because this was an opportunity.
Red didn't invite.
Red summoned.
When Red summoned you, you learned something. Or you got punished. Sometimes both.
The garage smelled like cold metal, oil, and Red.
Red shut the door behind them. The sound of it closing felt like a boundary being set.
Monica looked around, eyes careful.
There was the workbench. The tool pegboard. The jars of screws and nails. The old rags. The half-fixed things Red couldn't stand leaving unfinished.
Red rubbed his hands together, then nodded toward the workbench stool.
"Up."
Monica climbed, steadying herself with small hands.
Red reached up and pulled a cardboard box toward him, sliding it onto the bench. It made a gritty scrape like it hadn't moved in a while.
Monica watched his hands.
Red's hands were always certain.
Even when his mood wasn't.
He opened the box and took out something small and simple.
A worn tin—like a cookie tin—but heavier.
Red placed it on the bench, in front of Monica.
Monica stared at it.
Red tapped the lid once. "This is mine."
Monica didn't touch it. She waited.
Red's eyes narrowed slightly, like he'd noticed she hadn't grabbed it.
"Rule one," Red said, voice low. "You don't touch what ain't yours."
Monica nodded, solemn. "Okay, Dad."
Red held her gaze like he was measuring if she understood.
Monica understood. More than he meant.
Rule one wasn't about manners. It was about territory.
Red didn't have control at the plant. Red didn't have control over money rumors. Red didn't have control over the world.
So Red controlled his space.
Red reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small pile of coins—pennies, nickels, a dime.
He set them on the bench between them.
Monica's fingers twitched—but she kept them still.
Red watched, then grunted faintly.
"Rule two," he said. "If you want something, you ask. Not whine. Not grab. Ask."
Monica looked at the coins like they were just coins.
In her head, they were practice.
"Ask," Monica repeated softly.
Red nodded once. "Good."
He pushed the coins a little closer. "What do you say if you want a nickel."
Monica lifted her chin, toddler-bright. "May I have a nickel, please?"
Red stared.
Then, to Monica's surprise, the corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
"Close enough," he muttered.
He slid a nickel toward her.
Monica took it with both hands like it mattered.
"Thank you, Dad."
Red grunted. "Rule three."
He leaned closer, voice dropping.
"You don't lie to me."
Monica's stomach tightened—not fear, not guilt.
Recognition.
Lying was currency in families like this. Lying kept peace. Lying prevented explosions. Lying protected you from people who didn't deserve the truth.
But Red didn't see it that way.
Red saw lying as disrespect.
As betrayal.
Red's eyes sharpened. "If you break something, you say it. If you spill something, you say it. You don't point at your sister. You don't point at your brother. You don't make excuses."
Monica's mind flashed to Laurie pointing at her. To cocoa. To Red's cold voice.
Red was teaching Monica what he wanted to believe the house could be:
Simple. Honest. Controlled.
Monica nodded, careful. "Okay, Dad."
Red held her gaze again, like he was making sure it sank in.
Then he opened the tin.
Inside were small things: extra keys, a little pocket knife, old receipts folded tight, and a Polaroid of Kitty holding baby Laurie and baby Monica—Red standing behind them, stiff, like he didn't know what to do with his hands.
Monica's throat tightened.
Red didn't look at the photo long. He shoved it aside like sentiment was embarrassing.
He pulled out the pocket knife and set it on the bench.
Monica didn't reach.
Red watched her again. "You know what that is."
Monica nodded. "Knife."
Red grunted. "Rule four. You don't touch sharp things. Ever. You ask."
Monica nodded again. "Ask."
Red leaned back slightly, satisfied.
Then his gaze shifted—past Monica—toward the garage door.
Like he was remembering Kitty, scrubbing, humming, trying to make the world feel safe.
Red's voice went lower.
"You listen to your mother," he said. "Even when she fusses."
Monica blinked. "Yes, Dad."
Red's jaw flexed. "She worries. That's her job."
Monica didn't answer.
Because Monica understood: worrying wasn't Kitty's job.
It was Kitty's survival strategy.
Red's gaze returned to the coins. He pushed the dime forward too.
"What do you do if someone treats you like you're stupid."
Monica froze a fraction too long.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Answer."
Monica made her face blank and toddler-normal. "I… tell Mommy?"
Red snorted once. "No."
He leaned forward, voice sharpening into something steel.
"You look 'em in the eye," he said. "You speak clear. You don't cry unless you're hurt. You don't let people push you around."
Monica's chest tightened.
Not because she disagreed.
Because she knew this was the blueprint of Red.
Red had been pushed around. Red had been underestimated. Red had been made to feel small by the world, by bosses, by money problems, by life.
Red was trying to forge Monica into something that wouldn't break the way he felt he'd been forced to bend.
Monica nodded slowly. "Look… eye."
Red grunted. "Good."
He tapped the bench once. "Say it."
Monica lifted her chin, looked straight into Red's eyes, and spoke clearly.
"I don't let people push me."
Red stared.
Then he nodded once, slow and approving.
"That's right."
For a moment, the garage felt warmer.
Not in temperature.
In certainty.
Then, like he realized he'd let the moment get too soft, Red cleared his throat roughly and shoved the tin back toward himself.
"Alright," he muttered. "That's it."
Monica blinked, careful. "That's… house rules?"
Red snorted. "Those are my rules."
Monica filed that away instantly.
Red's rules weren't always the same as Kitty's.
Kitty's rules were about harmony.
Red's rules were about order.
Monica looked down at the dime on the bench.
Then she did something deliberate.
She didn't grab it.
She didn't stare at it greedily.
She looked at Red and asked.
"May I have the dime, please?"
Red stared at her like she'd spoken in full sentences, then grunted.
"Yeah."
Monica took it carefully, then—because she'd learned how to feed Red's pride the way Kitty fed Red's temper—she added softly:
"I'll keep it safe."
Red's mouth twitched again, almost approval.
"Good," he muttered. "Don't lose it."
Monica nodded.
Inside, her mind was busy.
Coins weren't money to Monica.
Not yet.
Coins were proof of something larger:
Red was building her into someone he could trust.
And trust, in this house, was rare.
_____
When they went back inside, Kitty was still scrubbing. Her hair was falling out of its clip, cheeks flushed from effort.
She looked up as they entered, eyes searching Monica's face like she expected tears or dirt or disaster.
Monica held her coins in her closed fist.
Kitty's voice lifted. "How was it?"
Monica smiled softly. "Good."
Red shrugged off his jacket like nothing happened. "She's fine."
Kitty stared at Red like she didn't believe him.
Then Kitty noticed Monica's closed fist.
"Monica—what do you have?"
Monica hesitated just long enough to look like a child deciding if she should share.
Then she opened her palm, showing the nickel and dime like treasures.
Kitty's eyes widened. "Oh my goodness! Daddy gave you money?"
Red snapped, defensive. "It's coins."
Kitty beamed anyway, breathless. "Well! Look at you!"
Laurie appeared like she'd been summoned by jealousy itself. "Why does she get coins?"
Red's gaze flicked to Laurie, cold. "Because she asked."
Laurie's mouth opened. "I can ask!"
Red didn't even look at her. "Then ask right."
Laurie squared her shoulders, determined. "Can I have coins."
Red's jaw tightened. "What did I just say."
Laurie's face flushed. "Please!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Try again."
Laurie glared at Monica like it was Monica's fault.
Then Laurie forced the words through clenched teeth: "May I have a dime, please?"
Red stared at Laurie like he was deciding whether to reward performance or punish attitude.
Kitty jumped in too fast, trying to save it. "Oh, Red, she asked nicely—"
Red cut Kitty off with a look.
Then, finally, he reached into his pocket and dropped a penny into Laurie's palm.
"One," he said flatly. "Don't push."
Laurie stared at the penny like it was an insult.
Kitty laughed nervously, trying to turn it into fun. "Oh, Laurie, honey, that's still money!"
Laurie's eyes narrowed.
Monica kept her face calm.
Because Monica could feel it:
Laurie didn't want money.
Laurie wanted equality.
Laurie wanted proof she mattered the same.
And Red didn't offer equality.
Red offered hierarchy.
That night, Monica went to bed with her coins tucked into her Future Box, fingers lingering on the dime.
Red's rules echoed in her head.
Not because she intended to follow them perfectly.
But because she intended to use them.
Clear speech. Eye contact. Don't let people push you.
Monica stared into the dark and thought with adult clarity:
In Point Place, you didn't survive by being good.
You survived by learning whose rules mattered—and when.