Thursday, November 28, 1963 — Thanksgiving — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
Thanksgiving in Point Place smelled like two things: butter and performance.
Butter because Kitty Forman believed you could solve almost any problem with it—dry turkey, bland potatoes, a tense room. Performance because holidays weren't just meals in small towns. They were proof. Proof your family was fine. Proof you were grateful. Proof you weren't one of those families people whispered about in church hallways.
Monica sat at the kitchen table, feet swinging, and watched her mother run herself ragged trying to make the day feel safe.
Kitty had been up since before the sun, hair pinned and face bright, moving through the kitchen like she was trying to outrun the year. Every bowl and spoon had a purpose. Every dish had a place. Every moment had to look like it belonged in a magazine, because Kitty was convinced that if the table looked perfect, the world couldn't touch them.
It could.
But Kitty didn't stop trying.
"Monica, sweetheart," Kitty said, voice too chipper, "can you hand Mommy the salt?"
Monica slid the salt across the table with both hands like it was something important. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty smiled quickly—relief, gratitude, the kind you gave to the kid who didn't make things harder.
Laurie sat on the counter with the bored confidence of a girl who believed the kitchen existed to serve her. She swung her legs and complained about everything out loud.
"It smells weird."
Kitty's smile tightened. "It smells delicious."
"It smells like old meat."
Kitty's eyes flashed. "Laurie."
Laurie smirked like she'd won a tiny war.
Eric toddled across the floor in his socks, sticky hands already searching for trouble, looking like a little prince in a house that still treated him like the baby even when the adults were drowning.
"Cookie," Eric demanded.
Kitty turned, already reaching instinctively. "Oh, honey—no, not yet—"
Eric's face crumpled. His lips trembled dramatically.
Kitty caved immediately. "Okay—one. One little cookie."
Red Forman walked into the kitchen at that exact moment and stopped dead, eyes narrowing.
"What the hell is this."
Kitty froze with the cookie in her hand like she'd been caught stealing.
Eric brightened instantly, because Daddy being present meant the rules might change.
Laurie glanced at Red and immediately rearranged her face into sweetness. "Hi, Daddy."
Monica stood up without being told. "Hi, Dad."
Red's gaze moved over the kitchen—counters crowded with food, bowls stacked, Kitty's forced cheer—then landed on the cookie.
Red's jaw clenched. "Why is he getting a cookie."
Kitty's laugh came out too fast. "It's Thanksgiving!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "It's seven in the morning."
Kitty blinked. "Eight."
Red's expression didn't change. "Still too early."
Eric's face crumpled again, prepared to weaponize tears.
Red stared at him like tears were an insult to his intelligence. "Stop it."
Eric hiccuped. Then, sensing Daddy wasn't playing, he quieted—sniffling softly, saving it for Kitty later.
Red looked at Kitty. "Put it away."
Kitty hesitated for half a second—hurt pride, mother instinct—then she set the cookie jar back like it weighed a hundred pounds. "Okay."
Red's gaze slid to Monica. Quick. Assessing.
Monica met his eyes calmly.
Red grunted like that satisfied him. Then he shifted his gaze to Laurie.
Laurie immediately sat up straighter, eyes bright. "Daddy, I want to help."
Red's eyes narrowed. "No, you don't."
Laurie's smile twitched. "Yes I do."
Red stared at her for a beat, then said flatly, "Go set the table."
Laurie's face fell—because that was work with no audience—but she slid off the counter anyway, muttering under her breath.
Kitty exhaled quietly, shoulders loosening. Red's presence always tightened the room, but it also brought order. Kitty hated how much she needed that.
Red moved to the coffee pot, poured himself a cup like he'd earned it, then leaned against the counter and watched Kitty for a long moment.
Kitty pretended she didn't notice.
Monica noticed everything.
"You got enough food?" Red asked, voice low.
Kitty's smile returned automatically. "Of course!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Kitty."
Kitty's smile faltered. "Yes, Red?"
Red's voice stayed rough. "Did you spend too much."
Kitty flinched like he'd slapped her with a fact. "No."
Red stared her down. "No like no, or no like you're lying because you don't want a fight."
Kitty's laugh came out thin. "Red—"
Red's jaw flexed. "How much."
Kitty swallowed. "I… I used coupons."
Red didn't move. "How much."
Kitty's eyes shimmered—anger and fear fighting. "It's Thanksgiving."
Red's voice turned harder. "How much, Kitty."
Kitty's shoulders slumped. "It was… a little more than I wanted."
Red's nostrils flared.
Monica watched the tension rise like smoke.
Laurie, halfway to the dining room with a stack of plates, paused to listen—because Laurie loved a crack in Kitty's composure.
Eric clutched Kitty's leg again, sensing emotional weather.
Monica stepped in—not loudly, not dramatically—just enough to shift the focus.
"Dad," Monica said softly, reaching up and holding out the pepper grinder like it was a peace offering. "Pepper."
Red blinked, thrown.
Kitty blinked too, startled.
Red stared at the pepper grinder, then at Monica, then huffed a short breath that was almost a laugh.
"Jesus," Red muttered. "Fine."
He took it from her.
The moment broke.
Kitty exhaled.
Laurie rolled her eyes, annoyed the show had ended too soon.
Red sipped his coffee like he was swallowing frustration on purpose. "I'm going to the garage."
Kitty nodded quickly. "Okay."
Red looked at Monica again. "You."
Monica straightened. "Yes, Dad?"
Red jerked his head toward the back door. "Come on."
Kitty opened her mouth—automatic concern—then shut it. Because Red had already decided.
Monica followed her father into the garage, where the air was colder and honest and smelled like metal instead of worry.
Red didn't talk right away. He went straight to the workbench, sorted bolts, wiped his hands on a rag—busywork, thinking work.
Monica waited.
Red always spoke when he was ready.
After a minute, Red said low, "Holidays make people stupid."
Monica blinked, acting five. "Stupid?"
Red grunted. "They spend money they don't have. They show off for people who don't care. Then they complain when things get tight."
Monica nodded slowly.
Red's gaze sharpened. "Your mother means well."
Monica nodded again. "Yes."
Red's jaw flexed. "But she worries. And when she worries, she tries to fix it with… nonsense."
Monica kept her face mild.
Red leaned on the workbench, voice dropping. "So here's the deal. Today, we don't fight. We don't make it worse. You understand?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Not yes like you're being polite. Yes like you know why."
Monica paused—then answered carefully, child-simple but true. "Mommy try hard."
Red stared at her for a long beat. Then he grunted. "Yeah."
He reached into a drawer, pulled out a small tin, and opened it—coins inside, a few bills folded tight.
Monica's eyes flicked to it.
Red watched her notice.
"This," Red said bluntly, "is why we don't waste."
Monica stayed quiet.
Red tapped the tin. "This is the difference between fine and not fine."
Monica nodded slowly.
Red's voice hardened. "People in this town don't help you when you're down. They watch. They wait. They talk."
Monica didn't react outwardly. But inside, she understood exactly.
Red's gaze drilled into her. "So we keep our business in this house. You don't tell kids at school anything. You don't tell teachers anything. You don't—" he paused, jaw tightening, "—give anyone a reason to look at us like we're weak."
Monica nodded. "Okay, Dad."
Red exhaled through his nose, then shoved the tin back into the drawer like he didn't want anyone else touching it.
For a moment, the garage was quiet except for distant laughter from the neighborhood—kids playing, people pretending the world was soft.
Then Red said something else, quieter.
"You're good at… watching."
Monica blinked. "Watching?"
Red's jaw flexed like he didn't like praising anything. "You notice things. That's… useful."
Monica nodded, keeping her face calm.
Red pointed to a pile of nuts and bolts. "Sort those."
Monica climbed onto the stool and began sorting, deliberate and steady, making herself helpful without showing off.
Red worked beside her in silence for a while. Not warm. Not gentle.
But together.
And Monica understood Red's love the way she understood tools:
Not pretty. Not soft.
Solid.
Reliable.
______
By late afternoon, the Forman house filled with the smell of turkey and the sound of Kitty forcing cheer into every corner.
A few neighbors stopped by after their own meals—small-town tradition, swinging in for pie and gossip.
Mrs. Henderson arrived first, perfume strong, smile sharp. "Kitty! Oh, it looks wonderful!"
Kitty glowed—because praise was her oxygen. "Thank you! Come in!"
Mrs. Palmer followed—of course she did—eyes scanning the living room like she was taking inventory.
Red stood near the doorway like a bouncer, barely tolerating any of them.
Laurie floated between adults, showing off like a hostess in training.
Eric was passed from lap to lap like the town's favorite toy.
Monica stayed near the edge, polite, quiet, watching.
The women talked about recipes and church and the plant in soft voices like saying it out loud might make it worse.
"The orders are slowing…"
"My husband said they're cutting again…"
"Did you hear about Frank Miller's brother…"
Kitty smiled and nodded and pretended nothing touched her.
Red's jaw stayed tight the entire time.
And Monica watched the machine of Point Place in motion: people smiling while they collected other people's fear.
Later, when the neighbors finally left and the dishes were stacked high like proof Kitty had succeeded, Kitty sagged at the sink.
Red walked in, took one look at the pile, and sighed like a man preparing for battle.
Kitty's voice cracked a little. "Red, you don't have to—"
Red cut her off, rough. "I know."
Then he rolled up his sleeves.
Kitty blinked, surprised.
Red started washing dishes without another word.
Kitty stared at him, throat tight.
Monica watched them both—her mother's shock, her father's stubborn kindness disguised as irritation.
Laurie sat at the table, bored now that there was no audience.
Eric fell asleep on the couch, finally out of fuel.
Monica stepped forward quietly and began drying plates, careful hands, steady rhythm.
Kitty looked at Monica and smiled, real this time. "Oh, sweetheart…"
Monica didn't answer. She just kept drying.
Because today wasn't about turkey.
It was about the Forman code holding under pressure.
And for once, the code didn't crush Kitty.
It protected her.
That night, Monica opened her Future Box and placed inside a small paper turkey decoration from school—crumpled edges, glue marks, childish.
But it wasn't just a craft.
It was a marker: the first Thanksgiving Monica understood as strategy.
Then she folded her secret note a little tighter and whispered into the dark:
"Act normal."
And, softer—like a promise to the version of herself that had already lived once:
"Build anyway."