Thursday, December 31, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
New Year's Eve in Point Place wasn't glamorous.
It wasn't champagne towers and gowns.
It was paper hats from the drugstore, cheap noise-makers, and adults pretending the year ending meant something would magically improve when the calendar flipped.
Kitty treated it like a celebration anyway, because Kitty needed hope like oxygen.
Red treated it like superstition, which meant Red pretended he didn't care while also refusing to let the night pass without checking every door lock twice.
That evening, Kitty fussed around the living room, straightening things that were already straight.
"We should do something fun," Kitty insisted, hands fluttering. "We can watch the countdown on TV!"
Red grunted from his chair. "It's just numbers."
Kitty shot him a look. "Red—"
Red's gaze stayed on the paper, but Monica saw it: the lines on his forehead were deeper tonight. He'd been quieter all week. The plant had been unpredictable. The town had been nosier. Money had been tighter.
Red didn't say those things.
Red just got sharper.
Laurie drifted in wearing a dress she'd insisted on, because Laurie believed holidays were meant for being admired.
"I look pretty," Laurie announced.
Kitty smiled automatically. "You do, honey."
Laurie's eyes flicked to Monica, checking for jealousy.
Monica wasn't jealous.
Monica had already learned: Laurie's beauty wasn't just vanity. It was survival. Laurie didn't feel safe unless she felt wanted.
Eric ran through the room with a party horn, blasting it directly into Red's ear.
Red flinched like he'd been shot. "Jesus—!"
Kitty snapped, "Eric!"
Eric giggled.
Red grabbed the horn, pulled it out of Eric's hands, and said, flat and dangerous, "No."
Eric's face crumpled instantly. "But—!"
Red pointed at him. "Bathroom. Wash your hands. Then sit."
Eric blinked, confused by the sudden strictness. "Why."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Because I said so."
Eric began to wail.
Kitty rushed in, trying to soften. "Oh, honey—"
Red's gaze snapped to Kitty. "Kitty."
Kitty froze.
Monica felt the familiar edge of the storm.
New Year's Eve pressure. Tight money. A loud child. Kitty trying to patch everything with warmth.
Red's patience wasn't infinite.
Monica moved—quiet and practical.
She stepped toward Eric and said calmly, "Eric, I'll race you to the bathroom."
Eric hiccuped, distracted. "Race?"
Monica nodded once. "Yes."
Eric forgot to cry and sprinted toward the bathroom like his life depended on it.
Kitty exhaled, relieved.
Red's jaw loosened slightly.
Laurie rolled her eyes. "He's such a baby."
Monica didn't respond.
Red did.
"He's four," Red snapped. "What do you expect him to be, a damn accountant?"
Laurie bristled. "I was never like that."
Red's voice went flat. "Yes, you were."
Laurie's face flushed. "No, I wasn't!"
Red's gaze hardened. "Laurie. Don't start."
Kitty jumped in quickly, bright again. "Okay! Okay! Let's make cocoa!"
Red muttered, "Great. Sugar. That's what we need."
Kitty ignored that and began heating milk on the stove like cocoa could fix the whole year.
Monica watched Red's posture.
He wasn't angry-angry yet.
He was… braced.
Like he was expecting 1965 to hit them harder.
And then, when Kitty went to fetch marshmallows, Red did something Monica didn't expect:
He stood.
He walked to the coat closet by the front door.
He pulled out a small wooden board.
Monica recognized it immediately—because Monica had seen Red sanding it in the garage last week while pretending it was "just scrap."
Red carried it into the living room and set it on the coffee table with a thud.
Kitty returned with marshmallows and blinked. "Red… what is that?"
Red grunted. "New Year's."
Kitty tilted her head, confused. "New Year's… what?"
Red's voice stayed flat. "House rules."
Silence.
Laurie stared. "House rules?"
Eric returned from the bathroom and immediately tried to climb onto the couch.
Red snapped, "Sit."
Eric froze—then sat.
Monica sat too, because Monica understood what was happening:
Red was tightening the family.
Red was putting structure around fear.
Red was making rules into armor.
Kitty's mouth opened. "Red, honey—"
Red cut her off gently this time—not cruel, just firm. "Kitty. We need it."
Kitty swallowed, eyes shining slightly.
Because Kitty knew what "we need it" meant:
Red was worried.
Red had finally admitted it without saying the word.
Red picked up a marker and wrote at the top of the board in block letters:
FORMAN HOUSE RULES — 1965
Laurie scoffed. "That's so dumb."
Red's gaze snapped to her. "Then you'll like the punishment section."
Laurie shut up.
Red turned the board so everyone could see.
Then he started reading as he wrote.
"Rule one," Red said, voice flat. "No lying."
Laurie rolled her eyes again.
Red's gaze sharpened. "You roll your eyes again, I'll glue them that way."
Kitty gasped softly. "Red—"
Red didn't look at her. "It's a figure of speech."
Kitty muttered, "Barely."
Monica stayed still, eyes on the board.
Red wrote:
1. NO LYING.
"Rule two," Red continued, "no backtalk."
Laurie opened her mouth—
Red wrote it anyway.
2. NO BACKTALK.
"Rule three," Red said, voice tightening slightly, "no gossip about our family."
Kitty blinked.
Monica's chest tightened.
That rule wasn't normal.
That rule was a response.
Point Place had been sniffing around too much.
Red was drawing a boundary line through his own living room.
Red wrote:
3. NO TALKING ABOUT FORMANS OUTSIDE THIS HOUSE.
Kitty's mouth trembled slightly. "Red…"
Red's jaw clenched. "They don't need to know our business."
Kitty swallowed and nodded—because even Kitty, with all her softness, had felt the town's eyes.
Red continued, "Rule four: chores are not optional."
Laurie groaned.
Red wrote:
4. CHORES FIRST. ALWAYS.
Eric whined, "But—"
Red's gaze snapped. "No buts."
Eric slumped.
Kitty tried to lighten the mood. "We can make chores into a game—"
Red shot her a look. "No games."
Kitty shut up.
Monica watched the way Kitty's shoulders tightened, but she didn't intervene.
This wasn't Monica's job to soften Red.
Not tonight.
Tonight Red needed to feel in control.
Red moved on.
"Rule five," he said, voice lower now, "respect."
Laurie scoffed. "Respect is earned."
Red's eyes went cold. "You want to test that theory?"
Laurie glared but stayed quiet.
Red wrote:
5. RESPECT YOUR ELDERS.
Monica's fingers curled slightly in her lap.
That line—the elders line—hit a deeper place in Monica, because it wasn't just Red's upbringing.
It was Monica's former life bleeding through too.
Kitty watched Monica for a second like she sensed something, then looked away.
Red continued.
"Rule six," Red said, "no wasting food."
Kitty's eyes softened—because Kitty hated waste too, but for different reasons. Kitty hated waste because she didn't like guilt.
Red hated waste because waste meant vulnerability
Red wrote:
6. NO WASTING FOOD.
Eric whispered, "Okay."
Red's voice softened by a fraction. "Good."
Then Red paused.
His marker hovered.
Monica could see it: Red deciding whether to say the next thing out loud.
Then he did.
"Rule seven," Red said, voice rough, "if something breaks, you tell me. Immediately."
Kitty's eyes widened.
Laurie blinked, confused.
Eric looked afraid.
Monica understood.
This wasn't about toys.
This was about the house.
The car.
The furnace.
Money.
If something broke, it wasn't just annoying—it was dangerous.
Red wrote:
7. IF IT BREAKS, TELL DAD. IMMEDIATELY.
Kitty's mouth opened like she wanted to argue about "Dad" being written like that, but she didn't.
Because she knew Red needed it.
Red stepped back, marker capped.
"There," he muttered. "That's it."
Laurie stared at the board like it was an enemy.
"This is stupid," Laurie spat.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Say it again."
Laurie swallowed it, but her eyes burned.
Kitty tried to recover the mood with cocoa. "Okay! Who wants marshmallows?"
Eric raised his hand immediately. "Me!"
Kitty smiled. "Okay, honey."
Laurie lifted her chin. "I don't want cocoa. I want soda."
Red's voice went flat. "No."
Laurie's face flushed. "Why not?!"
Red stared at her. "Because soda costs money and you don't need it."
Silence.
There it was again.
Costs money.
Kitty flinched.
Laurie stared at Red like she couldn't believe he'd said it so directly.
Monica's chest tightened.
Red rarely admitted money pressure in front of the kids.
But tonight, the year's weight had pushed through.
Laurie's voice rose, shrill. "We're not poor!"
Red's gaze went icy. "You keep saying that, I'll give you something real to cry about."
Kitty whispered, "Red—"
Red's jaw clenched. "Kitty, don't."
Kitty shut her mouth, eyes shining.
Monica felt the storm cresting.
Not because Laurie wanted soda.
Because Laurie had touched the raw nerve: money, pride, and the fear of being seen as "struggling."
Monica moved quietly again—tactical, not dramatic.
She reached toward the board and pointed gently at Rule Six.
"Laurie," Monica said softly, "cocoa doesn't waste."
Laurie's head snapped toward Monica, furious. "Shut up."
Red's gaze whipped to Laurie. "Excuse me?"
Laurie flinched—because Red didn't tolerate direct cruelty toward Monica, not after months of the town's talk.
Laurie swallowed hard and muttered, "Fine."
Kitty rushed in, too bright. "Okay! Cocoa for everyone!"
Laurie took her cup like it was poison.
Eric happily stuffed marshmallows in his mouth.
Red sat back down, shoulders still tense, but the explosion had been avoided.
Kitty sat beside him, close enough to be reassuring, but careful not to press.
Monica sat on the floor near the couch, calm.
The TV murmured in the background—variety show noise, laughter tracks, the illusion of ease.
As the night wore on, the house softened slightly.
Not joyful.
But… held together.
Near eleven-thirty, Red stood and checked the front door lock.
Then the back.
Then the windows.
Kitty watched him, tired affection in her eyes. "Red, no one's breaking in."
Red muttered, "People do stupid things on New Year's."
Kitty sighed. "You're doing a stupid thing right now."
Red's eyes narrowed. "What."
Kitty smiled, gentler now. "Worrying so hard you forget to breathe."
Red stared at her for a long beat.
Then he exhaled—rough, controlled.
Monica watched it, storing the moment:
Kitty had pushed back.
Softly.
And Red had… accepted it.
That mattered.
At eleven-fifty-nine, Kitty gathered them all in front of the TV like it was a ritual.
"Okay!" Kitty said, bright. "Countdown!"
Eric bounced.
Laurie pretended she didn't care but still watched the screen.
Red stood behind the couch, arms crossed, like he refused to participate while still making sure everyone stayed in line.
Monica watched the numbers.
Not because the numbers mattered.
Because Monica understood symbolism.
Adults loved believing numbers could reset their lives.
"Ten!" Kitty cheered.
"Nine!"
"Eight!"
Eric yelled, "Seven!" too early.
Kitty laughed.
Red muttered, "Jesus."
"Three!"
"Two!"
"One!"
"Happy New Year!" the TV shouted.
Kitty clapped, hugging Eric and kissing Laurie's cheek before Laurie could dodge.
Then Kitty turned to Red.
Red stiffened.
Kitty kissed his cheek anyway.
Red grunted, but his hand—brief, awkward—touched Kitty's waist.
A rare softness.
Kitty beamed like she'd won something.
Then Kitty looked down at Monica, eyes warm. "Happy New Year, honey."
Monica nodded politely. "Happy New Year, Mommy."
Kitty hugged her anyway, tight.
Monica stiffened for half a second out of instinct—adult mind not used to being held—then relaxed, because Kitty needed it.
Laurie watched the hug with that familiar flare of jealousy, then looked away.
Red cleared his throat and said, rough, "Alright. Bed."
Kitty blinked. "It's New Year's!"
Red's gaze narrowed. "And it's late."
Kitty huffed but didn't argue.
They went upstairs.
Monica got into bed, listening to the house settle.
Then, a few minutes later, her door creaked open.
Red stood in the doorway, silhouette heavy.
Monica sat up slightly. "Dad?"
Red stepped inside quietly, holding the wooden rules board.
He set it against her dresser like he was placing a shield.
Monica blinked. "In my room?"
Red's voice stayed low. "You see it every day."
Monica's chest tightened.
Red didn't do sentimental.
Red did practical.
This was Red's version of "I'm trusting you."
Red's gaze held Monica's. "You understand why."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red's jaw tightened, then he added something quieter—something that wasn't a rule, but felt like one.
"Next year's going to be… loud."
Monica didn't pretend not to understand. "Okay."
Red nodded once, satisfied.
He turned to leave, then paused.
"And Monica."
Monica's breath stilled. "Yes, Dad?"
Red's voice went rougher, like it hurt to say.
"You keep doing what you're doing."
Monica swallowed. "Yes, Dad."
Red grunted and left.
The door clicked shut.
Monica stared at the board in the dim light.
FORMAN HOUSE RULES — 1965
Monica understood what this really was:
Red Forman didn't trust the world.
So he was building a smaller world inside the house where he could keep his family safe.
Monica lay back down, eyes open in the dark, and thought about the coming year.
Beau's birthday party.
The first real fracture between her and Laurie.
The moment Laurie decided Monica had "stolen" something.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Not fear.
Preparation.
Monica opened her Future Box and added something new:
A tiny scrap of paper she'd quietly torn from the edge of the rules board while no one watched—just enough to have it for herself.
A reminder:
Rules are love in Red Forman language.
Then she wrote one line on her note:
1965 will change the twins. Be ready.
Monica closed the box, lay down, and whispered into the dark:
"Act normal."
Then, softer—more honest than she usually allowed herself:
"Keep Dad calm. Keep Mom hopeful. Keep Laurie contained."