Sunday, February 3, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
February made the Forman house creak.
The cold sat in the walls. The wind scraped the windows like it wanted in. Kitty kept the heat up as high as Red would tolerate, and Red kept muttering about the bill like it was a personal enemy.
Snow had piled up again overnight, thick and heavy. The sky was the color of dishwater, and the world outside looked muted—like someone had turned the volume down.
Inside, Kitty was fussing as usual.
"You need your sweater," she told Laurie for the third time.
"I don't," Laurie snapped.
"Yes, you do," Kitty insisted, pushing it into Laurie's arms.
Laurie made a face like sweaters were oppression.
Eric was toddling in circles, dragging a blanket behind him like a cape. He kept babbling nonsense and laughing at himself.
Red stood by the front door, boots on, coat half buttoned, already irritated.
"Alright," Red barked. "I'm going to fix the furnace vent. Nobody touches anything in the basement."
Kitty flinched instantly. "Red, is something wrong?"
Red grunted. "It's loud. It shouldn't be loud."
Kitty's face went pale. "Oh my gosh—Red—what if—"
Red cut her off, sharp. "Kitty. Stop."
Kitty swallowed and nodded quickly, trying to paste her smile back on. "Okay. Okay."
Monica stood in the hallway, watching.
Basement rules mattered in this house.
The basement was Red's space.
The basement was also where danger lived—tools, cords, old machines, and Red's temper when something wouldn't cooperate.
Red turned his gaze to Monica, sharp and direct.
"Mon."
Monica stepped forward immediately. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes narrowed slightly—approval hidden under gruffness.
"You remember the rules about the basement."
Monica nodded. "Yes."
Red's jaw flexed. "Say them."
Kitty's eyes widened—half proud, half anxious.
Laurie rolled her eyes dramatically.
Monica kept her voice calm and child-simple.
"Don't go down," Monica said. "Don't touch. Ask."
Red grunted. "Good."
He turned his gaze to Laurie. "You."
Laurie's chin lifted. "What?"
Red's tone went flat. "Rules."
Laurie scoffed. "I know the rules."
Red stared at her. "Then say them."
Laurie's face flushed, because Red wasn't asking.
Red was ordering.
Laurie snapped, "Don't go down there."
Red's eyes narrowed. "And."
Laurie muttered, "Don't touch your stupid tools."
Kitty hissed softly, "Laurie!"
Red's gaze went cold. "And."
Laurie's mouth tightened. "Ask."
Red grunted, satisfied enough. "Good."
Then he pointed one finger at both girls like a warning sign.
"If I catch either of you in the basement, you'll regret it."
Kitty forced a laugh, too bright. "Okay! You heard Daddy."
Red grabbed his toolbox and stomped toward the basement door.
The house held its breath.
Kitty stood frozen for a beat, then immediately went into motion, like movement could keep the fear away.
"Okay!" Kitty chirped. "We're going to stay upstairs! We're going to—oh—maybe we can make cookies!"
Laurie's eyes lit up. "Chocolate chip?"
Kitty's smile strained. "Maybe."
Laurie narrowed her eyes. "That means yes."
Kitty's laugh was nervous. "We'll see!"
Monica didn't comment.
Monica's attention stayed on the basement door.
Red's footsteps thudded down the stairs.
A metallic clank.
Then silence.
The kind of silence that made Kitty's hands shake slightly as she opened the cupboard.
Monica moved closer—not to the basement, but to Kitty.
Quietly. Solidly.
Kitty glanced down at Monica and softened.
"Oh, sweetheart," Kitty murmured. "Mommy's fine."
Monica nodded, because Monica knew Kitty's definition of fine.
Fine meant don't make it worse.
______
Minutes passed.
Laurie hovered near the kitchen counter like a shark waiting for snacks.
Eric toddled in circles, tripping over his own cape and laughing.
Kitty measured flour like her life depended on it.
Then—downstairs—came a loud metallic bang.
Kitty jumped so hard she spilled flour on the counter.
"Oh!" Kitty squeaked.
Laurie's eyes widened—half fear, half excitement.
Eric squealed, delighted by the noise.
Monica didn't move.
But Monica watched Kitty's face go pale.
Kitty's breath hitched. "Red?"
No answer.
Kitty started toward the basement door.
Monica stepped in front of her—small, but placed perfectly.
Kitty froze. "Monica, sweetheart—Mommy just needs to—"
Monica looked up with wide eyes and said softly, "Rule."
Kitty blinked.
Monica added, very gently, "Don't go down."
Kitty's mouth opened, then closed.
Because Monica was right.
And because Kitty hated being right when she was scared.
Kitty's hands trembled at her waist. "But what if—what if he—"
Monica's voice stayed calm, child-simple. "Daddy will come up."
Kitty stared down at Monica like she wasn't sure if she was comforted or unsettled.
Then Kitty forced a shaky smile. "Yes. Yes. Daddy will come up."
Laurie, watching, made a face. "You're not the boss."
Monica didn't look at her.
Monica didn't need to.
Because the point wasn't control.
The point was not feeding panic.
Another noise from downstairs—less loud, more like scraping.
Kitty flinched again.
Laurie suddenly leaned toward the basement door, curious and reckless. "I wanna see."
Kitty snapped, voice sharper than usual. "No!"
Laurie froze—surprised, offended.
Kitty immediately tried to fix it. "I mean—no, honey, Daddy said—"
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "You yelled."
Kitty's smile strained. "I didn't mean to."
Laurie's face twisted—then she did what Laurie always did when she felt powerless:
She tried to provoke.
She pointed at Monica. "Monica thinks she's better than me."
Monica's chest tightened slightly.
Not because it hurt.
Because it was predictable.
Laurie always returned to that theme.
Kitty sighed, exhausted. "Laurie…"
Laurie's voice rose, performing. "Daddy likes her more!"
Kitty flinched again—like the words hit a bruise.
Monica watched Kitty's face—fear and guilt tangled together.
And Monica understood: this wasn't about jealousy today.
This was about the basement noise.
The unknown.
Laurie sensed Kitty's fear and was trying to turn it into leverage.
Monica couldn't let that happen.
So Monica did the most powerful thing she could do in this house:
She gave Red's authority back to Kitty.
Monica looked up at Kitty and said softly, "Mommy is boss."
Kitty blinked, startled.
Monica nodded earnestly. "Daddy said rules. Mommy keeps rules."
Kitty's eyes filled—just a little—because Monica had handed her something she desperately needed:
Permission to be firm without guilt.
Kitty swallowed and straightened, voice steadier. "That's right, Laurie. Mommy is in charge right now."
Laurie's mouth opened, ready to argue—
And then the basement door creaked.
Red came up the stairs, toolbox in hand, face set in his usual annoyed way.
Kitty exhaled so hard it was almost a sob. "Red!"
Red frowned. "What."
Kitty laughed too quickly. "Nothing! Nothing, I just—are you okay?"
Red stared at her like she'd asked if he'd grown wings. "Of course I'm okay."
Kitty's shoulders sagged in relief. "Oh thank goodness."
Red grunted, stepping into the kitchen. His gaze flicked to the flour mess.
He frowned. "What happened here."
Kitty straightened, embarrassed. "Nothing—just—"
Monica answered calmly, before Kitty could spiral. "Noise. Mommy startled."
Red's eyes narrowed. Then he grunted, like that explanation was acceptable.
"Furnace vent was loose," Red muttered. "Fixed it."
Kitty beamed, relief pouring out of her. "Oh, Red, you're amazing!"
Red huffed. "It's a vent."
Laurie perked up instantly, trying to reclaim attention now that danger was gone. "Daddy, Monica said she's the boss."
Red's gaze snapped to Laurie—cold, sharp.
Then he looked at Monica.
Monica kept her face innocent, wide-eyed.
Red's jaw flexed like he was holding back irritation.
Then, unexpectedly, his eyes shifted to Kitty.
"You are," Red muttered at Kitty. "When I'm downstairs."
Kitty blinked, startled.
Then her face softened, like she'd been handed an unexpected gift. "Oh…"
Red grunted, already regretting saying it out loud. He turned toward Monica and jerked his chin.
"Good job," he muttered.
Monica nodded. "Thank you, Dad."
Laurie's face flushed with rage because Monica had won—again—without fighting.
Red didn't look at Laurie. "And you," he said flatly, "stop stirring your mother up."
Laurie snapped, "I wasn't—"
Red's voice went dangerous. "Yes you were."
Laurie shut her mouth, furious.
Kitty hurried to the cupboard, trying to keep the peace. "Okay! Cookies! Chocolate chip!"
Laurie brightened instantly, as if she hadn't just tried to light the house on fire emotionally.
Monica watched her, calm.
Inside, Monica noted the new rule Red had accidentally created:
Kitty has authority when Red is gone.
And Red just said it out loud.
That mattered.
Monica tucked that away in her mind like a tool.
That night, Monica placed a tiny, flour-dusted measuring spoon into her Future Box—stolen from the counter when Kitty wasn't looking, replaced with another so Kitty wouldn't notice.
Not because it was valuable.
Because it was proof of what Monica learned today:
Winter didn't just test furnaces.
It tested families.
And Monica was getting better at keeping the house from cracking under pressure—one quiet, strategic sentence at a time.