Saturday, March 7, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5 — almost 6)
Saturday mornings in the Forman house were supposed to be simple.
They never were.
Kitty treated Saturday like a second job—laundry, floors, grocery lists, "little projects" that weren't little at all. Red treated Saturday like a reward he didn't trust. He woke up early anyway, because Red Forman didn't believe in sleeping in. Sleeping in meant you were lazy, and lazy meant you were asking life to step on you.
Laurie treated Saturday like it existed to entertain her.
Eric treated Saturday like it existed to feed him.
And Monica treated Saturday like a puzzle: one wrong move and everyone fell into a fight they didn't need.
This Saturday started with Kitty at the kitchen table, hair pinned up, a pencil behind her ear, and a stack of index cards she'd stolen from the nurse's station at work.
She was planning something.
That alone was terrifying.
Monica sat on the floor with her coloring book open but untouched, watching her mother's face the way some kids watched cartoons.
Kitty's "planning face" was bright, determined, and anxious all at once.
"Okay," Kitty chirped, tapping the pencil. "So… birthday."
Laurie's head snapped up like she'd been summoned by the word. "Mine."
Kitty smiled too brightly. "Yours and Monica's."
Laurie's smile thinned. "Mine."
Monica didn't correct her. She just waited.
Eric toddled in dragging his blanket, rubbing his eyes. "Birtday?"
Kitty melted instantly. "Not your birthday yet, honey."
Eric frowned. "Cookie."
Kitty's face softened. "After breakfast."
Eric's lip trembled—he was gearing up.
Red walked in at the exact moment Eric decided to test his luck.
Red stopped, took in the scene—Kitty with index cards, Laurie poised to argue, Eric about to cry—and his jaw tightened like he'd walked into a trap.
"What is this," Red said flatly.
Kitty beamed. "A plan!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "A plan for what."
Kitty held up an index card like it was a victory. "The girls' birthday!"
Red's gaze flicked to Monica. Then to Laurie. "It's March."
Kitty nodded rapidly. "Their birthday is next week."
Red grunted. "So."
Kitty blinked. "So… we should do something nice."
Red stared at her like she'd suggested buying a boat. "We feed them. We clothe them. We keep them alive."
Kitty's smile wobbled. "Red…"
Laurie slid off her chair dramatically, eyes wide and shining with performance. "Daddy, I want a party."
Red didn't even blink. "No."
Laurie froze like she'd been slapped. "Why not?"
Red's voice stayed flat. "Because parties cost money."
Kitty's eyes flashed. "Red, it doesn't have to be expensive. Just cake and—"
Red's gaze sharpened. "Kitty."
Kitty's mouth shut.
Laurie's face twisted. "Monica doesn't even like parties."
Monica kept her expression mild. That was true. Monica didn't like anything that made people look at her too hard.
Laurie pressed on, louder. "So it should be my party!"
Kitty's voice turned stern. "Laurie."
Laurie's eyes flicked to Monica, sharp. "Tell her!"
Monica didn't move.
If Monica spoke, the fight would become about Monica.
So Monica did what she always did—she made it about something else.
She looked at the index cards and asked softly, "Mommy… can I draw?"
Kitty blinked, thrown. "Draw?"
Monica nodded. "On cards."
Kitty's face softened instantly, because Kitty loved when Monica looked sweet and helpful. "Oh! Sure, honey."
Laurie scoffed. "That's stupid."
Red's gaze slid to Laurie. "Watch your mouth."
Laurie shut up—barely.
Kitty handed Monica one of the blank cards and a pencil. Monica sat at the table, small hands steady, and drew a simple cake with two stick-figure girls beside it—twins, holding hands.
Kitty's face warmed. "Oh, Monica…"
Monica kept drawing, and while her hand moved, her mind worked.
A party wasn't just a party.
A party was noise.
Noise meant neighbors.
Neighbors meant gossip.
And gossip meant Red getting tighter, Kitty getting brighter, Laurie getting meaner, and Monica having to clean up the emotional mess.
Monica didn't want a party.
But Laurie did, and when Laurie didn't get what she wanted, she turned the house into a war zone.
So Monica needed a compromise.
Something small enough for Red to tolerate.
Something "special" enough for Laurie to brag.
Something controlled enough for Monica to survive.
Monica slid the card across the table toward Red.
Red glanced down automatically.
On the card: the cake, the twins, and—because Monica understood Red better than anyone in the house—Monica had drawn a little rectangle with wheels beside it.
A car.
It was crude. It was childish.
But it was a symbol Red understood: family, responsibility, "doing things the right way."
Red stared at it for a beat.
Kitty watched him anxiously like the card might explode.
Laurie leaned forward, suspicious. "What is that."
Monica answered sweetly, "Family."
Red's jaw flexed. He looked at Kitty. "No big party."
Kitty nodded quickly. "Okay."
Red looked at Laurie. "No screaming."
Laurie's eyes widened. "I—"
Red cut her off. "No screaming."
Laurie swallowed her protest.
Red's gaze slid to Monica. "What do you want."
Monica chose the safest thing in the world: a request that sounded five years old but served her adult strategy perfectly.
"Cake," Monica said softly. Then, after a pause, "And… movie."
Kitty lit up. "Oh! A birthday movie night!"
Laurie perked up too, because movie night meant attention and snacks. "And I want ice cream."
Red stared at them like they were plotting treason. "Fine. Cake. Ice cream. Movie. That's it."
Kitty smiled like she'd won a prize. "That's wonderful!"
Red grunted and turned toward the sink. "I'm going to the garage."
Kitty hesitated—then called after him, "Red, honey—"
Red stopped. "What."
Kitty's voice softened, careful. "Could you… maybe… help me with the… uh… toaster?"
Red's eyes narrowed. "The toaster."
Kitty nodded too quickly. "It's… sparking."
Red stared at her like she'd just confessed to adopting a raccoon. "Why didn't you say something."
Kitty's smile went sheepish. "I didn't want to bother you."
Red exhaled sharply. "Jesus."
Then his gaze flicked to Monica.
"You," Red said.
Monica stood immediately. "Yes, Dad."
Red jerked his head toward the garage. "Come on."
Kitty blinked. "Red—"
Red's gaze snapped to Kitty. "I'm not letting you burn the damn house down."
Kitty's mouth shut.
Laurie scowled, jealous instantly. "Why does she get to go."
Red didn't even look at her. "Because she listens."
Laurie's face flushed red.
Monica followed Red into the garage, heart steady. The garage wasn't warm, but it was safe. In the garage, Red didn't perform. Red fixed things. Red understood rules. Monica understood rules.
Red set the toaster on the workbench like it was a mechanical enemy.
"It sparks," Kitty had said.
Red snorted. "Of course it sparks."
He pulled out a screwdriver, popped the back panel off, and peered inside.
Monica stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, waiting to be useful.
Red didn't like hovering.
But he didn't send Monica away.
That meant something.
"Hand me the pliers," Red said without looking.
Monica moved instantly, grabbing the pliers from the pegboard and placing them in his palm the way she'd seen him prefer—handle first, no fumbling.
Red grunted approval.
He worked in silence for a few minutes, then muttered, "Your mother worries too much."
Monica didn't answer.
Red continued, voice rough, like he was talking to the garage more than her. "Wants everything perfect. Wants people to think everything's fine."
Monica's fingers curled slightly.
Red's jaw tightened. "This town… they sniff for weakness."
Monica nodded once, slow.
Red glanced at her. "You understand that."
It wasn't a question.
Monica chose the safest truth. "People talk."
Red's mouth tightened like he didn't love hearing it from a kid. "Yeah. People talk."
He adjusted a wire inside the toaster and leaned back, wiping his hands on a rag.
Then, like he'd been chewing on a thought, Red said, "We're making a list."
Monica blinked. "List?"
Red's gaze sharpened. "House rules."
Monica went still.
She already had house rules. Red had given them before, in fragments, in moments of tension.
But this sounded different.
This sounded official.
Red pulled a small notepad from the workbench drawer—the kind used for measurements and parts—and flipped it open. He shoved a pencil into Monica's hand.
"You can write," Red said, voice flat.
Monica hesitated for half a second, then nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Not like a damn teacher. Like you know what I mean."
Monica nodded again.
Red pointed at the paper. "Write."
Monica held the pencil carefully. Her handwriting was childish—because her hands were five—but her focus was sharp.
Red began, counting on his fingers like it was military.
"One," Red said. "We don't waste."
Monica wrote: 1. Don't waste.
"Two," Red said. "We don't run our mouths."
Monica wrote: 2. Don't talk about home.
Red watched her write. "Not 'home.' 'Business.'"
Monica adjusted: 2. Don't talk about our business.
Red grunted. "Three. You don't let people bait you."
Monica wrote: 3. Don't get baited.
Red frowned. "That's not a word."
Monica paused, then wrote: 3. Don't let them make you mad.
Red's jaw flexed. That worked.
"Four," Red said. "You respect your mother."
Monica wrote: 4. Respect Mom.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Respect your mother."
Monica corrected it. Red watched the correction and seemed satisfied.
Then Red's voice dropped lower, rougher.
"Five," he said. "You don't trust this town."
Monica's pencil hovered.
That rule was heavier than the rest.
She wrote carefully: 5. Don't trust Point Place.
Red stared at the words like he hated having to admit them.
Then he added, almost reluctantly, "Six. You stick together."
Monica wrote: 6. Stick together.
Red's gaze flicked to her. "That means… even when Laurie's being—" he stopped, jaw tightening, searching for a word he could say in front of a kid.
Monica supplied sweetly, "Mean."
Red grunted. "Yeah. Mean."
Monica didn't look up. But she felt the truth of it: Red wanted them united, but Laurie was already turning the twins into rivals because rivalry fed Laurie's ego.
Red leaned over the paper, tapped the list with a thick finger. "This stays in the garage."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's gaze sharpened. "And you follow it."
"I will," Monica said softly.
Red stared at her for a long moment, then—without warning—reached out and ruffled her hair once, rough and awkward like it annoyed him to do anything tender.
Monica froze.
Red immediately pulled his hand back like he'd been burned.
"Okay," Red muttered. "Toaster's fine."
Monica didn't smile. She didn't react.
She just nodded like it was normal.
Because that was the secret: when Red did something soft, you acted like it was nothing, or he'd never do it again.
They walked back into the house together.
Kitty looked up from the kitchen, anxious. "Is it okay?"
Red grunted. "It's fine."
Then he caught himself—because Red hated that word now—and corrected, "It'll work."
Kitty laughed softly, relieved. "Thank you, honey."
Laurie stared at Monica with immediate suspicion. "What did you do."
Monica answered politely, "Helped Dad."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "With what."
Monica kept her tone mild. "Toaster."
Laurie scoffed. "That's stupid."
Red's voice cut through, sharp. "Laurie."
Laurie flinched. "What."
Red's gaze pinned her. "You want a birthday movie night, you stop being a brat."
Kitty gasped quietly.
Laurie's face turned red with rage and humiliation.
Monica stayed calm, because Monica had learned: Red didn't use soft words when he was trying to protect the house.
Laurie swallowed hard, then muttered, "Fine."
Red grunted. "Good."
Monica went upstairs later and didn't put the "Forman List" in her Future Box.
She didn't dare.
That list wasn't for the future.
It was for survival now.
But she did write a copy—tiny, neat, hidden inside her coloring book where no one looked.
And before she went to sleep, Monica whispered the Forman rule that mattered most:
"Act normal."
Then, softer:
"Follow the list."