Saturday, November 28, 1964 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 6)
Thanksgiving in Point Place didn't end on Thursday.
It lingered—in the smell of overcooked turkey stuck to the kitchen curtains, in the waxy cranberry can rings sitting in the trash, in the tired quiet that settled over the neighborhood like everyone had collectively eaten too much and remembered too many things they didn't want to talk about.
By Saturday, people weren't grateful anymore.
They were watchful.
Because once the holiday glow wore off, reality came back: the bills, the plant, the cold creeping in, and the way the town's smiles always tightened when money got tight.
Monica sat at the kitchen table while Kitty fought with a Tupperware lid.
"Why won't you close," Kitty muttered, cheerful like she wasn't irritated.
Red, reading the paper, grunted without looking up. "Because you bought cheap plastic."
Kitty shot him a look. "It was on sale."
Red folded the paper a fraction, eyes narrowing. "There's a reason."
Kitty's lips pressed into a line, but she forced brightness back into her face like she always did. "Well, it's fine. We have plenty of leftovers for the week."
Red's jaw tightened at the word plenty. Like plenty was a challenge. Like plenty tempted fate.
Laurie sauntered in wearing socks she'd stolen from Kitty's drawer because they were "softer," and immediately began doing what Laurie did best: establishing dominance.
"I'm not eating turkey again," Laurie announced.
Kitty blinked. "Honey, we have—"
"I don't care," Laurie cut in. "I'm sick of it."
Red lowered the paper slightly. "Then you'll starve."
Laurie's face flushed. "Daddy—"
Red's voice stayed flat. "You think I'm running a diner?"
Monica stayed quiet, watching the exchange the way she watched weather warnings: not emotional, just attentive.
This was how it started.
Not with screaming.
With little statements like I'm sick of it and then you'll starve and Kitty trying to patch over every crack with cheer until the cracks widened anyway.
Eric toddled in next, still young enough that he didn't have Laurie's spite or Monica's control—just the raw need to be fed and noticed.
"Hungry," Eric declared.
Kitty's face softened instantly. "Okay, honey—do you want a sandwich?"
Eric nodded hard.
Kitty moved at once, hands busy, because Kitty loved being needed. Being needed made her feel safe.
Red's eyes returned to the paper, but Monica noticed his gaze flick once toward Kitty's hands, like he was counting how much she was doing.
Red hated when Kitty did too much.
Red also expected it.
Those two truths lived side by side in him like opposing magnets he refused to separate.
Monica's eyes dropped to the newspaper.
The headline wasn't about Vietnam today.
It wasn't about the President.
It was local.
"FACTORY HOURS SHIFTING AGAIN: WORKERS BRACE FOR WINTER."
Monica didn't need to read the article to know what it meant.
She'd been hearing the words for months now:
Cut. Shift. Overtime. Rumor. Kenosha. Milwaukee. Prices. Layoffs.
Words adults pretended children couldn't understand.
Monica understood perfectly.
Red's hand tightened around the paper, the knuckles whitening.
Kitty noticed and immediately tried to distract him with domestic normalcy.
"Oh!" Kitty chirped. "After lunch, I thought we could go out and get the Christmas tree."
Red's eyes lifted—sharp. "Today?"
Kitty nodded eagerly. "Yes! It's the weekend after Thanksgiving. Everyone does it."
Red's mouth tightened. "Everyone does a lot of stupid things."
Kitty laughed, too bright. "Red—"
Red's voice stayed flat. "Trees cost money."
Silence hit the kitchen like a dropped plate.
Kitty's smile faltered, then returned in a weaker form. "We can… we can look. It doesn't hurt to look."
Red exhaled through his nose. "Looking is how people end up buying things."
Monica watched Kitty's fingers twist around the Tupperware lid.
This was fear—Red's version of it.
Red didn't say "I'm worried."
Red said "Trees cost money."
Kitty didn't say "I'm scared."
Kitty said "We can look."
Laurie, sensing the tension like a shark sensing blood, pushed.
"Well, Monica has money," Laurie said loudly, because Laurie had begun collecting and repeating phrases she didn't fully understand.
Red's head snapped up. "What."
Laurie's eyes widened, but she pushed anyway. "Mrs. Rybak said Monica's 'special' and special kids get money."
Kitty's face went pale. "Laurie—"
Red's voice went cold. "You talk to Mrs. Rybak?"
Laurie shifted, suddenly uncertain. "She was talking to Mom—"
Red's gaze sharpened. "And you listened."
Laurie lifted her chin. "So?"
Red's jaw clenched. "So stop."
Kitty rushed in with a soothing tone. "Red, she's just a child—"
Red's gaze flicked to Kitty, iron. "And she'll learn."
Monica stayed still.
Inside, she logged the information:
So Mrs. Rybak had begun talking about Monica.
Not just calling her "off" or "slow," like before.
Calling her "special."
Adults loved labeling children they didn't understand. It made them feel in control.
Monica didn't want to be labeled.
Monica wanted to be invisible until she could choose when to be seen.
Kitty placed Eric's sandwich in front of him like it was a peace offering.
Then she turned back to Red, voice careful. "Red… it's Christmas."
Red stared at her for a long beat.
Then he folded the newspaper slowly, as if folding the conversation away.
"We'll see," Red muttered.
Kitty exhaled, relief and disappointment mingling.
Monica knew the truth.
"We'll see" in Red Forman language meant: Not now. Not if it gets worse.
______
After lunch, Kitty insisted on errands anyway—because Kitty needed movement when she was anxious. She needed something she could control.
So Monica went with her, bundled in a coat that still smelled faintly like mothballs because Point Place moms saved everything.
Laurie came too, sulking because she wanted to stay home and "read" (meaning: flip through magazines and practice being older than she was).
Eric stayed behind with Red in the garage, which meant Red had either decided to be in a decent mood or decided to avoid the world entirely.
Either way, Monica knew: if Red was in the garage, he was trying to keep his temper from spilling onto the family.
The grocery store in Point Place wasn't big, but it was loud in its own way—carts squeaking, women laughing too loudly, men looking tired, and holiday displays already up like someone was trying to force cheer into the building with tinsel and peppermint.
Kitty smiled at everyone like she was greeting friends.
Monica watched the way the smiles returned—too quick, too polished, and always followed by glances down at Kitty's cart.
People watched what you bought.
People watched what you didn't.
Because in Point Place, money was private until it wasn't.
Kitty moved down the aisle with canned goods, murmuring about recipes.
Laurie trailed behind, fingers dragging over boxes like she was bored with everything.
Monica noticed the price tags.
Some were higher than she remembered adults complaining about last month.
Not drastically.
Just enough to sting.
Kitty paused at the coffee shelf.
Her eyes flicked over the prices. Her smile tightened.
She reached for the cheaper brand without saying a word.
Monica saw it.
Kitty pretending it didn't matter.
Kitty pretending she hadn't made a different choice last year.
Laurie scoffed. "That coffee's gross."
Kitty's voice stayed bright. "It's fine, honey."
Laurie rolled her eyes. "Dad won't like it."
Kitty's hand hesitated.
Then she reached for the more expensive can anyway, like she couldn't bear the thought of Red's comfort being sacrificed.
Monica's chest tightened.
Kitty would cut corners everywhere else before she let Red's routine change.
Because Kitty believed routine kept Red calm.
And calm kept the house safe.
At the end of the aisle, Mrs. Thompson appeared like she'd been summoned by the scent of weakness.
"Kitty!" Mrs. Thompson cried, smile wide. "There you are!"
Kitty's smile brightened reflexively. "Oh, hello!"
Mrs. Thompson's eyes flicked to Monica. Then to Laurie.
"My, my," she cooed. "Those girls are growing so fast."
Laurie preened instantly.
Monica stayed neutral.
Mrs. Thompson leaned closer to Kitty, voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone Point Place women used when they wanted to feel important.
"I heard Red got cut again."
Kitty's smile froze.
Then she forced a laugh. "Oh—no, no. It's… it's nothing."
Mrs. Thompson made a sympathetic face. "Of course. But you know… Maryann's husband said they're 'restructuring.'"
Kitty's fingers tightened around the coffee can.
Monica watched Kitty's eyes flick around the store—checking who was close enough to hear.
This wasn't just gossip.
This was social threat.
If Point Place decided you were "struggling," they treated you differently. They offered "help" that was really pity. They watched you. They whispered.
And Red Forman would rather eat glass than be pitied.
Kitty's voice stayed too bright. "Well, Red always finds a way."
Mrs. Thompson's smile widened, satisfied. "Oh, I'm sure. Red's such a strong man."
Then her eyes slid to Monica again, sharpening. "And Monica's such a… special little girl."
Kitty flinched.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Laurie's head snapped toward Monica, suspicious. "What does that mean."
Mrs. Thompson's smile turned syrupy. "Oh, nothing, dear. Just… you know. Monica's very… grown."
Laurie bristled, because Laurie didn't like hearing Monica praised in any form.
Kitty forced a laugh. "She's just quiet."
Mrs. Thompson leaned in, whispering like she was sharing holy knowledge. "Quiet kids… they're either angels or trouble."
Kitty's laugh went tighter. "Oh, she's an angel."
Monica didn't react outwardly, but inside she noted:
Adults were beginning to narrate Monica.
They were making stories about her.
Angels. Trouble. Special. Off.
Monica didn't want to be a story.
Monica wanted to be the one writing stories.
Mrs. Thompson finally patted Kitty's arm and moved on, satisfied she'd planted her little hooks.
Kitty exhaled shakily once she was gone.
Monica, gently and quietly, reached into the cart and shifted the coffee can so the cheaper one was visible again.
Kitty blinked at her, confused.
Monica looked up at her and said softly, "Dad can drink the cheap coffee. We can save for the tree."
Kitty's mouth opened.
Her eyes went glassy.
Not because the sentence was profound.
Because it was a child saying something Kitty couldn't bear to say herself: we can't afford both.
Kitty swallowed hard and forced a smile. "Honey…"
Monica kept her voice gentle. "It's okay."
Kitty's fingers trembled as she swapped the coffee cans.
Laurie scoffed. "We're not poor."
Kitty snapped—rare, sharp. "Laurie."
Laurie froze.
Kitty's voice softened instantly, like she regretted the sharpness. "Don't say that. We're… we're fine."
Laurie rolled her eyes. "Whatever."
Monica didn't comment.
She didn't correct Laurie, because correcting Laurie would turn this into a fight.
Instead, Monica stored it:
Kitty had snapped.
Kitty was nearing her edge.
And when Kitty neared her edge, Red noticed.
And when Red noticed, Red got more protective.
And when Red got more protective, Point Place got more interested.
_______
When they returned home, Red was in the driveway, cigarette in hand, staring at the street like he was waiting for someone to try something.
Eric sat on the porch step playing with a screwdriver like it was a toy.
Monica's eyes flicked to it and her stomach tightened.
Red's eyes narrowed at the grocery bags. "What'd you buy."
Kitty forced cheer. "Just groceries."
Red's gaze sharpened. "You spend too much."
Kitty's smile faltered. "I didn't—"
Red's voice stayed flat but tense. "Kitty."
Kitty swallowed. "I… I got the cheaper coffee."
Red paused.
That was unexpected.
His eyes flicked to Monica for half a second.
Monica kept her face neutral.
Red exhaled through his nose, as if releasing some of the tension he'd been holding.
"Good," he muttered.
Kitty's shoulders loosened by a fraction.
Laurie rolled her eyes dramatically and stomped inside, offended by the mere idea of sacrifice.
Red watched her go, jaw clenched, then muttered, "That girl…"
Kitty sighed. "She's just… going through a phase."
Red's voice went dry. "Yeah. A phase called 'being Laurie.'"
Kitty tried not to laugh.
Monica moved quietly, picked up the screwdriver from Eric's hand, and placed it gently on the porch railing out of reach.
Eric protested, "Hey!"
Monica's voice stayed calm. "Tools aren't toys."
Red's eyes flicked to Monica again.
He didn't smile.
But his jaw loosened slightly, which was the closest he came.
That night, the Forman house ate leftovers again.
Turkey casserole.
Mashed potatoes.
Gravy stretched thinner.
Kitty tried to make it feel festive anyway—talking about Christmas lights, humming softly while she washed dishes.
Red sat at the table longer than usual, staring at nothing, like he was doing math in his head.
Monica watched him and thought:
This is the real holiday.
Not the turkey.
Not the pie.
This quiet moment where Red and Kitty tried to pretend the world wasn't squeezing them.
Monica went upstairs later and opened her Future Box.
She added the grocery receipt—folded tiny, hidden like contraband.
A reminder:
Numbers don't lie even when adults do.
Then she wrote one line on her note:
Economic strain makes Point Place hungry for weakness. Give them none.
Monica closed the box, lay down, and listened to the house settle.
Red's heavier footsteps toward the garage.
Kitty's softer steps cleaning one more thing.
Laurie shifting upstairs, angry at a world that wouldn't revolve around her.
Monica whispered into the dark:
"Act normal."
Then, softer:
"Start counting everything."