Saturday, October 26, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
October made the world smell like smoke and damp leaves.
The wind sharpened. The sky turned pale. The trees looked like they were burning from the inside out—orange, red, gold—and the town pretended it was charming instead of ominous.
Kitty loved Halloween.
Kitty loved the harmlessness of it—costumes, candy, community events that felt cheerful.
Red tolerated Halloween the way he tolerated most things: with a grim patience and a warning in his eyes not to get carried away.
Laurie had been talking about costumes for weeks.
She wanted something pretty.
Something dramatic.
Something that made her the center of attention.
Monica listened quietly while Kitty fussed over fabric scraps on the dining table.
Kitty had spread out patterns, old magazines, and hand-me-down material. She wasn't just making costumes.
She was making something else too:
Normalcy.
Because in October, with the plant tightening and Red's jaw set harder each week, Kitty clung to anything that felt like tradition.
"Okay," Kitty chirped too brightly, "Laurie, you're going to be a princess—"
Laurie clapped. "Yes."
Kitty smiled. "And Monica, you can be—"
Monica didn't answer immediately.
Monica had an adult mind, which meant she had adult awareness of what costumes meant.
Princess for Laurie made sense.
Princess for Monica would invite comparisons. Questions.
Why isn't the quiet twin a princess too?
Why is she different?
Monica chose something safe.
"Witch," Monica said softly.
Kitty blinked. "A witch?"
Laurie made a face. "That's ugly."
Monica kept her face calm. "Witch has cape."
Kitty softened instantly, because Kitty always melted when Monica sounded practical instead of demanding. "Oh! A cape would be lovely."
Laurie scoffed. "I want a cape."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Princesses don't wear capes, honey."
Laurie's eyes narrowed, rage blooming.
Monica watched it rise like a familiar storm.
And then the front door opened.
Red's boots hit the floor.
His presence shifted the house like gravity.
Kitty straightened instantly, smile snapping into place. "Hi, honey!"
Red grunted. "What's all this."
Kitty beamed too brightly. "Costumes! For Halloween!"
Red stared at the fabric like it had personally offended him. "Why."
Kitty blinked. "Because it's—Halloween?"
Red's jaw tightened. "That's a waste of time."
Kitty's smile wobbled. "It's fun."
Red's gaze sharpened. "Fun doesn't pay bills."
The room went quiet.
Laurie froze.
Kitty's face tightened, hurt flashing.
Monica watched Red carefully.
He wasn't angry at costumes.
He was angry at the world, and the world kept slipping into his house through small things.
Kitty tried to recover, voice softer. "Red, the kids—"
Red cut her off with a look. "I'm going to the garage."
Kitty swallowed hard. "Okay."
Red turned to leave, then paused. His gaze slid to Monica—sharp, assessing.
"Monica," he said.
Monica stood immediately. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Come here."
Kitty blinked. "Red—"
Red's gaze snapped to Kitty. "Let her."
Kitty went quiet.
Monica followed Red into the garage.
The garage was colder than the house. It smelled like oil and metal and the sharp, honest bite of air. It was Red's territory, which meant it was also the only place in the world where Red looked comfortable.
Red didn't perform in the garage.
Red didn't smile.
Red just… was.
Monica stood near the doorway, hands behind her back, waiting.
Red moved to the workbench and started sorting tools, not because he needed to, but because Red thought better with his hands busy.
After a moment, he said bluntly, "You understand what's going on."
It wasn't a question.
It was Red testing.
Monica's stomach tightened.
She did understand.
But she couldn't say she understood like an adult.
So she chose the safest truth.
"Plant," Monica said softly. "Tight."
Red's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yeah."
Monica added, carefully, child-simple. "Mommy worry."
Red's jaw flexed. "Your mother worries about everything."
Monica didn't argue.
Red wiped his hands on a rag, then turned his gaze fully on Monica.
"Listen," he said, voice low. "There are house rules."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes sharpened. "Not 'yes, Dad' like you're on a damn TV show. Like you understand."
Monica paused—then nodded again, slower. "I understand."
Red exhaled through his nose, impatient, then began.
"One," Red said, holding up a finger. "What happens in this house stays in this house."
Monica nodded.
Red's gaze was hard. "You don't go running your mouth at school. You don't tell teachers our business. You don't tell your friends our business."
Monica's voice stayed soft. "Yes, Dad."
Red's jaw flexed again. "Two. You don't let people bait you."
Monica blinked, pretending she didn't fully understand.
Red explained anyway, rough. "People will say things. People will poke. They want you to react so they can feel important. You don't give it to them."
Monica nodded, calm.
Red stared, then continued.
"Three. You don't waste."
Monica nodded again.
Red's eyes narrowed. "That means you eat what you're given. You take care of your things. You don't break stuff because you're bored."
Monica's mind flicked to Eric's dramatic falls and Laurie's demands, but she kept her face neutral.
Red's voice sharpened. "Four. You respect your mother."
Monica nodded immediately. "Yes, Dad."
Red's gaze softened—barely, almost imperceptible. "Your mother gets walked on because she's too damn nice. People think that means she's stupid."
Monica's chest tightened.
Red's jaw flexed. "She's not stupid. She's kind. There's a difference."
Monica nodded again, quietly.
Red stared at Monica for a long moment, like he was trying to decide how much of himself to show her.
Then Red said the real thing.
"Five," he muttered. "You don't trust this town."
Monica didn't move.
Red's eyes narrowed. "People in Point Place smile to your face and chew you up behind your back. They're friendly until you're doing better than them. Then they get mean."
Monica nodded slowly.
Red's gaze sharpened. "You hear me."
"I hear you," Monica said softly.
Red exhaled, like saying it out loud cost him something.
Then he said, rougher, "You're not like the other kids."
Monica's stomach tightened.
Red's eyes narrowed, annoyed at his own honesty. "Don't get a big head about it. But you're… different."
Monica kept her face calm, childlike.
Red's voice dropped low. "That means people will look. That means people will talk."
Monica nodded.
Red leaned closer slightly, voice firm. "So we keep our heads down. We do our work. We let them underestimate us."
Monica's chest warmed, because that—finally—was language Monica recognized.
Underestimate.
Strategy.
Red wasn't just her father.
Red was—without realizing it—teaching her how to survive with an advantage.
Monica nodded slowly. "Okay, Dad."
Red stared for a beat, then grunted. "Good."
He turned back to the workbench like the conversation was over, like he hadn't just handed his daughter a code to live by.
Monica waited, then asked softly—carefully, like she was five.
"Dad… can I help?"
Red frowned. "Help with what."
Monica gestured toward the tools. "Garage."
Red stared at her for a long moment.
Then he grunted, rough but not angry. "Fine. You can hand me things. But you don't touch sharp stuff."
Monica nodded quickly. "Yes, Dad."
Red motioned to a jar of bolts. "Sort those."
Monica sat on a stool and began sorting bolts by size with deliberate slowness—fast enough to be helpful, not fast enough to look unnatural.
Red watched her for a moment, then looked away.
But Monica felt it:
This was bonding, Red-style.
Not hugs.
Not praise.
Work beside him.
Rules.
Protection offered in the form of instruction.
_______
When Monica returned inside, Kitty looked up instantly, eyes searching.
"Are you okay?" Kitty whispered, anxious.
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's shoulders loosened slightly, relieved.
Laurie watched from the table, suspicious and jealous. "What did he tell you."
Monica kept her face mild. "Rules."
Laurie scoffed. "Daddy doesn't give me rules."
Kitty's voice tightened. "Laurie—Daddy gives everyone rules."
Laurie's lips pressed together, angry.
Kitty tried to return to costumes, too bright again. "Okay! Where were we—Monica wants to be a witch, Laurie will be a princess—"
Red's voice came from the doorway, flat. "No."
Kitty froze. "No?"
Red's jaw tightened. "No witch."
Kitty blinked, confused. "Why not?"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Because witches are—" He stopped, searching for the right word that didn't sound ridiculous. "Bad."
Laurie smirked, triumphant.
Monica's chest tightened, but she didn't argue. She didn't push.
Red watched her carefully, waiting for rebellion.
Monica lowered her gaze politely. "Okay, Dad."
Red's expression shifted—satisfaction, relief—because Monica obeyed without drama.
Kitty tried to soften it quickly. "Well… Monica could be—maybe a little black cat?"
Red grunted. "Fine."
Laurie pouted. "Cats are stupid."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Laurie."
Monica stayed calm.
Inside, her adult mind noted the real thing:
Red didn't ban witches because of superstition.
He banned witches because he wanted his family to look respectable.
Because respectability was armor when money was tight.
Because Red Forman fought the world with pride, and pride required appearances.
Monica understood.
So she didn't fight.
She adapted.
That was the rule.
Later that night, when the house was quiet, Monica opened her Future Box.
She placed inside something new:
A small bolt from the garage—one Red had handed her without thinking, tossed casually like it didn't matter.
But it did.
Because it wasn't just a bolt.
It was proof of the day Red taught Monica the Forman code:
Keep your mouth shut.
Don't waste.
Don't trust Point Place.
Let them underestimate you.
Monica closed the box.
Then, in the dark, she whispered the rule she lived by:
"Act normal."
And beneath it—so quiet it was almost a vow:
"Build anyway."