Tuesday, January 1, 1963 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 4)
New Year's Day in the Forman house felt like the world had exhaled.
The TV was off for once. The morning light was thin and pale against the snow outside. Kitty moved slower, hair still pinned up messily from the night before, robe tied tight like she could keep the cold out of her bones with a knot.
Red was up early anyway—because Red didn't understand sleeping in. Red understood work. Even on holidays, his body ran on factory time and stubbornness.
Laurie was cranky from staying up too late, sulking on the couch like the new year had personally wronged her.
Eric was a small, warm lump in his crib—still asleep, cheeks flushed and peaceful.
And Monica sat at the kitchen table with her hands folded neatly, watching the house settle back into its usual shape.
A nickel sat heavy in her pocket.
Red's "new year, new coin."
New proof.
Monica had slipped it into her pajama pocket before bed like a secret. Not because she needed money—she didn't, not in the way adults thought—but because the coin meant something bigger in this house:
Red gave you things when he trusted you not to waste them.
Kitty padded into the kitchen, yawning. "Good morning, sweetheart."
Monica looked up with her best small smile. "Good morning, Mommy."
Kitty's face softened. "Oh, you're up early."
Monica nodded. "Yes."
Kitty opened the cupboard and immediately sighed. "Oh… I should make breakfast."
Red's voice came from the doorway, already irritated. "You don't have to announce it."
Kitty startled, then smiled too brightly. "Well, I'm just saying—"
Red muttered, "Just do it," and reached for the coffee.
Monica watched Kitty's shoulders twitch at the tone, then straighten as she recovered.
Kitty didn't like being spoken to sharply.
Kitty also didn't like starting the day with conflict.
So she leaned into cheer—smiling at Monica like Monica was the easiest place to land.
"Do you want toast, honey?" Kitty asked.
"Yes, please," Monica said politely.
Laurie stomped into the kitchen, hair wild, face sour. "I want French toast."
Kitty blinked. "Oh—Laurie, honey, I don't think we have—"
Laurie's voice rose instantly. "Then why didn't you buy it?!"
Red's eyes narrowed over his coffee. "Because nobody asked."
Laurie snapped her head toward him, mouth already loaded with argument.
Monica could feel it—the first flare of the year, Laurie testing boundaries like it was sport.
So Monica did what she'd learned to do:
She didn't challenge Laurie.
She redirected the room into something Kitty could manage and Red could tolerate.
Monica pointed at the window and said softly, "Snow."
Kitty followed Monica's gaze automatically. "Oh, yes! It snowed more last night."
Laurie scoffed. "So?"
Red grunted. "So I'm shoveling."
Kitty made an anxious noise. "Red, you don't have to do it right away—"
Red's gaze sharpened. "You want someone to slip on the walk?"
Kitty swallowed. "No."
Red stood, already reaching for his coat. "Then I'll do it."
Laurie muttered, "Whatever," and stalked back to the living room.
Kitty exhaled and turned back to Monica, smiling with relief like Monica had just saved the morning.
"Okay," Kitty chirped, forcing brightness back into place. "Toast it is."
Monica nodded, calm.
Inside, her mind was already doing what it always did:
Measure. Adjust. Don't reveal too much.
Because Monica could read better than she should.
Monica could count money better than she should.
Monica could predict moods better than she should.
And Point Place had a very specific way of punishing children who didn't fit.
They didn't punish with violence.
They punished with whispers.
With looks.
With teachers deciding something was "wrong" with you.
With women like Mrs. Palmer watching you too closely at church.
Monica didn't need another set of eyes on her.
Not yet.
______
After breakfast, Kitty went to change Eric's diaper and coax Laurie into brushing her hair. Red went outside to shovel. The scrape of the shovel on concrete cut through the quiet like a metronome.
Monica sat at the table with a worn picture book Kitty kept in the kitchen—bright drawings, big simple words.
It was the kind of book Monica could have read in her sleep.
So Monica did what she always did when she was alone with anything that might reveal her:
She performed.
Monica traced her finger under the words slowly, pausing where a four-year-old would pause. She mouthed the longer words like she was sounding them out, even though her brain read them instantly.
She was practicing "normal."
Her old life had drilled professionalism into her. Her new life demanded something harder:
Believability.
A shadow fell across the table.
Monica didn't look up right away. That was another thing four-year-olds did—pretended they weren't paying attention until the adult spoke.
Red's boots thudded into the kitchen. Cold followed him in like a creature.
He shook snow off his coat once, sharp.
Then he looked down at Monica and the book.
"What's that."
Monica blinked up, wide-eyed. "Book."
Red grunted like that answer was obvious.
He sat down at the table, blowing out a breath as if shoveling had personally insulted him.
Monica kept tracing words.
Red watched for a moment too long.
"You can read," he said flatly.
Monica paused—just enough to look unsure. "A little."
Red's eyes narrowed. "How much is a little."
Monica's stomach tightened.
This was the moment Monica always had to balance.
If she played dumb, Red would push—because Red didn't like lies.
If she showed too much, Red would get proud—and pride could become attention, and attention became town talk.
Monica chose the safest truth.
"I know some," she said softly. "Mommy reads with me."
Red grunted. "Good."
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Read me."
Monica's heart beat once, heavy.
Then she nodded and began, slowly—stumbling on purpose on a medium word, correcting herself like a child.
Red listened, eyes sharp.
When she finished, Red grunted again, satisfied in that hard way he had.
"Alright," he muttered. "Don't get cocky."
Monica blinked. "Okay, Dad."
Red's gaze lingered. "You keep doing that, you'll be ahead of the idiots."
Monica didn't smile at that.
Because Monica knew "ahead" came with consequences.
But she also knew Red.
Red respected competence.
And Red had no patience for pretending you weren't capable if you were.
So Monica took the only path that worked in this house:
Be capable in front of Red.
Be normal in front of everyone else.
_____
Later, Kitty came back into the kitchen with Eric on her hip, cheeks pink from sleep. Eric babbled and grabbed at Kitty's robe tie.
Kitty spotted Monica with the book and smiled warmly. "Oh! Reading!"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's eyes shone—pride, the soft kind.
Laurie drifted in behind her, hair half brushed, face already sour.
She spotted Monica reading and immediately stiffened.
"Why is she reading?" Laurie demanded.
Kitty blinked. "Because she likes it."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "I can read."
Kitty's smile tightened. "And you're wonderful at it."
Laurie's gaze flicked to Red.
Red didn't look up from his coffee. "Then read."
Laurie froze.
Because Laurie didn't want to prove things.
Laurie wanted attention without effort.
Laurie snapped, "I don't want to."
Red's voice went flat. "Then don't complain."
Laurie's face flushed, rage building.
Kitty rushed in, bright, trying to soften the collision. "Okay! Okay, girls—how about we—"
Monica stood up carefully, book in hand, and walked to Laurie like she was offering peace.
"Look," Monica said softly, flipping to a page with a big picture.
Laurie looked suspicious.
Monica pointed at the picture. "Cat."
Laurie huffed, but she leaned in—because Laurie didn't want to be left out, not really.
Kitty exhaled in relief.
Red grunted and went back to his coffee.
Monica kept her face small and sweet, like she was just sharing a book.
Inside, she thought:
This is the job. Every day.
Be smart, but not too smart.
Be helpful, but don't look like you're parenting your own family.
Act normal.
Monica carried that thought with her the rest of the day like a hidden resolution—more real than any New Year's promise Kitty would ever make.
That night, Monica slipped the worn picture book's torn paper corner into her Future Box.
Not because it was special.
Because it was proof of what Monica was learning:
Normal was something you performed to stay safe.
And Monica intended to stay safe.