Sunday, April 11, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7 • After Beau's birthday)
Red Forman woke up like he'd gone to bed angry.
Which meant he woke up the same way he went to work, the same way he paid bills, the same way he dealt with bosses who smiled too big and clapped too hard.
Angry, contained, and ready to bite something if it moved wrong.
The house was quiet in the special way it got on Sunday mornings—too still, like it was holding its breath. Kitty tried to make Sundays soft. She turned them into pancakes and church shoes and "family time," as if comfort could be scheduled.
This morning, comfort felt like a trap.
Monica lay awake in her bed in the attic room, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Downstairs, a cabinet shut with a little more force than necessary. A chair scraped. The low thud of Red's work-boot heel on the linoleum.
Then Kitty's voice—bright on purpose.
"Red, honey, do you want eggs too?"
Red's answer was a grunt that could've meant anything.
Monica sat up slowly, careful, because she'd learned the hard way that moving too fast in this house got you noticed. And being noticed—especially right now—meant being examined for blame.
Last night had been the beginning of a story Laurie would tell forever.
And Monica didn't like stories that didn't belong to her.
She stood, changed into a simple dress, and brushed her hair until it sat neat and obedient. She studied her reflection—small face, wide eyes, too composed for seven if anyone looked too closely.
Act normal.
That was what she'd told herself before she fell asleep.
The problem was… Monica's definition of "normal" was based on an entire other lifetime of experience and a constant awareness of what people meant rather than what they said.
Normal children woke up, wanted cereal, and forgot what a boy said at a party.
Normal children didn't lie awake calculating how jealousy could fracture a family.
Normal children didn't know how quickly a narrative could turn into a cage.
Monica opened her Future Box—an old shoebox tucked beneath a loose board under her bed. Inside were scraps: little notes, tiny drawings, dates written in careful print. Not because she wanted to obsess.
Because she wanted proof.
Proof that she wasn't insane.
Proof that memory was real.
Proof that she was steering, not floating.
She took out a pencil and wrote:
April 10, 1965: Beau's birthday. He called me "pretty." Laurie decided I stole him.
April 11, 1965: Containment begins.
She stared at the words for a long moment.
Then she wrote the hard part:
No matter what Laurie says: I don't retaliate. I don't compete. I don't win.
Because winning would make Laurie worse.
And losing on purpose—Monica knew—was sometimes how you survived.
She closed the box and forced herself to breathe like a child who didn't have a plan.
Then she went downstairs.
______
The kitchen smelled like bacon and tension.
Kitty stood at the stove in a robe, hair pinned up messily, cheeks rosy with effort. She looked like she'd decided today would be normal even if she had to wrestle the entire family into it with syrup.
Red sat at the table with a cup of coffee. The paper was open in front of him, but he wasn't reading it. His eyes were fixed on nothing.
Eric sat in his chair, swinging his feet, already sticky from something. He was humming to himself, unaware that the air felt sharp.
And Laurie…
Laurie was at the table too.
She sat straight-backed, hands folded, chin lifted. Not crying. Not sulking.
Just… cold.
Laurie's eyes flicked to Monica the moment she entered the room.
Monica didn't hesitate. Hesitation was blood in the water.
She walked in like nothing had happened.
"Morning," Kitty chirped. "Good morning, honey!"
Monica smiled politely. "Good morning, Mommy. Good morning, Dad."
Red's gaze snapped to her, then softened by the smallest fraction.
"Morning," he said, low.
Monica could feel his attention like a hand at her back. Guarding. Watching.
Laurie didn't say anything.
Monica sat down carefully in her chair, not too close, not too far. She placed her hands in her lap. She did not look at Laurie like Laurie was a problem.
Because Laurie wanted to be a problem.
Laurie wanted Monica to react.
Kitty slid a plate in front of Monica. "Eat up."
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Red's eyes flicked to Laurie. "You gonna say good morning?"
Laurie's mouth tightened, but she forced out, "Morning."
It wasn't directed at anyone.
Red didn't like that.
His jaw clenched in that way that meant he was about to correct something and Kitty would have to smooth it over later.
Kitty beat him to it. "Who wants pancakes?"
Eric's hand shot up. "Me!"
Laurie didn't raise her hand. Laurie didn't need to beg for anything. Laurie made the world deliver.
Kitty turned, cheerful. "Laurie? Monica?"
Monica answered first. "Yes, please."
Laurie waited half a second—just long enough to make it clear she was doing this on her terms.
"…Sure."
Kitty nodded too fast, relieved.
Red sipped his coffee.
Monica ate in silence.
Then Laurie spoke, voice sweet and sharp at the same time.
"Mommy," Laurie said, "Monica isn't my twin anymore."
The fork in Monica's hand paused.
Not because she was surprised.
Because hearing it said out loud was different than predicting it.
Kitty blinked. "What?"
Laurie kept her eyes on Kitty like she was giving her a gift. "She's not."
Kitty tried to laugh. "Laurie, don't be silly. Of course she is."
Laurie's gaze slid to Monica—cold, accusing.
"She steals things," Laurie said.
Eric frowned. "What things?"
Laurie ignored him. "She stole Beau."
Kitty froze.
Red's coffee cup hit the table with a quiet, dangerous tap.
"Laurie," Red said.
It wasn't loud.
That was worse.
Laurie's chin lifted higher. "It's true."
Red's eyes narrowed. "You don't own people."
Laurie's face tightened. "He said she was pretty."
Kitty's voice went small. "Honey… he's eight."
"He was supposed to say it to me," Laurie snapped.
Red's voice dropped lower. "And you're supposed to stop acting like a brat."
Kitty flinched at the word. "Red—"
Red didn't look at her. "No. I'm not doing this."
Laurie's eyes flashed. "You always take her side."
Monica stayed still.
Because that was the real wound.
Not Beau.
Not "pretty."
The wound was Red's favoritism—obvious, unintentional, and now weaponized.
Red's jaw flexed. "I take the side of whoever's right."
Laurie's face went red. "She—"
Red cut her off. "Enough."
Laurie stood so fast her chair scraped the floor. "I hate her!"
Kitty gasped. "Laurie!"
Monica's stomach tightened—because this was the moment where a normal child would cry.
A normal child would retaliate.
A normal child would break.
Monica didn't.
She looked at Laurie calmly and said, in the mildest voice she could manage:
"I didn't do anything."
Laurie's eyes narrowed like Monica had slapped her. "Yes you did."
Monica didn't argue. Instead she turned to Kitty, voice soft and polite, like she was discussing weather.
"I'm done, Mommy."
Kitty looked torn in half. "Monica—"
Monica slid down from her chair, careful, controlled. She picked up her plate and brought it to the sink like she was a tiny adult.
Red watched her do it.
That look in his eyes—approval, protectiveness—was gasoline on Laurie's fire.
Laurie grabbed her own plate and slammed it into the sink hard enough to splash water.
Then she stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
A bedroom door slammed.
The house rang with it.
Kitty pressed her fingers to her temple. "Oh God…"
Red's voice was flat. "I'm talking to her."
Kitty's eyes flashed with panic. "Red, please don't—"
Red stood. "Don't 'Red' me."
Then he paused, and his eyes flicked to Monica.
And for a heartbeat, the anger in his face softened into something else.
Something careful.
"Monica," he said.
Monica looked up. "Yes, Dad?"
Red's voice stayed low. "You come with me."
Kitty startled. "Red—why—"
Red didn't explain. He rarely did.
He just walked toward the stairs like a man marching into battle.
Monica followed.
______
Laurie's room was pink and smug.
It looked like a dollhouse exploded and Kitty decided it was "cute." Frills on the bedspread. A vanity with a little brush set. A row of tiny shoes that were too perfect to be real.
Laurie sat on her bed with her arms crossed, chin lifted, eyes wet but furious.
Red stood in the doorway like a judge.
"Open the door wider," Kitty called faintly from downstairs, not wanting Red cornering Laurie alone.
Red ignored it.
"Talk," Red said.
Laurie glared. "What?"
Red's eyes narrowed. "You don't get to talk about your sister like that."
"She's not my sister," Laurie snapped.
Red's jaw tightened. "She's your sister. She's your twin. She's—"
"She's your favorite," Laurie hissed.
Monica's breath went shallow.
That was the thing nobody said out loud in the Forman house.
Not because it wasn't true.
Because naming it made it real.
Red's expression hardened. "Don't be stupid."
Laurie's eyes filled with hot tears. "You always look at her like she's… like she's better."
Red's mouth opened, then shut.
Because Red couldn't lie convincingly. Not to himself. Not to his daughter.
Instead he said, "Monica doesn't mouth off."
Laurie blinked. "So?"
Red's voice sharpened. "So you could try it."
Laurie's face twisted. "I'm not her."
Red leaned slightly forward. "No. You're not."
Monica felt the sentence hit Laurie like a slap.
Red didn't mean it that way, Monica suspected. Red meant: you're your own person.
But Laurie heard: you're not enough.
Laurie's face crumpled for a second before it hardened again.
"I'm not talking to her," Laurie said, voice trembling with spite. "Ever."
Red's voice went cold. "You will."
Laurie glared. "Make me."
Red's eyes narrowed. "I'll ground you until you're thirty."
Laurie scoffed. "I don't care."
Red's jaw flexed. He looked like he wanted to shout.
Then he did something unexpected.
He looked at Monica.
"Go downstairs," Red said quietly.
Monica hesitated.
Red's eyes held hers. Trust me.
Monica nodded once and walked out.
Downstairs, Kitty was at the sink scrubbing a pan too hard. Eric sat on the floor with a toy truck, blissfully unaware of the emotional warfare being waged above his head.
Kitty glanced at Monica with worry. "Honey… are you okay?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Kitty's mouth trembled. "Laurie didn't mean it."
Monica didn't answer, because Kitty needed that to be true more than Monica did.
Instead Monica asked, "Can I help you?"
Kitty blinked. "Help me?"
Monica nodded toward the pan. "I can dry."
Kitty's eyes went watery. "Oh, sweetie…"
Monica grabbed a towel and began to dry.
Kitty watched her for a moment—watched her too carefully, like she was trying to see where Monica came from.
Because Kitty had always sensed it, even if she couldn't name it.
Monica wasn't like other kids.
Monica was… deliberate.
Upstairs, Red's voice rose—only a little, not shouting, but firm. Laurie's voice snapped back.
Then there was silence.
A long silence.
Finally, footsteps.
Red came downstairs alone. His face was set like stone.
Kitty looked up. "Well?"
Red grabbed his keys off the counter. "She's grounded."
Kitty exhaled. "For how long?"
Red's eyes narrowed. "Until she remembers she has a twin."
Kitty sighed. "Red…"
Red looked at Monica, and his expression shifted—not softer exactly. Just… resolute.
"Monica," Red said. "You don't chase Laurie."
Monica blinked. "Okay."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Not 'okay.' You hear me?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Dad."
Red grunted, satisfied, then turned to Kitty.
"I'm going for a drive," he said. "I'm not staying in this house if she's gonna slam doors."
Kitty's mouth tightened. "Red, you can't—"
Red was already out the door.
The screen door snapped shut behind him.
Kitty stared after him, exhausted. Then she looked at Monica like she wanted to apologize for everything she couldn't control.
Monica kept drying dishes.
Her hands were small. The towel was too big. But the rhythm calmed her.
Act normal, she reminded herself.
Because she could not afford to become Laurie's enemy.
Not yet.
Not when they still had years under the same roof.
Monica finished drying the pan and placed it carefully on the rack.
Then she went upstairs, back to her room, and opened her Future Box again.
She wrote:
April 11, 1965: Laurie declared war. Dad chose discipline. Mom chose denial.
Monica chooses strategy.
She hesitated, then added:
Do not let Laurie turn Dad into a weapon.
Because Red's favoritism would protect Monica.
And it would also, if Monica wasn't careful, destroy Laurie.
And if Laurie broke, she would take Monica with her.
Monica closed the box.
And for the first time since her rebirth, she felt the edge of something like grief.
Not for Beau.
Not for "pretty."
For the fact that the life she'd stepped into—this family—was already cracking.
And Monica would be expected to hold it together.