Tuesday, December 31, 1963 — New Year's Eve — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
New Year's Eve in Point Place wasn't glamorous.
It was living rooms full of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. It was husbands pretending they weren't tired. It was wives pretending they weren't counting money. It was kids allowed to stay up too late, wired on soda, while adults laughed louder than the jokes deserved.
Kitty Forman tried to make it magical anyway.
She'd set out chips in a bowl and little hot dogs on a plate like it was a party, not a Tuesday. She'd put on a record and swayed around the kitchen while she cleaned, humming along too brightly like the song could drown out the year.
The year had been hard.
Not disaster-hard.
Just… tight.
The kind of tight that lived in shoulders and grocery lists and Red coming home angry at invisible men.
The kind of tight that made Kitty's smile stretch.
Monica sat on the living room rug with a coloring book open, pretending to color while she listened.
Laurie was sitting on the couch with her legs tucked under her, performing boredom like it was a skill. "This is stupid."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "It's not stupid! It's New Year's!"
Laurie rolled her eyes. "Nothing even happens."
Red, in his chair, grunted. "That's the point."
Kitty shot him a look. "Red!"
Red didn't look up from the paper. "What."
Kitty tried to keep her voice light. "You could at least pretend you're excited."
Red folded the paper with sharp movements. "I'm excited it's over."
Kitty's smile faltered. "Red…"
Red's jaw flexed. "It's been a year."
Kitty's eyes shimmered instantly, but she forced cheer back into place because Kitty could not survive in a house that admitted sadness.
Eric toddled around in footie pajamas, sugar-high from the one soda Kitty had sworn she wouldn't give him but did anyway because she wanted one night without tears.
Eric climbed onto Red's lap without asking.
Red stiffened, then—like always—accepted it with a sigh.
Monica watched it and stored it away. Red didn't want to be soft. But he was soft anyway, in the places that mattered.
A knock came at the door.
Kitty straightened instantly. "Oh! That must be—"
Red's gaze sharpened. "Who is it."
Kitty smiled too brightly. "Neighbors."
Red grunted like neighbors were a disease.
Kitty opened the door and let in Mr. and Mrs. Henderson—two paper cups of "punch" in hand, cheeks flushed from cold and liquor.
"Oh, Kitty!" Mrs. Henderson chirped. "Happy New Year!"
Kitty beamed. "Happy New Year!"
Mr. Henderson clapped Red on the shoulder like they were friends. "Red!"
Red stiffened. "Henderson."
The Hendersons drifted in, bringing laughter and the smell of cigarettes.
A few minutes later, the Palmers arrived—of course—with Mrs. Palmer's sharp smile and eyes that immediately scanned Kitty's snack table like she was evaluating whether the Formans were "keeping up."
Red's jaw tightened.
Kitty's smile got brighter.
Laurie sat up straighter because an audience had arrived.
Monica moved slightly closer to the edge of the room, quiet, observing.
Adults talked in clusters, voices dropping whenever the plant was mentioned.
"I heard they're cutting again…"
"Someone said layoffs…"
"Red, you hear anything?"
Red's posture went rigid every time.
Kitty laughed too brightly every time.
Monica watched her father's face carefully.
He didn't like being asked.
Not because he didn't know.
Because he hated admitting the world could touch him.
Mrs. Palmer leaned toward Kitty at the snack table, voice syrupy. "You're looking… tired, Kitty."
Kitty's laugh fluttered. "Oh! Just busy!"
Mrs. Palmer's eyes glittered. "Busy is good. Busy means everything's fine."
Kitty's smile twitched.
Monica's chest tightened because Mrs. Palmer didn't say "fine" like comfort.
She said "fine" like bait.
Red's voice cut through from across the room, rough. "Stop saying fine."
A brief silence.
Everyone turned.
Kitty froze at the snack table, mortified.
Mrs. Palmer's smile sharpened, delighted by the crack in the Formans' performance.
Kitty laughed too loudly. "Oh, Red—"
Red's eyes narrowed. "I'm serious."
The room held its breath.
Then Mr. Henderson chuckled awkwardly. "Alright, alright—no 'fine.' We'll say… 'surviving.'"
A few people laughed.
The moment softened.
But Monica saw it: Red had snapped, and the town had noticed.
Kitty's cheeks went pink with embarrassment.
Monica stood up quietly, walked to the snack table, and held up a napkin to Kitty like it was an urgent mission.
"Mommy," Monica said softly, "napkin."
Kitty blinked, caught off guard, then smiled gratefully. "Oh—thank you, sweetheart."
The adults turned away again.
The performance resumed.
But Monica felt it: the house was balancing on a thin wire.
______
Later, when the men drifted toward the garage for "fresh air" (cigarettes) and the women clustered in the living room to talk about recipes and hair and who was "doing well," Monica slipped into the hallway.
Not to hide.
To listen.
Because listening was survival.
Voices carried in Point Place houses.
The garage door was cracked open slightly. Cold air slipped in, mixing with smoke.
Monica stood in the shadow of the hallway and listened to Red's voice—low, rough.
"We're getting squeezed."
Mr. Henderson murmured something.
Red replied, sharper. "They keep saying it's temporary. Temporary my ass."
Another man spoke—Mr. Palmer, maybe—muttering about orders, about bosses.
Red's voice dropped. "I don't like not knowing."
That was the truth.
Red didn't fear work.
Red feared uncertainty.
Monica's chest tightened.
Then she heard something else: the clink of glass.
The men were drinking.
Not partying.
Managing.
Monica stepped back quietly, returning to the living room before anyone noticed.
Kitty was laughing too loudly with Mrs. Henderson, cheeks flushed, voice bright.
Laurie was showing off, telling a story that made no sense but got attention anyway.
Eric was asleep on the couch, finally burned out.
Monica sat near the edge again, coloring without looking at the page.
At 11:59, everyone gathered around the radio to hear the countdown from a station out of Milwaukee.
Kitty bounced on her toes like a teenager. "Okay! Okay! Everybody!"
Red stood stiffly, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.
The countdown began.
"Ten… nine… eight…"
Kitty grabbed Red's arm.
Red flinched, then—because it was public—allowed it.
Laurie grabbed Kitty's other hand, grinning.
Monica stood just behind them, small and quiet.
"Three… two… one…"
The radio crackled. People cheered. Someone blew a party horn.
Kitty kissed Red's cheek.
Red grunted, but he didn't pull away.
Mrs. Henderson hugged Kitty.
Mrs. Palmer hugged nobody but smiled like she owned the room.
Laurie demanded attention and got it.
Monica watched, calm.
Because Monica understood: New Year's was just a date.
The problems didn't reset at midnight.
But the behavior did.
People decided who they were going to be.
People decided what they were going to pretend.
When the neighbors finally left, Kitty closed the door and sagged against it like she'd been holding herself upright all night.
Red stood in the living room for a moment, silent.
Then he muttered, "Thank God."
Kitty let out a shaky laugh. "Red, you could try to be nicer."
Red's gaze sharpened. "I'm not in the mood."
Kitty's eyes filled instantly. "You're never in the mood."
Red's jaw clenched. "Because I'm trying to keep this family afloat."
Kitty flinched like he'd thrown the year at her.
Silence stretched.
Laurie watched from the hallway, delighted and tense.
Monica's chest tightened.
Eric slept.
Kitty whispered, voice cracking. "I'm trying too."
Red stared at her.
His face softened—barely—but it was there.
Then Red exhaled hard and said, rougher, quieter, "I know."
Kitty's shoulders trembled.
Red rubbed his face with his hand like he was wiping off the year. "I just… hate this."
Kitty swallowed. "I know."
Red's gaze slid to Monica—quick, sharp. "Go to bed."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
As Monica walked upstairs, she heard Kitty's voice behind her, softer now.
"Red… do you think we'll be okay?"
Red didn't answer right away.
Then, low, stubborn, the same promise he always gave:
"We'll manage."
_______
In her room, Monica opened her Future Box.
She placed inside a small New Year's party horn she'd quietly pocketed—not because she wanted it, but because it represented performance. Proof of how people pretended joy while worrying about money.
Then Monica took out her folded note and added one more line beneath everything else, tiny and deliberate:
Don't rely on "fine." Build a buffer.
Monica folded it smaller than ever and hid it deep.
She lay back on her bed and listened to the house settle.
Red and Kitty moving around each other downstairs, tired and raw.
Laurie sighing dramatically in her room.
Eric breathing softly.
Point Place sleeping.
Monica stared at the ceiling and whispered her rule into the dark:
"Act normal."
Then, with the quiet certainty of someone who'd already survived one life and wasn't interested in being powerless again:
"Build anyway."