Tuesday, June 12, 1962 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
June in Point Place didn't feel like freedom.
It felt like everything waking up at once—the lawns growing too fast, the air turning thick with humidity, the neighbors appearing outside like they'd been released, and Kitty Forman deciding the house needed to be even cleaner because "summer company" could happen at any moment.
Monica understood, with the weary clarity of someone who'd already lived one life, that "summer company" wasn't real.
It was an idea Kitty used to keep moving.
This morning, Kitty had all the windows open, curtains fluttering, radio low. She was in a flowered dress and an apron, hair pinned up like she was trying to convince herself she was the kind of woman who had everything under control.
Laurie was in one of her moods—too hot, too bored, too offended by the existence of anyone else.
Eric was sticky from the second he woke up, like his body produced jam on purpose.
And Red Forman had a rare day off.
Which meant he was already irritated.
He sat at the kitchen table with coffee and the newspaper, scowling at the sports section like it had personally betrayed him. Kitty moved around him like a careful planet orbiting a cranky sun.
Monica sat at the table too, feet swinging, hands folded neatly like Kitty liked. She watched the room the way she always did—quiet, listening for the tiny shifts that told you what kind of day it would be.
Kitty set down plates. "Okay—eggs, toast, and fruit."
Laurie stared at the fruit like it was a punishment. "I wanted cereal."
Kitty's smile strained. "We have cereal."
Laurie leaned forward, sensing a crack. "Then why didn't you make it?"
Kitty's jaw tightened. "Because I made eggs."
Laurie opened her mouth to argue more.
Red's voice cut through like a knife. "Eat what you get."
Laurie's eyes flashed. She didn't like being corrected by Kitty, but she hated being corrected by Red because he didn't care about her performance.
Laurie slumped back in her chair with a dramatic sigh.
Eric smacked his hands into his eggs and began squealing.
Kitty's face softened instantly. "Oh, honey—no—use your fork—"
Red didn't even look up. "Let him eat."
Kitty's eye twitched. "Red, he's making a mess."
Red's newspaper rustled. "He's two."
Kitty's shoulders lifted and fell as she inhaled and let it go. She didn't have enough energy to fight that battle today.
Monica ate quietly, watching Red's hands.
Red's day-off hands were restless. Like he didn't know what to do with himself if he wasn't at the plant fixing something or being annoyed at something. Even his coffee drinking looked like a job he resented.
Kitty leaned closer to Monica, voice softer. "Sweetheart, after breakfast, we're going to help Mommy with laundry."
Monica nodded politely. "Okay, Mommy."
Laurie's head snapped up. "Why does she get to help?"
Kitty blinked. "Because… Monica wants to."
Laurie scoffed. "She doesn't want to. She wants Daddy to like her."
The words landed heavy in the warm kitchen.
Kitty froze.
Eric babbled, oblivious.
Monica kept her face small and blank, but inside, something tightened—not because Laurie was cruel, but because Laurie was learning to aim her cruelty at the exact wound.
Red lowered his newspaper slowly.
His gaze locked on Laurie like a spotlight.
"Stop talking," he said flatly.
Laurie's mouth opened.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Now."
Laurie shut it, furious.
Kitty swallowed hard, trying to patch the moment with cheer. "Okay! Laundry after breakfast."
Red's gaze flicked to Monica—brief, measuring.
Monica didn't look away.
She gave him a calm little nod, like she hadn't been affected. Like she was fine.
Red grunted and went back to his paper.
Monica ate her toast and thought:
Laurie's jealousy is becoming a language.
And she's using it to narrate the house.
_______
After breakfast, Kitty corralled Laurie into folding towels, then immediately regretted it because Laurie folded towels like she was trying to punish them.
Eric was set on the floor with a wooden spoon and a pot lid—Kitty's version of safe entertainment.
Monica carried clothespins like they were important, following Kitty outside.
The yard smelled like fresh cut grass and sun-warmed dirt. The clothesline ran between two poles, and Kitty moved with practiced rhythm, snapping sheets and pinning them up like she was building a clean-white fortress against the world.
Monica handed her clothespins one by one, careful.
Kitty smiled. "Thank you, honey."
Monica nodded. She watched Kitty's face.
Kitty's smile was there, but under it was tiredness that never fully left.
From the open garage, Red's voice called, "Mon."
Monica's head lifted instantly.
Kitty froze, clothespin in hand. "Red—what do you need?"
Red didn't answer Kitty. He just called again, rough and direct. "Monica. Garage."
Kitty's hands tightened. "Red, she's helping—"
Red's voice came sharper. "I know."
Monica looked at Kitty.
Kitty's expression flickered—worry and resignation wrestling.
Then Kitty forced a smile. "Okay, sweetheart. Go see what Daddy wants."
Monica nodded and walked toward the garage, her heart doing that strange, steady beat it always did when Red singled her out.
Red didn't invite you to things.
He recruited you.
The garage was cooler than outside, dimmer, filled with that familiar smell of oil and metal and old rags. Red stood at his workbench with a cardboard box on the counter.
He jerked his chin at it. "Up."
Monica climbed onto the stool like she'd done before, careful with her balance.
Red opened the box and pulled out a jar of screws, a small hammer, and a tape measure. He laid them out like exhibits.
Monica watched quietly.
Red tapped the jar. "You remember rule one."
Monica nodded. "Don't touch what isn't mine."
Red grunted. "Good."
He slid the tape measure toward her. "This one is yours today."
Monica blinked—surprised.
Red watched her reaction like he was testing something. "It's a tool. Not a toy."
Monica nodded quickly. "Tool."
Red's jaw flexed, satisfied.
He pointed at the workbench. "We're putting up a new shelf in the laundry room."
Monica's mind flicked through the house layout automatically.
Kitty would love that. Kitty loved shelves. Shelves meant order. Shelves meant less clutter. Shelves meant less proof of chaos.
Red held up the tape measure. "You know what this does."
Monica had known what a tape measure did in her old life. She also knew how dangerous it was to act like she knew too much.
So she answered the way a bright four-year-old might, not an adult mind in a small body.
"It measures," Monica said.
Red nodded. "Right."
He pointed at the edge of the workbench. "Measure that."
Monica hesitated just long enough to look like she was thinking, then carefully pulled the tape out and lined it up along the bench. The metal strip snapped slightly, and she corrected it with small hands.
Red watched her closely, like he expected her to struggle.
Monica made herself struggle a little.
Just enough to be believable.
"Twenty… eight," Monica said slowly, sounding out the number like it mattered.
Red's eyes narrowed, impressed despite himself. "You can read numbers."
Monica nodded. "Yes."
Red grunted. "Good."
He didn't praise much, but "good" from Red was a trophy.
He set the hammer down. "Rule two."
Monica's voice was quiet and sure. "Ask. Don't grab."
Red nodded once. "Right."
He tapped the hammer. "You want to hold it?"
Monica looked at the hammer, then up at him.
"May I hold it, please?" she asked clearly.
Red's mouth twitched—almost approving.
He placed the hammer in her hands, guiding her grip. "Not like that. Like this."
His hands adjusted hers—firm, practical, not gentle. Red didn't do gentle. Red did correct.
Monica felt the weight of the hammer and understood what Red was really doing.
He wasn't teaching her a shelf.
He was teaching her competence.
Competence was Red's version of love.
"Rule three," Red said, leaning in slightly. "If you don't know, you say you don't know."
Monica blinked. That wasn't a rule she'd heard from him before.
Red's eyes sharpened. "People get hurt pretending they know everything."
Monica nodded slowly. "Say… I don't know."
Red grunted. "Yeah."
He stepped back, reached into the box, and pulled out a small level—green, with the bubble inside.
He held it up. "What's this."
Monica paused.
She knew what it was.
But she also knew this was a test—of truth, of restraint, of whether she'd perform too advanced.
So Monica chose the safest answer.
"I don't know," she said honestly.
Red stared for a beat, then nodded—approval, quiet and heavy.
"Good."
He set it on the bench. "It tells you if something's straight."
Monica's eyes widened in a convincing way. "Oh."
Red didn't smile, but his shoulders loosened slightly—as if teaching her gave him something solid to hold onto.
From the open garage door, Kitty's voice drifted in. "Red, are you making her work again?"
Red didn't look at Kitty. "I'm teaching her."
Kitty sighed like she couldn't win. "Just don't make her lift anything heavy."
Red's tone went flat. "She's not lifting a car."
Kitty muttered something that sounded like, "Sometimes I wonder…"
Monica's mouth twitched, almost smiling.
Red glanced at her expression like he'd caught it. "Don't laugh at your mother."
Monica shook her head quickly. "No, Dad."
Red grunted and turned back to the shelf pieces.
He lined up the brackets. "You measure. I mark. That's how this works."
Monica nodded, feeling oddly steady.
Outside, Kitty was fussing and Laurie was sulking and Eric was noisy.
In the garage, it was simple.
Do the task. Follow the rule. Don't make it complicated.
Monica measured, Red marked, and for a while the world felt like it could be controlled.
______
Later, in the laundry room, Red held the shelf board in place while Monica stood on a stool beside him, holding the level carefully.
Kitty hovered in the doorway, hands on her hips, trying to look annoyed but failing because she looked secretly delighted.
"Oh, Red, that's going to look so nice," Kitty said, voice softening.
Red grunted. "It's a shelf."
Kitty smiled anyway.
Laurie appeared behind Kitty, eyes narrowed. "Why does she get to help Daddy?"
Red didn't look at Laurie. "Because she can be quiet."
Laurie's face twisted in offense.
Monica kept her face neutral, holding the level like her life depended on it.
The bubble centered.
Monica said softly, "Straight."
Red tightened the bracket with a grunt. "Good."
Kitty's eyes shone. "Look at you, Monica!"
Monica stepped down from the stool and handed the level back to Red, careful.
"Thank you," she said, because Red liked politeness when it didn't sound like whining.
Red nodded once, and Monica felt it—pride, the hard kind.
Kitty clapped her hands lightly. "Okay! Now—everyone wash up for lunch."
Eric screamed because washing up was oppression.
Kitty scooped him up with a sigh. "Oh, Eric…"
Laurie stormed out like she'd been personally insulted by the existence of shelves.
Monica watched her go, mind quiet but alert.
Red put the tools away with practiced motions. Then, without looking at Monica, he said:
"You did good."
Two words. Flat. Heavy.
Monica swallowed and nodded. "Thank you, Dad."
Red grunted. "Don't make me regret it."
Monica almost smiled again.
She didn't.
She just walked out into the sunlight and found Kitty setting the table, humming again like she was trying to keep the weather nice.
Monica helped—quietly, efficiently.
And later, when Monica tucked herself into bed, she opened her Future Box and placed something inside:
A small scrap of sandpaper Red had tossed aside.
It smelled like wood and work.
It was proof of what Monica had learned today:
In this house, love didn't always look like hugs.
Sometimes it looked like a shelf bracket tightened straight.
Sometimes it looked like a tool placed in your hands and trust that you wouldn't drop it.
Monica closed the box carefully.
Summer was only just beginning.
And Monica could already feel it: the warmer the world got, the more people would watch.
So she stayed calm.
Stayed useful.
Stayed ready.