Friday, March 8, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
March in Point Place was ugly in that special Midwest way—snow turning gray, sidewalks turning to slush, boots tracking mud into the house no matter how many times Kitty Forman swore she'd "get on top of it."
Red called it "spring."
Kitty called it "a mess."
Monica called it what it really was:
The season where everybody's patience went thin.
Kitty had the radio on while she cleaned—something soft and cheerful to push back the mood of the weather. She scrubbed like she was trying to erase winter off the kitchen floor, humming along like it mattered.
Laurie sat at the table, swinging her legs and pouting dramatically. "I'm bored."
Kitty didn't look up. "That's nice, honey."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. She hated when Kitty didn't react.
Eric toddled through the doorway with a toy truck, making engine noises and bumping it into chair legs like he was testing the structural integrity of furniture.
Red wasn't home yet. Red was still at work.
Which meant the house belonged to Kitty—soft rules, softer tone, constant effort to keep everyone happy.
And Monica had learned this: when Red wasn't there, Laurie tried to become Red.
Not by being strict.
By being dominant.
Monica sat with crayons and paper, drawing slow circles like a four-year-old should. She had a real pencil tucked behind the crayon box, hidden—because pencils meant writing, and writing meant looking too capable.
Kitty turned from the sink, cheeks flushed from cleaning. "Okay! Who wants to help Mommy—"
Laurie sat up immediately, smelling attention like blood in water. "Me!"
Monica didn't react.
Kitty smiled anyway. "Alright. Laurie, you can put the napkins in a pile. Monica, sweetheart—"
Laurie's head snapped toward Monica like she'd been insulted by Monica simply existing.
Kitty kept going, gentle. "Monica, can you make Mommy a list?"
Monica's fingers paused over the crayon.
A list.
Kitty said it like it was a game, like it was harmless.
But Monica knew what that word meant.
A list meant writing.
Writing meant revealing.
Laurie's eyes narrowed, immediately suspicious. "What list?"
Kitty laughed lightly. "Just a little grocery list! For fun."
Laurie leaned across the table, voice sharp. "Why does she get to write?"
Kitty's smile tightened. "Because… she wants to help."
Laurie scoffed. "I can help."
Kitty's eyes flicked between them, already trying to keep the peace. "And you are helping, honey."
Laurie didn't care about helping.
Laurie cared about status.
Monica lifted her chin and did what she always did when she needed to keep the house from tipping:
She accepted the task like it wasn't a big deal.
"Okay, Mommy," Monica said softly.
Kitty beamed. "Oh, thank you, sweetheart."
Laurie's face tightened.
Kitty pulled a notepad from the drawer—one of Red's work pads, thick paper, rough edges—and placed it in front of Monica like it was a toy.
"I need milk," Kitty said brightly. "Can you write 'milk'?"
Monica's stomach tightened.
She could write milk.
She could write much more than milk.
But today wasn't the day to show it.
So Monica performed.
She picked up the pencil with the awkward grip of a child and wrote slowly.
M… i… l… k.
The letters weren't as neat as she could make them.
They were just neat enough to be believable.
Kitty's whole face softened. "Oh! Look at that!"
Laurie leaned over instantly. "That's not hard."
Kitty turned toward Laurie, still smiling. "Do you want to write something too?"
Laurie brightened—because now it was a competition. "Yes!"
Kitty slid the pad toward Laurie. "Okay! Write… 'bread.'"
Laurie grabbed the pencil like she was about to win a trophy and scratched messy letters across the page.
It was… technically bread.
Kitty clapped lightly, too cheerful. "Wonderful!"
Laurie's chin lifted. "See?"
Monica didn't react.
She didn't need to.
Because Monica wasn't trying to win in front of Kitty.
Monica was trying to stay invisible to Point Place.
Kitty continued, unaware of the tightrope Monica was walking. "Okay, how about… eggs. Monica?"
Monica wrote eggs slowly.
Laurie watched with narrowed eyes, then leaned toward Kitty, voice syrupy-sweet.
"Mom, Monica writes better than you."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Oh, Laurie—"
Laurie kept going, eyes bright with the thrill of poking. "Daddy likes Monica more."
Kitty's smile faltered. Her shoulders tightened.
Monica felt the house shift—Laurie aiming for the bruise again, the one that always made Kitty wobble.
So Monica did what she'd learned worked best with Kitty:
She gave Kitty something to hold onto.
Monica slid the pad toward Kitty and pointed to the bottom, where there was space.
"Mommy," Monica said softly, innocent. "Your name."
Kitty blinked. "My name?"
Monica nodded earnestly. "Write Kitty."
Kitty's mouth opened, then her face softened with relief. A task. A simple thing. A way to turn the moment into something sweet instead of painful.
Kitty picked up the pencil and wrote Kitty in cursive—looped and pretty.
Laurie watched, momentarily derailed.
Monica nodded like she was impressed. "Pretty."
Kitty laughed softly, real now. "Oh, you little charmer."
Laurie scowled, because tenderness had just stolen the spotlight.
Eric toddled over, slapped his hands on the table, and squealed like he wanted in on whatever game this was.
Kitty laughed again, and for a second, the kitchen felt lighter.
Then the front door opened.
Heavy boots.
A cold gust of air.
Red.
Red entered the kitchen like he always did—coat half on, face set, carrying the day's irritations in the line of his jaw.
He stopped when he saw the notepad on the table.
"What's that."
Kitty brightened instantly, like Red's presence was permission to relax. "Oh! We made a list. Monica helped."
Red's gaze flicked to Monica—sharp, assessing.
Monica held his eyes calmly, face neutral.
Red looked down at the paper.
Milk. Eggs. Bread. Kitty in cursive.
Then his gaze landed on Monica's handwriting again, and his mouth tightened slightly.
"You wrote that," Red said.
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red grunted. Not praise. Not warmth.
But not disapproval either.
Laurie leaned forward, desperate to control the narrative. "I wrote bread!"
Red's gaze flicked to Laurie, unimpressed. "Good."
Laurie's face fell—because "good" wasn't admiration.
Kitty tried to smooth it. "Laurie did a wonderful job."
Red's grunt was noncommittal as he sat down heavily at the table.
Monica watched Red's hands—big, rough, always steady with tools.
Red picked up the pencil.
He didn't write anything.
He just turned it between his fingers like he was measuring it, like he was thinking about something he didn't want to say out loud.
Then, after a beat, Red slid the notepad back to Monica.
"Write your name," Red said.
Kitty blinked. "Red—"
Red didn't look at her. "Let her."
Monica's stomach tightened again.
This wasn't a game anymore.
This was Red testing.
Red didn't test for fun.
He tested because he needed to know what he was dealing with.
Monica lifted the pencil and did the safest thing she could do:
She wrote the truth—but made it look child-rough.
M o n i c a
She paused like she wasn't sure.
Then she added the middle name because Red had asked for her name and Red didn't like half-answers.
K a t h e r i n e
And then:
F o r m a n
The letters weren't perfect. They were just good enough.
Kitty's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my goodness…"
Laurie went still, eyes narrowing like she was watching her place in the world shift.
Red stared at the paper for a long moment.
Then he grunted—lower this time.
"Alright," he muttered, like it was a conclusion.
Kitty's eyes shone, proud and nervous. "Red, she's—she's only four—"
Red cut her off, rough. "I know how old she is."
Kitty swallowed. "It's just… that's…"
Red's jaw flexed. He didn't like awe. Awe drew attention. Attention brought questions.
"Don't go showing this to the whole damn town," Red muttered, more to Kitty than Monica.
Kitty blinked, startled. "I wouldn't!"
Red's gaze sharpened. "People talk."
Kitty's smile faltered, because she knew he was right.
Monica sat very still, absorbing that.
Red was already thinking about protection.
About containment.
About how to keep Point Place from putting Monica under a microscope.
That mattered.
Red stood, took the notepad, and tore the page out with Monica's name on it.
Laurie's eyes widened. "Hey!"
Red didn't look at her. He folded the paper once, then again, and slid it into his wallet like it was something important and private.
Kitty stared. "Red…"
Red grunted. "Proof."
Kitty blinked. "Proof of what?"
Red's gaze flicked toward Monica, then away. "Proof she's mine."
Kitty's expression softened instantly—love, pride, fear, all tangled together.
Laurie's face twisted like she'd been slapped.
Monica didn't react outwardly.
Inside, her chest tightened—because Red's words weren't poetic, but they were true in the way Red meant them:
Red was claiming her, not as property, but as responsibility.
Red didn't show love the way Kitty did.
Red showed it by guarding the boundaries.
Monica watched him turn toward the garage like the conversation had cost him something.
Laurie sat frozen, rage slowly simmering.
Kitty recovered first, rushing toward cheer to keep the house from cracking.
"Okay! Okay, how about… hot chocolate?"
Eric squealed.
Laurie snapped, "I don't want any!"
Kitty's smile strained. "Laurie…"
Monica stayed calm, pencil still in hand.
She had completed the milestone, whether she wanted to or not.
Her name in ink.
Red's wallet.
A new kind of danger—being noticed.
That night, when the house was quiet, Monica waited until she heard Red's heavy footsteps in the hallway and Kitty's soft hum fade into the bedroom.
Then Monica opened her Future Box.
She placed one small thing inside:
The tiny pencil shaving she'd pocketed from the table—wood and graphite and proof.
Because this day wasn't about groceries.
It was about the moment Red decided:
He would protect what Monica was becoming.
And Monica would do her part—
By acting normal.