Wednesday, January 1, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 5)
New Year's Day didn't feel new in the Forman house.
It felt like leftover chips in a stale bowl, party streamers that had lost their shine, and the quiet, exhausted kind of peace that only came after people stopped pretending. The living room still smelled faintly like cigarette smoke from last night's "celebration," even though Kitty had opened every window for ten minutes and then shut them again the second the cold started biting.
Outside, Point Place was white.
Not pretty white.
The kind of white that meant the snow had come down heavy and wet, then frozen hard overnight so everything looked smooth and clean while hiding ice underneath.
Red Forman called that "a trap."
Kitty called it "beautiful."
Monica sat cross-legged on the rug by the couch, careful not to press her palm on any crumbs—because Red hated crumbs and Red had already woken up irritated at the concept of a "holiday." Laurie sat on the couch like she owned it, socks kicked off, hair messy from sleep, and her face set in the bored, superior expression she used whenever she wanted everyone else to work harder to entertain her.
Eric toddled around in footie pajamas, dragging a blanket like a cape.
Kitty was in the kitchen, humming too brightly while she scraped yesterday's food into containers like putting things away could reset the year.
Red was still in his chair, newspaper spread wide, coffee in hand, jaw tight.
He wasn't reading for fun.
He was reading for threats.
Monica watched him over the top of her coloring book.
Red's eyes moved fast—headlines, numbers, plant talk—anything that hinted at what kind of year they were about to have.
Kitty breezed in with a plate of toast. "Okay! Everyone's having breakfast!"
Red didn't look up. "I'm already having coffee."
Kitty smiled like she hadn't heard the tone. "You need food."
Red grunted. "I need quiet."
Kitty's smile twitched, but she kept it. "It's New Year's Day, Red."
Red's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't mean anything."
Kitty's voice softened, a little wounded. "It means… it's a fresh start."
Red's mouth tightened like he wanted to argue that nothing ever truly started fresh, but he didn't. He just took a piece of toast and bit it like it was the price of peace.
Laurie watched the exchange with interest—because Laurie loved when Kitty got fragile and Red got sharp. It meant the attention would drift away from Monica, and Laurie could reclaim the room.
"Mom," Laurie said suddenly, loud and sweet. "Can we go to the store?"
Kitty blinked, startled by the sudden honey tone. "The store?"
"Yes," Laurie said, eyes wide, innocent. "I need something."
Red's newspaper lowered an inch. "Need."
Laurie nodded hard. "Yes."
Red's eyes narrowed. "What."
Laurie shifted, making it look like she was thinking. "A doll."
Kitty laughed lightly. "Laurie, it's New Year's. Stores are closed."
Laurie's face fell instantly—then hardened.
"Well," she said sharply, "then I want something else."
Red's newspaper lowered more. "You want."
Laurie's chin lifted. "Yes. I want it."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Laurie, honey—"
Laurie's eyes flicked to Monica, then back to Kitty. "Monica gets things."
Monica froze—only for a second—then kept coloring like she hadn't heard.
Red's gaze snapped to Monica, quick and assessing.
Kitty's laugh came out nervous. "Monica doesn't—"
Laurie pressed on, voice rising. "Daddy likes Monica better."
The room changed.
Like someone had cracked a window in winter.
Red's jaw clenched. "What did you say."
Laurie stared at him, defiant. "It's true."
Kitty's eyes went wide. "Laurie!"
Laurie crossed her arms. "He does!"
Eric started whining immediately because raised voices meant danger.
Monica kept coloring, even though her fingers had gone stiff around the crayon.
She knew this pattern.
Laurie didn't just want a doll.
Laurie wanted proof she was still the center.
She wanted to poke Red until he snapped, then make Kitty scramble to fix it.
And she wanted—always—to make Monica responsible for it, somehow.
Red set his coffee down slowly, like he was placing it on a ledge.
His voice came low and flat. "You don't talk like that."
Laurie's eyes glittered—because she'd gotten what she wanted: his full attention. "Why? It's true."
Kitty rushed forward like she could physically block the conflict. "Red, she doesn't mean—"
Red cut her off with a look. "Kitty."
Kitty froze, mouth shutting.
Red's gaze stayed locked on Laurie. "You think I like anyone better, you're wrong. I don't like anybody. I tolerate you all."
Laurie blinked, thrown off balance.
Monica's lips pressed together to stop a smile.
Kitty made a strangled sound. "Red!"
Red didn't look at her. "If she wants a doll, she can earn it."
Laurie's face flushed red. "I'm five!"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Then act like it."
Laurie's breath hitched—anger, humiliation—then she swung her gaze toward Monica like a knife.
"This is Monica's fault."
Kitty gasped. "Laurie!"
Red's gaze snapped to Monica again.
Monica knew she had about three seconds.
Three seconds before Red decided Monica was "involved" and shut the whole house down with rules and consequences that would make everyone miserable.
Monica didn't argue.
Monica didn't defend herself.
Monica redirected.
She lifted her head slowly, expression calm and child-soft, and pointed toward the front window.
"Daddy," Monica said gently, like she'd just noticed something exciting. "Snow man."
Red blinked.
Laurie blinked too, offended by the sudden topic change.
Monica kept her voice steady. "Can we make? Outside."
Kitty's eyes flicked between Red and the window like she could see the escape route Monica was offering.
Red stared at Monica for a long beat, suspicious—because Red always suspected manipulation even when it was innocent.
But Monica's face was neutral. Polite. Normal.
Red exhaled sharply. "It's freezing."
Monica nodded, still calm. "Gloves."
Kitty jumped in instantly, bright. "Oh! We can bundle up. It'll be fun! Fresh air!"
Red's jaw tightened like he wanted to say no just to reassert control.
Then he looked at Laurie—still tense, still ready to keep fighting—and he seemed to calculate that getting them outside might be the only way to keep the day from turning into a war.
"Fine," Red muttered. "But nobody falls and cracks their head open. I'm not spending New Year's at the hospital."
Kitty beamed. "Okay!"
Laurie scowled but slid off the couch anyway, because she couldn't stand the idea of Monica getting something (even a snowman) without her.
Eric squealed "snow!" like the word itself was magic.
Monica lowered her gaze back to her coloring book for a second, breathing quietly.
Redirect successful.
No explosion.
No punishment.
No Red shutting the house down like a prison.
Just… movement.
______
Outside, the cold hit like a slap.
The snow squeaked under boots. The air smelled sharp and clean and a little metallic. Red stomped around the yard like he was annoyed the weather existed, but he still picked up the first clump of snow and packed it hard—because Red didn't half-do anything.
Kitty flitted around, laughing too brightly, delighted by the illusion that they were having a wholesome family moment.
Laurie tried to claim control immediately. "I'm making the face!"
Red glanced at her. "No, you're not."
Laurie's eyes widened. "Why not?"
Red pointed at Monica. "She asked for the snowman. She gets the face."
Laurie's mouth fell open like she'd been slapped.
Monica felt the heat of Laurie's glare instantly.
Kitty froze, smile wobbling. "Red—"
Red's eyes narrowed. "What."
Kitty swallowed. "Maybe… they can share?"
Red's jaw tightened. "Kitty."
Kitty flinched.
Monica saw it—this was about more than a snowman.
Red was making a point.
Red was asserting house rules.
Red was protecting Monica in the only way he knew how: control.
Laurie's eyes glittered with rage. "It's not fair!"
Red's voice turned sharp. "Life's not fair."
Laurie's face twisted—about to cry, about to scream.
Monica stepped in again—careful, subtle.
"Laurie can do buttons," Monica offered softly.
Laurie snapped her head toward Monica, suspicious. "Why."
Monica shrugged, child-simple. "Buttons fun."
Kitty's shoulders loosened like she'd been handed oxygen.
Red stared at Monica, expression unreadable.
Then he grunted. "Fine. Buttons."
Laurie's anger faltered—because she'd been offered a job and an audience. "I want the big buttons."
Kitty laughed, relieved. "Okay, honey."
They built the snowman in tense cooperation: Red packing and lifting the heavy snowballs, Kitty fussing, Laurie jamming rocks into the snow for buttons with too much force, Eric throwing snow everywhere like he was contributing, Monica choosing the face rocks carefully and placing them with precise hands.
When it was done, the snowman looked… stern.
Like Red had made it.
Red stared at it for a beat, then muttered, "Good enough."
Kitty beamed. "It's perfect!"
Laurie crossed her arms. "It's ugly."
Red's gaze snapped to her. "Then go inside."
Laurie swallowed her next insult.
Monica looked up at the snowman's face and felt something settle in her chest—quiet satisfaction.
She hadn't "won."
She'd prevented a disaster.
That was her job, lately.
The day didn't end in a blow-up.
That was the victory.
_____
That night, after dinner, Monica climbed into bed and opened her Future Box.
She didn't add anything dramatic.
Just a small pebble—one of the extra "button" rocks Laurie had thrown aside in the snow.
A reminder.
Not of snow.
Of strategy.
Monica whispered her rule into the dark:
"Act normal."
Then, softer, because she'd learned something new today:
"Redirect before it explodes."