Wednesday, November 21, 1962 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
Thanksgiving week turned Kitty Forman into a hurricane with lipstick.
It wasn't even Thanksgiving yet—still two days out—but Kitty was already acting like the entire holiday depended on her shoulders staying upright and her smile staying welded on. The house smelled like onions and butter and something sweet cooling on the counter. The radio hummed softly. The oven clicked like it was impatient.
Red called it "making a big deal out of nothing."
Kitty called it "tradition."
Monica called it what it was:
A performance, staged for the town and the family and whatever invisible judge lived in Kitty's head.
The pressure made Laurie worse.
Pressure always made Laurie worse.
Laurie was dressed in her good skirt even though it was only Wednesday. Her hair was brushed so hard it lay flat and shiny like a page in a magazine. She kept hovering near Kitty's elbow, asking questions she didn't want answers to.
"Are we going to Grandma's?"
"Is Aunt Pearl coming?"
"Will there be pie?"
Kitty kept smiling, too bright. "Yes, honey. Yes, honey. We'll see, honey."
Eric toddled through the kitchen with a wooden spoon, smacking cabinet doors like he was playing drums. Kitty flinched at every bang but refused to snap, like snapping would mean she wasn't the kind of mother in the magazines.
Red sat at the table with his coffee and newspaper, scowling at the world.
And Monica sat quietly at the corner of the kitchen, "coloring" while listening to everything.
In the last couple of months, Monica had learned something important:
When Kitty got pressured, she tried to keep things cheerful.
When Red got pressured, he got sharp.
And when Laurie got pressured, she hunted for a weakness to bite.
Today, that weakness was Monica.
Because Kitty had asked Monica—sweetly, hopefully—to help with something small.
"Monica, sweetheart," Kitty said, setting a bowl of peeled potatoes on the counter. "Would you like to help Mommy mash these?"
Monica looked up with wide eyes, perfect little helper. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's whole face softened. "Oh, thank you."
Laurie's eyes narrowed immediately.
"What about me?" Laurie demanded.
Kitty blinked. "Laurie, you can—"
"I want to mash," Laurie snapped.
Kitty's smile tightened. "Okay, honey. You can help too."
That should've satisfied Laurie.
It didn't.
Because Laurie didn't want to help.
Laurie wanted to win.
Kitty handed Monica a small masher and moved Laurie closer to the bowl with a bigger one, trying to make it fair.
Monica stepped up on the stool Red had built for "helping"—a plain wooden thing with scuffed edges—and began mashing slowly.
She made herself look like a four-year-old working hard.
She could've done it faster.
She didn't.
Laurie, beside her, mashed aggressively like the potatoes had insulted her.
Kitty hovered, smiling, praising both of them in equal amounts like she was trying to keep the universe balanced.
Red looked up from his newspaper once, watched the scene for two seconds, then went back to reading like it was safer not to care.
Laurie leaned in, voice low and syrupy—dangerous in a child.
"You're doing it wrong."
Monica didn't react. "No."
Laurie's eyes flashed. "Yes. You're slow."
Monica kept mashing. "Okay."
Laurie's face twisted. Monica's calm always made Laurie feel like she was losing.
Laurie tapped her bigger masher against Monica's smaller one—harder than an accident.
The metal clinked.
Kitty's head snapped up. "Laurie—be careful, honey."
Laurie widened her eyes innocently. "I was being careful."
Monica didn't look up. She just kept mashing.
Laurie tried again, shifting her elbow so it bumped Monica's arm.
Monica's masher slipped slightly.
A small splash of potato landed on the counter.
Kitty's smile strained. "Oh—okay—no big deal—"
Laurie seized it instantly, voice rising into performance.
"Monica made a mess!"
Kitty flinched. Red's newspaper lowered a fraction.
Monica could feel the familiar tilt—the house leaning toward a fight.
If Red got pulled into it, it would turn ugly.
If Kitty tried to soften too hard, Laurie would push harder.
So Monica did the only thing that reliably defused Red:
She chose truth, delivered calmly.
Monica looked at Kitty and said, clearly, "Laurie bumped me."
Laurie's face flushed bright red. "I did not!"
Monica didn't argue with Laurie.
Monica looked at Red.
Not pleading.
Not dramatic.
Just steady.
Red's jaw tightened. He hated noise. He hated theatrics. He hated feeling like a referee.
And he believed stillness more than crying.
"Laurie," Red said, voice flat and dangerous.
Laurie froze.
Red didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"You keep your hands to yourself."
Laurie's mouth opened. "But—"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Do you want to be done helping?"
Laurie's lips pressed together, trembling with rage.
"No," she snapped.
Red's voice stayed low. "Then stop."
Laurie swallowed it down, because she knew what Red's "stop" meant.
Kitty exhaled shakily and forced a smile. "Okay! Let's—let's just keep going."
Monica returned to mashing, calm.
Inside, she thought:
That was the first bite. There will be more.
______
Later, when Kitty sent Laurie to "set the napkins" in the dining room, Monica stayed behind to rinse utensils.
Kitty was still humming too brightly.
Monica watched her mother's shoulders—tight, lifted, holding the whole holiday like a fragile dish.
"Mommy," Monica said softly.
Kitty turned instantly, smile ready. "Yes, sweetheart?"
Monica kept her voice simple. "You're tired."
Kitty blinked—caught off guard.
Then she laughed too quickly. "Oh, I'm not tired, I'm just… busy!"
Monica nodded like that made sense.
Then Monica did something that had become a habit: she moved without being asked.
She carried the mashed potato bowl toward the fridge, careful not to spill.
Kitty's face softened in real relief. "Oh, thank you, honey."
Monica placed it carefully and closed the fridge.
Kitty leaned down, brushing Monica's hair back. "You are such a good girl."
Monica smiled softly.
Laurie reappeared in the doorway, eyes narrowed like she could smell tenderness.
Kitty straightened quickly, like she'd been caught.
Laurie's voice went sharp. "Mom, I'm hungry."
Kitty forced cheer. "Dinner's soon."
Laurie pouted. "I want a cookie."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Not right now."
Laurie's eyes gleamed.
Laurie turned her gaze to Monica like Monica was the reason for the "no."
Then Laurie's mouth curled into something sly.
"Fine," Laurie said sweetly. "Then Monica should give me hers."
Kitty blinked. "What?"
Laurie stepped closer, voice syrupy. "Monica always gets what she wants."
Monica felt the temperature in the room drop.
Kitty looked startled and tired at the same time. "Laurie, that's not true—"
Laurie's voice rose, performing again. "Yes it is! Daddy likes her more!"
Kitty flinched like she'd been slapped.
This was the kind of accusation that cracked the house open.
Because it wasn't fully untrue.
And everyone knew it.
Monica could feel Kitty's panic—the urge to deny, to soothe, to fix.
Monica could feel Red's likely reaction from the other room: irritation, anger, shutting it down with harshness.
Laurie was aiming for that.
She wanted the explosion.
She wanted proof that she could push and the world would react.
So Monica redirected—quietly, strategically—without giving Laurie the fight she wanted.
Monica looked up at Laurie and said, calm as a whisper:
"Napkins are wrong."
Laurie blinked. "What?"
Monica pointed toward the dining room, face innocent. "You did them wrong."
Laurie's pride snapped instantly to the front.
"I did not!"
Monica nodded like she accepted disagreement. "Okay."
Laurie's eyes narrowed.
Monica had learned this: telling Laurie "okay" like you didn't care made Laurie need to prove she was right.
Laurie spun on her heel and stormed into the dining room to check.
Kitty let out a silent exhale, shoulders dropping.
Monica didn't move.
She just kept rinsing utensils.
Kitty stared at Monica like she couldn't decide if she was proud or unsettled.
"Monica," Kitty whispered. "Did you… did you do that on purpose?"
Monica blinked wide, toddler-simple. "Do what?"
Kitty's mouth opened, then closed.
Because Kitty wasn't sure she wanted the answer.
Kitty finally forced a smile. "Never mind. Thank you, honey."
Monica nodded softly.
Yes, Mommy. I did it on purpose.
Because I can't let her learn that explosions get her what she wants.
_______
That evening, after dinner, Red sat in the living room with his coffee, the TV murmuring low.
Kitty was stacking dishes, still fussing like stillness would swallow her.
Laurie was sulking because she hadn't gotten a cookie.
Eric was sticky and sleepy, head leaning against Kitty's hip.
Monica sat on the floor with her crayons, drawing shapes she didn't care about.
Red watched Laurie's sulk for a long time, silent.
Then he said, flat and final: "Laurie."
Laurie looked up, eyes bright. "What?"
Red's gaze was sharp. "You keep poking your sister, you'll be done with me."
Laurie's face twisted. "I wasn't—"
Red cut her off. "I don't want excuses."
Laurie went quiet.
Kitty looked at Red with a small, grateful softness—then covered it with busyness again.
Monica kept her eyes on her paper, but her chest warmed slightly.
Red wasn't warm. Red wasn't gentle.
But Red was clear.
And in this house, clear rules were the closest thing to safety.
That night, Monica placed a tiny thing into her Future Box:
A folded paper napkin, taken from the dining room.
Because it was proof of what she'd learned today:
Laurie didn't just want attention.
Laurie wanted leverage.
And Monica would have to keep winning quietly—by redirecting, by staying calm, by making sure Laurie didn't get addicted to chaos.
Monica closed the box.
Outside, the air smelled like cold leaves and woodsmoke.
Thanksgiving was coming.
Town eyes would be watching.
And Monica stayed ready.