Monday, December 31, 1962 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
New Year's Eve in the Forman house wasn't glamorous.
It was Kitty in curlers, Red pretending he didn't care, the TV humming with whatever special was on, and a table set with snacks like the end of the year could be softened by something salty.
Kitty loved the idea of a "fresh start."
Red believed "fresh starts" were for people who didn't have bills.
Monica sat cross-legged on the rug in her pajamas, watching the living room like it was a stage.
The tree was still up, tinsel hanging crooked. Kitty kept saying she'd take it down "tomorrow," like tomorrow was an obedient thing that would arrive and cooperate.
Laurie had been in and out of moods all day—excited, bored, demanding, offended. She'd tried to sneak extra candy from the Christmas stash twice and had been caught once.
Eric—two and a half—was asleep early, worn out from overstimulation and sugar. Kitty had tucked him in like he was a prince.
Red was in the garage for a while after dinner, then came inside smelling like cold air and oil and thought.
When Red came inside from the garage, the house always shifted.
Like his presence was gravity.
Kitty had already set out two drinks—one for him, one for her. She didn't drink much, but tonight she wanted the ritual of it.
Red sat in his chair, staring at the TV without really watching.
Kitty sat on the couch, smoothing her skirt over and over like it could flatten her anxiety.
Laurie sprawled on the floor dramatically. "I'm bored."
Kitty laughed lightly. "It's New Year's Eve, honey!"
Laurie rolled her eyes. "That doesn't make it fun."
Red muttered without looking up, "Go to bed."
Laurie's head snapped up. "No!"
Kitty shot Red a warning look. "Red…"
Red's jaw tightened. "She's four. She doesn't need to be up."
Laurie snapped, instantly using the comparison she loved. "Monica is up!"
Kitty's smile strained. "Monica is… being calm."
Laurie narrowed her eyes at Monica like calm was a crime.
Monica didn't react. She just kept her hands in her lap, face soft, listening.
In her old life, New Year's Eve had meant noise and fireworks and resolutions that people didn't keep.
Here, it meant something simpler:
Who you sat beside. Who you bothered. Who you tried to control.
Kitty leaned toward the TV, brightening. "Oh! They're doing the countdown later!"
Laurie perked slightly. "I want to stay up."
Red didn't look at her. "No."
Laurie's face flushed. "Why not?"
Red's voice went flat. "Because I said so."
Laurie opened her mouth to start a war.
Monica could feel it coming—Laurie's escalation, Kitty's frantic smoothing, Red's clamp-down.
So Monica redirected, gently, before Laurie could build momentum.
Monica pointed at the coffee table and said softly to Kitty, "Mommy. Snacks."
Kitty blinked, grateful for a simple task. "Oh! Yes! Snacks!"
Kitty leapt up like she'd been offered a lifeline and rushed to the kitchen.
Laurie's attention flicked toward the snacks—because snacks were currency.
Red grunted, not commenting, but the tension eased a fraction.
Monica stayed seated, calm.
Red's gaze flicked toward Monica for one beat longer than necessary, then away.
Not warm.
But aware.
Kitty returned with a plate of pretzels, cheese, and little cocktail sausages—something she'd seen in a magazine as "party food." She set it down like it mattered.
"There!" Kitty chirped. "A party!"
Laurie reached immediately.
Red's voice snapped. "Wash your hands."
Laurie groaned dramatically. "Ugh!"
But she did it—because Red's tone meant do it.
Monica watched the way Kitty smiled at Red after Laurie obeyed—tiny gratitude, quickly buried.
Kitty wanted Red to be gentle.
But Kitty also wanted Red to be effective.
And Red was most effective when he was hard.
Later, as the night crawled forward, the TV played music, and Kitty let Laurie drink a tiny cup of soda like it was champagne. Laurie acted like she was being given the world.
Monica drank water, quiet.
Red watched the TV and occasionally muttered criticisms at it—"idiots," "nonsense," "why would anyone do that"—as if the show could hear him.
Kitty laughed at the right moments. Too bright.
Then, near ten, Kitty's cheer finally cracked.
Her smile sagged.
Her shoulders drooped.
She sat back on the couch and stared at the TV like she wasn't seeing it.
Monica noticed immediately.
Monica slid closer—quietly—and rested her head against Kitty's arm.
Kitty looked down, startled.
Monica's voice was soft. "Mommy okay?"
Kitty's eyes filled instantly.
"Oh, honey," Kitty whispered, voice thick. "Yes. I'm okay."
But Kitty wasn't okay.
Monica could feel the strain under everything: the plant worries, the bills, the pressure of being watched, the constant effort to keep the house bright.
Kitty's weather was turning again.
Red noticed too, because Red always noticed shifts even when he pretended he didn't.
His newspaper wasn't even open tonight, but his eyes cut toward Kitty.
"Kitty," Red said, rough. "What."
Kitty flinched like she'd been caught. "Nothing. I'm fine."
Red's jaw tightened. "You look like you're gonna cry."
Kitty let out a shaky laugh. "I'm not going to cry."
Red stared at her like he didn't know what to do with that.
He didn't like tears. Tears made things messy. Tears made him feel like he was failing at keeping the house controlled.
Monica, sensing the danger—Kitty tipping into tears, Red bracing to shut it down—offered a different anchor.
Monica sat up straight and spoke clearly, small voice steady.
"Daddy."
Red's gaze snapped to her.
Monica held his eyes. "It's almost new year."
Red frowned slightly. "Yeah."
Monica nodded solemnly, like she was saying something important. "New year means… new rules."
Kitty blinked, distracted.
Laurie looked up, intrigued by the idea of rules being used as a weapon.
Red's eyes narrowed. "New rules."
Monica nodded again, calm. "Yes. Daddy rules."
Red stared at her for a long beat.
Then his mouth twitched—almost amused.
"Huh," he muttered, as if he couldn't decide if it was ridiculous or smart.
Kitty's face softened, pulled out of the emotional dip.
"Oh," Kitty whispered, smiling for real now. "That's… that's cute."
Monica looked at Kitty and smiled softly.
Then Monica looked back at Red and delivered the real intention, disguised as innocence.
"Daddy can teach."
Red's eyes stayed on Monica—sharp, thoughtful.
Teaching Monica had become a place where Red felt competent.
Where he felt in control.
Where he could do something instead of worrying.
And Monica had just offered him that place again—right when the house needed it.
Red grunted, stood up abruptly like he was annoyed at himself for agreeing, and jerked his chin.
"Garage," he said.
Kitty blinked. "Red, it's cold—"
Red cut her off. "We'll be five minutes."
Monica slid off the rug, calm as ever, and followed him.
Laurie shot upright instantly. "I wanna go!"
Red didn't even look at her. "No."
Laurie's face twisted. "Why does she always—"
Red's voice snapped, sharper. "Because I said no."
Laurie deflated into furious silence.
Kitty watched them go, hands clasped, eyes soft and tired and grateful all at once.
_____
The garage was cold enough to bite.
Red flipped on the light and crossed to his workbench like it was a sanctuary.
Monica climbed onto the stool without being told.
Red opened the same tin Monica had seen before—keys, receipts, the pocket knife, the photo.
Red didn't look at the photo, but Monica did.
Kitty, younger in the picture. Red stiff behind her. Two tiny babies.
Proof that time moved no matter what you did.
Red tapped the tin lid once, like calling the room to attention.
"Alright," he muttered. "You want rules? Here."
Monica nodded, eyes wide.
Red leaned in, voice low.
"Rule one," Red said. "You don't let people make you feel small."
Monica's chest tightened slightly.
Red's jaw flexed. "People will try."
Monica nodded. "Yes."
Red watched her, then continued.
"Rule two. You work. You earn. You don't wait for handouts."
Monica nodded again, serious.
Red's gaze sharpened. "Rule three. If you say you'll do something, you do it."
Monica's voice was quiet and sure. "Yes, Dad."
Red stared at her like he was trying to decide how a four-year-old could look so steady.
Then he grunted, as if irritated by his own thought.
"And rule four," Red said, voice rougher now, "you take care of your mother."
Monica's throat tightened.
Red didn't say "because I can't."
Red didn't say "because she worries."
But it was there in the words anyway.
Monica nodded slowly. "Okay, Dad."
Red's eyes stayed on her a moment longer.
Then, in a rare, almost awkward gesture, he reached into his pocket and placed something small on the bench.
A nickel.
"New year," Red muttered. "New coin."
Monica picked it up with both hands like it mattered. "Thank you, Dad."
Red grunted. "Don't lose it."
Monica nodded. "I won't."
Red glanced at the garage door, then back at Monica.
"Alright," he muttered. "Back inside. Your mother'll start fussing."
Monica slid off the stool and followed.
______
Inside, Kitty looked up immediately, relief softening her face.
"There you are," Kitty said, voice gentle. "I was—well—"
Red cut her off with a grunt. "We're fine."
Kitty's eyes flicked to Monica's hands.
Monica opened her palm, showing the new nickel.
Kitty's smile warmed. "Oh, Red…"
Red muttered, defensive, "It's a coin."
Kitty laughed softly, real this time. "It's sweet."
Red huffed and returned to his chair, but the air in the room had shifted.
Not perfect.
But steadier.
Laurie watched from the floor, eyes narrowed, but even she seemed quieter—like the house had moved back into alignment.
Near midnight, Kitty roused Eric briefly—just to kiss his sleepy head and whisper, "Happy New Year," before letting him drift back off.
Laurie stayed up, half-asleep on the rug, refusing to miss the countdown on principle.
Monica sat upright, calm.
The TV crowd counted down.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Kitty smiled, eyes shining.
Red stared at the screen like it was stupid, but he didn't leave.
Three.
Two.
One.
The TV exploded with noise and cheers.
Kitty clapped softly, smiling. "Happy New Year!"
Red grunted. "Yeah."
Laurie yawned dramatically.
Monica watched her family—Kitty's fragile cheer, Red's hard steadiness, Laurie's restless hunger, Eric's peaceful sleep.
Then Monica slipped away to her room.
She opened her Future Box and placed the new nickel inside.
Beside the dime.
Beside the pennies.
Proof of rules.
Proof of patterns.
Proof that even in a house full of pressure, Monica could still shift the day gently—quietly—toward safety.
Monica closed the lid and whispered into the dark:
"New year. New rules."
Not for Red.
For herself.
Because Monica wasn't just surviving Point Place.
She was learning how to control it—without anyone realizing she was doing it at all.