Monday, May 13, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
Point Place looked cleanest when people were trying to be good.
Sunday dresses. Sunday smiles. Sunday hair set in rollers the night before so nobody had to admit they woke up ordinary. The kind of clean that wasn't about soap—it was about proof. Proof you weren't struggling. Proof your family was fine. Proof God liked you more than the people across the aisle.
Monday morning always ruined it.
Monday morning made the hems muddy again.
Monday morning made the coffee taste like real life.
Kitty Forman was already moving like she'd lost a race she hadn't agreed to enter. She had one hand on Eric's shoulder as he wobbled through the kitchen, and the other hand flipping through coupons like the paper could apologize for the prices.
Laurie, in a mood, lounged at the table with her chin in her palm like she was forty and exhausted by everyone else's stupidity.
Monica sat quietly, legs tucked under her, watching her mother's face while pretending to watch her cereal.
Kitty's smiles were different depending on what kind of day it was.
Today's smile was thin.
"Okay," Kitty chirped too brightly, "who wants peanut butter sandwiches for lunch?"
Eric squealed because Eric would squeal if Kitty offered him air.
Laurie huffed. "That's baby food."
Kitty's smile tightened. "It's a sandwich, honey."
Laurie rolled her eyes like Kitty was embarrassing her on purpose.
Monica didn't say anything, because Monica knew why Kitty was offering peanut butter.
Peanut butter didn't spoil.
Peanut butter didn't need meat.
Peanut butter was what you offered when you were counting pennies without saying the word counting out loud.
Red had left before the sun was fully awake.
He'd pulled on his factory jacket without speaking much, face set the way it got when he was already tired and didn't want anyone to notice.
He'd kissed Kitty once, quick, and told the girls not to "give your mother hell."
Kitty had laughed like it was a joke.
Monica had watched his hands when he buttoned his coat.
Hands told the truth.
Red's hands were rough, but steady.
This morning, they'd been steady—and tight.
Like the day was already trying to get away from him.
______
By late morning, Kitty had decided the house needed "fresh air."
Fresh air was Kitty's way of fixing feelings.
If she opened the windows, if she shook out rugs, if she swept the porch, then maybe the worry would fall out too.
It didn't.
But Kitty kept trying.
"Monica," Kitty called gently, "will you help Mommy with the clothesline?"
Monica stood immediately. "Yes, Mommy."
Laurie lifted her chin. "I don't want to."
Kitty didn't push. Kitty rarely pushed Laurie unless Red was in the room.
"That's okay," Kitty said too sweetly. "You can keep Eric busy."
Laurie made a face like babysitting was an insult, but she obeyed—not because she was kind, but because being "in charge" made her feel important.
Monica followed Kitty outside.
The air was damp, the grass still soft from spring rain. Somewhere down the street, a lawnmower sputtered and died, then sputtered again like the man operating it was wrestling pride itself.
Kitty pinned sheets to the line, arms moving with practiced speed.
Monica handed her clothespins, small and quiet.
Across the street, Mrs. Palmer stood on her porch like she'd been waiting for Kitty to appear.
Mrs. Palmer had the kind of face that looked sweet until you listened to her.
"Morning, Kitty!" she called.
Kitty's shoulders lifted instantly. Smile on. "Oh! Good morning, Mrs. Palmer!"
Mrs. Palmer's eyes flicked over Monica like she was reading an ingredient label. "And there's little Monica."
Monica smiled politely, the way she'd practiced. "Hello, ma'am."
Mrs. Palmer blinked, then smiled wider—too pleased. "My, my. Such manners."
Kitty laughed, nervous. "Oh, she's a good girl."
Mrs. Palmer's smile sharpened at the word good. "You must be so proud."
Kitty's hands paused for half a second on the sheet.
Then she forced cheer. "Oh, well, you know."
Mrs. Palmer tilted her head, voice sweet. "How's Red? Working hard as always?"
Kitty's smile wobbled—just a fraction.
Monica saw it.
Kitty recovered quickly. "Oh, yes. The plant keeps him busy."
Mrs. Palmer hummed like she was tasting the information. "Mmm. I heard they're cutting hours."
Kitty's laugh came out too fast. "Oh—no, no, I hadn't heard that."
Mrs. Palmer leaned forward slightly, eyes bright. "Oh yes. My cousin's husband said the foreman was talking. Something about orders slowing down."
Kitty's fingers tightened on the clothespin.
Monica watched Kitty's throat bob as she swallowed.
Mrs. Palmer kept going, enjoying herself. "It's just awful, isn't it? You never know these days. One minute you're fine, the next—"
Kitty smiled harder. "Oh, well, Red is… Red. He'll be fine."
Mrs. Palmer's eyes flicked to Monica again, gleaming. "Of course. A man like Red Forman always lands on his feet."
Kitty laughed, but it was brittle.
Monica handed Kitty another clothespin, a quiet anchor.
Kitty took it too quickly, like she needed something to do with her hands.
Mrs. Palmer finally turned her attention somewhere else—another porch, another audience—and drifted away.
Kitty exhaled slowly, like she'd been holding her breath.
Monica looked up softly. "Mommy?"
Kitty blinked, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, sweetheart?"
Monica kept her voice small. "Mrs. Palmer talks a lot."
Kitty's laugh escaped, real for the first time all morning. "Oh… she does, doesn't she?"
Monica nodded solemnly. "Yes."
Kitty touched Monica's hair lightly, a comforting gesture that was also a distraction. "We don't listen to everything people say, okay?"
Monica nodded. "Okay."
Kitty's fingers lingered on Monica's head a little longer than necessary, like Monica was grounding her.
Then Kitty turned back to the laundry with renewed speed—working like she could outrun the thought of Red's hours being cut.
______
That afternoon, Kitty took the girls into town.
A "quick trip" to the market, she said.
Quick trips were never quick with three children.
Eric tried to climb into a barrel of apples.
Laurie demanded candy.
Kitty smiled at everyone like she was afraid the cashier might charge extra if she looked tired.
Monica walked quietly beside the cart, watching.
The store was full of Point Place women, all of them hovering near the meat counter like the price tags were personal insults.
Mrs. Henderson leaned close to Kitty, voice low. "You hear about the plant?"
Kitty's smile tightened. "No…"
Mrs. Henderson made a sympathetic noise. "Oh honey. They're talking. Frank Miller's husband says they're cutting overtime."
Kitty's hand tightened on the cart handle until her knuckles went pale.
Monica saw it.
Laurie saw it too—because Laurie was very good at noticing weakness.
Laurie leaned in, voice sharp. "Mom, can I get gum?"
Kitty blinked like she hadn't heard, then forced cheer. "Not today, honey."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Why not?"
Kitty's smile strained. "Because I said so."
Laurie's lips pressed together, rage building.
Monica recognized the pattern immediately:
Kitty was stressed.
Laurie wanted control.
Control meant pushing.
Pushing meant conflict.
Conflict meant Red coming home to a house already loud—and Red didn't handle loud gently.
Monica did what she'd learned to do:
She redirected.
Monica pointed toward a display of cheap coloring books near the register.
"Mommy," Monica said softly. "Paper."
Kitty's gaze snapped to the display, grateful for something simple. "Oh! Yes!"
Kitty leaned in, voice brightening. "Would you like a coloring book, sweetheart?"
Laurie's head snapped up. "I want one."
Kitty smiled too brightly. "You have plenty at home, honey."
Laurie's face twisted. "That's not fair."
Kitty's smile faltered.
Mrs. Henderson watched, eyes softening in pity—the kind of pity that turned into gossip later.
Monica took the opportunity and said calmly, "Laurie can pick a crayon color for me."
Laurie blinked—caught off guard.
Laurie wanted attention. She wanted dominance.
But she also wanted to be included.
Kitty latched onto it instantly. "Oh! That's a lovely idea!"
Kitty pulled a small box of crayons from the rack. "Laurie, pick a color for Monica."
Laurie's pride flared. She puffed up. "Blue."
Monica nodded seriously. "Okay."
Laurie's mouth curled slightly like she'd won something.
And she had—just not the thing she'd been aiming for.
Kitty exhaled, relief returning.
They paid quickly.
As Kitty counted coins at the register, Monica watched her mother's hands.
Kitty's hands shook slightly.
Kitty's smile stayed bright anyway.
Outside, in the parking lot, Kitty loaded groceries into the trunk like she was angry at the bags.
Laurie climbed into the backseat, sulking.
Eric babbled and kicked his feet.
Monica slid into her seat quietly.
Kitty sat behind the wheel, hands on it like she was holding herself in place.
For a moment, Kitty stared forward without moving.
Then she laughed softly—too small, too sad. "Oh, Red…"
Monica's chest tightened.
"Mommy?" Monica whispered.
Kitty blinked rapidly and forced cheer. "Nothing, honey. Mommy's just thinking."
Monica nodded like she believed it.
But Monica knew the truth:
Kitty was doing math in her head.
Math about groceries.
Math about gas.
Math about hours.
Math about whether the world was about to get tighter.
______
Red came home late.
The sound of his truck pulling into the driveway made Kitty's entire posture change.
She straightened. Smiled. Smoothed her hair like he could see the worry in a strand if she didn't control it.
Laurie, sensing Red's arrival, suddenly became sweet—because Laurie was strategic too, in her own way.
Eric toddled toward the door yelling "Daddy!" like Red was a holiday.
Monica stayed back.
She always stayed back when Red first walked in.
Red needed a moment to enter the house without being grabbed by everyone else's needs.
The door opened.
Red stepped inside, carrying the smell of oil and metal and cold air.
His face was set hard.
Kitty greeted him brightly. "Hi, honey! How was your day?"
Red grunted, dropping his lunch pail on the counter. "Long."
Kitty laughed lightly. "Well, dinner's almost ready!"
Red's eyes flicked over the kitchen—clean, too clean. Kitty's attempt at control.
Then his gaze slid to Monica.
He always looked at Monica.
Not the warm way Kitty did.
The assessing way Red did.
Like he was checking if she was okay, if the house had bitten her, if something needed fixing.
Monica met his gaze calmly. "Hi, Dad."
Red grunted. "Hey."
Kitty moved around him, busying herself, talking too much.
"You won't believe what Mrs. Henderson said—oh, and Mrs. Palmer is back at it again—and I got bread on sale—"
Red's jaw tightened with every word.
Monica saw it.
Kitty didn't—because Kitty was trying to drown her own fear with chatter.
Finally, Red cut through it, sharp but controlled. "Kitty."
Kitty froze mid-sentence. "Yes?"
Red's voice stayed low. "Stop."
Kitty blinked, hurt flashing. "I was just—"
Red's eyes narrowed. "I've been listening to machines scream at me for ten hours. I don't need you doing it too."
Kitty's mouth opened, then closed.
The room shifted—quiet, fragile.
Laurie watched with wide eyes, delight flickering because conflict meant attention.
Eric clutched Red's pant leg, oblivious.
Monica stepped forward—quietly.
Not to intervene loudly.
Just to change the energy.
Monica held out the small box of crayons Kitty had bought.
"Dad," Monica said softly. "Blue."
Red frowned. "What."
Monica opened the box and showed him the blue crayon, as if presenting evidence. "Laurie picked blue."
Laurie perked up, proud again. "I did!"
Red stared for a beat, then huffed—a sound that was almost a laugh and almost annoyance.
"Great," Red muttered. "A crayon."
But the tension eased.
Kitty exhaled.
Red looked down at Monica, his gaze sharpening again.
"You behave today?" he asked, voice flat.
Monica nodded. "Yes."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Your mother alright?"
Monica paused—just enough to be believable—then said softly, "Mommy worried."
Kitty inhaled sharply. "Monica—"
Red's gaze snapped to Kitty, annoyed. "What."
Kitty forced a laugh. "Oh, I'm not worried. I'm fine."
Red stared at her for a long moment.
Then his jaw flexed.
"Plant's talking," he said bluntly.
Kitty's face went pale.
Laurie's eyes widened.
Monica's chest tightened.
Red continued, voice low. "They're cutting overtime. Maybe more."
Kitty swallowed hard, smile disappearing. "Red…"
Red's gaze was hard. "We'll manage."
Kitty's eyes filled instantly, tears threatening.
Red's voice went rougher. "We've managed before."
Kitty nodded quickly, trying to pull herself together.
Monica watched the way Red stood—solid, stubborn, protective by force of will.
Red didn't comfort with softness.
Red comforted with certainty.
Then Red's gaze flicked down to Monica again.
"Go wash up," he muttered, rough. "Dinner."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
As she walked away, she heard Kitty's voice crack behind her. "Red, I just—"
Red cut her off, not unkindly, but firmly. "We'll manage, Kitty."
Monica went to the bathroom and stared at her reflection.
A small girl with neat hair and calm eyes.
A child in a house where adults were starting to feel fear.
Monica opened her Future Box later that night and placed inside a small thing:
A coupon Kitty had dropped on the kitchen counter—ten cents off flour—folded carefully like a secret.
Because this chapter wasn't about laundry or church or neighbors.
It was about the first time Monica heard it said out loud:
The plant could tighten.
The world could tighten.
And Red Forman—stubborn, furious, unbreakable—would become even more important to protect.
Monica closed the box.
Outside, Point Place was quiet.
But inside the houses, women were doing math in their heads.
And men were pretending the numbers didn't scare them.