Tuesday, September 21, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
Red Forman didn't do speeches.
He did rules.
Rules were clean. Rules were simple. Rules didn't require you to admit you cared.
So when Monica found him in the garage after school—shirt sleeves rolled up, cigarette tucked behind his ear, toolbox open like a mouth full of metal—she already knew what kind of day it had been.
Red had that look.
The something happened at work and I didn't punch anyone so now I'm going to fix a thing look.
Monica stepped into the garage doorway and waited.
Red didn't look up right away. "Door's not a decoration."
Monica walked in and shut it behind her. "Yes, Dad."
Red grunted approval.
He was working on something small—a hinge, maybe. Or a part of the lawnmower. Monica couldn't see clearly from where she stood, but she recognized the ritual: Red's hands needed a job to keep his temper from becoming one.
Monica moved closer, careful not to invade.
"Dad," she said politely, "do you need help?"
Red snorted. "You're seven."
Monica nodded. "I can hold the flashlight."
Red finally looked up—sharp, suspicious, like he was assessing whether she was trying to flatter him.
Then he jerked his chin toward the shelf. "Flashlight's there."
Monica retrieved it and handed it to him. Red took it, then paused, as if he realized the irony.
"No," Red said gruffly. "You hold it."
Monica held it steady, angling it where Red pointed.
Red began working again, and for a few minutes, the garage was quiet except for the scrape of metal and the faint hum of late-summer insects outside.
Monica loved the garage.
The garage was honest.
The house was full of performance—Kitty's brightness, Laurie's theatrics, Eric's noise.
But the garage was Red's territory. Red didn't perform here.
He just… existed.
After a moment, Red said, "How was school?"
Monica answered truthfully but strategically. "Fine."
Red's eyes narrowed. "That's what you say when it's not fine."
Monica didn't panic. Red was good at reading people when he decided to look.
Monica kept the flashlight steady and said, "Mrs. Henderson asked me why I don't talk more."
Red's jaw tightened. "And?"
"I said I talk when I need to," Monica replied.
Red paused, then resumed working with a grunt that sounded like approval.
"Good."
Monica added, because honesty mattered with Red: "Laurie told her I'm 'stuck-up.'"
Red's hands stilled for half a second.
Then he exhaled through his nose like the air offended him.
"That your sister again?"
Monica didn't say yes.
She didn't say no.
She said the truth that mattered: "It made Mrs. Henderson watch me more."
Red's gaze snapped up—sharp.
There it was.
The real problem.
Not Laurie's insult.
The attention it drew.
Red hated attention. Attention meant judgment. Judgment meant threat.
He leaned back against the workbench, wiping his hands on a rag.
"Listen," Red said, voice low.
Monica straightened instinctively.
Red's "listen" was never casual.
Red pointed at Monica with the rag like it was a weapon. "You keep your head down in school."
Monica nodded once. "Okay."
Red's eyes narrowed. "Not 'okay.' You understand why?"
Monica did. But she let Red say it, because Red needed to be heard.
Red's jaw flexed. "Because people don't like it when someone's smarter than them."
Monica kept her face neutral.
Red continued, eyes hard. "And because teachers talk. And when teachers talk, other adults start asking questions. And when adults ask questions, they think they can get in your business."
Monica's chest tightened.
Not because she disagreed.
Because Red was right—and Red didn't even know how right he would be later.
Monica said quietly, "I understand."
Red watched her for a long moment.
Then he turned back to the mower part, but his voice stayed on her, steady and firm.
"House rules," Red said.
Monica's fingers tightened around the flashlight.
House rules weren't just rules.
They were Red's way of loving you without saying love.
"Rule one," Red said, "you don't start fights."
Monica nodded.
"Rule two," Red continued, "you finish them."
Monica didn't smile, but something in her chest warmed anyway.
Because Red didn't teach helplessness.
He taught survival.
"Rule three," Red said, "you don't show off."
Monica hesitated. "Even if I'm right?"
Red's gaze snapped up. "Especially if you're right."
Monica absorbed that.
Red's voice hardened. "Being right doesn't make people like you. It makes them want to prove you wrong."
Monica thought of Laurie. Thought of Mrs. Henderson's eyes. Thought of Point Place.
She nodded. "Okay."
Red's eyes narrowed. "You're doing it again."
Monica corrected immediately. "Yes, sir."
Red looked mildly satisfied, like order had been restored.
"Rule four," Red said, "family business stays in this house."
Monica's throat tightened. "Meaning…?"
Red's jaw clenched. "Meaning you don't talk about your sister acting like a brat to teachers. You don't talk about money. You don't talk about your mother crying. You don't talk about anything that gives other people ammunition."
Monica's adult mind clicked.
Ammunition.
Red's language was always war.
Monica nodded. "Yes, sir."
Red resumed working, but his voice stayed quiet, almost grudging. "People are vultures."
Monica understood that too well.
The garage door creaked open.
Kitty appeared, lipstick fresh, hair pinned, carrying a glass of lemonade like she was trying to be a normal happy housewife and not a woman slowly being worn down by tension.
"Oh!" Kitty chirped, a little too bright. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere."
Red didn't look up. "I'm in my own house."
Kitty smiled anyway. "Well, yes, but you're hiding."
"I'm not hiding."
Kitty set the glass down gently on the workbench. "You're hiding."
Red muttered something under his breath.
Kitty turned to Monica and softened. "Monica, honey, are you bothering your father?"
Monica answered automatically, polite. "No, Mommy. I'm helping."
Kitty's eyes warmed. "Oh. Good."
Then Kitty's gaze flicked to Red—careful, searching. "Red, don't keep her out here too long. It's getting chilly at night."
Red grunted.
Kitty lingered, like she wanted to ask what this was really about, but she didn't.
Kitty had learned the hard way that prying made Red shut down.
Instead, she smiled at Monica. "Dinner in thirty minutes."
"Yes, Mommy."
Kitty nodded and retreated back into the house, the door creaking shut behind her.
The garage felt quieter without her.
Red's shoulders loosened by a fraction.
Monica held the flashlight steady again.
After a moment, Red spoke again—less like a commander, more like a father who didn't know how to say what he meant.
"Your sister," Red muttered, "she's gonna keep poking you."
Monica didn't deny it. "Yes, Dad."
Red's eyes narrowed. "And you're gonna keep acting like nothing bothers you."
Monica stayed still.
Red's voice sharpened. "That's good. Don't give her a reaction."
Monica's heart thudded once.
Because Red had seen it.
He had seen Laurie's game for what it was.
Red continued, quieter: "But you don't let her make you small."
Monica blinked slowly.
Red didn't like emotion, so he disguised it as instruction.
"If she says something," Red said, "you come to me. Not your mother."
Monica hesitated. "Why not Mommy?"
Red's jaw tightened. "Because your mother tries to fix things with smiles."
Monica could hear the affection hidden under the irritation.
Red added, softer, "And Laurie doesn't respect smiles."
Monica understood.
Red's hand paused on the tool. He looked up at Monica again, gaze sharp, almost uncomfortable.
"You know you can rely on me," Red said, like it was the most difficult sentence he'd spoken all day.
Monica's chest tightened.
She didn't say "I love you." That wasn't their language.
She said what Red could accept. "Yes, Dad."
Red exhaled hard, like he'd survived another vulnerability.
Then he pointed at the mower part. "Angle the flashlight. You're shining it like an idiot."
Monica adjusted instantly. "Sorry."
Red snorted. "Don't apologize. Just fix it."
Monica corrected the beam.
Red resumed working.
And in that simple exchange—no softness, no speeches—Monica felt the bond settle into place the way bolts settled into threads:
Secure. Reliable. Real.
________
Later that night, after dinner, Monica went upstairs and found Laurie in their shared space, brushing her hair aggressively like she was trying to punish it for existing.
Laurie didn't look up. "Dad likes you more."
Monica's stomach tightened, but her face stayed calm. "Dad likes rules."
Laurie's brush paused. "He made rules for you."
Monica didn't deny it. "He makes rules for everyone."
Laurie's eyes flicked up in the mirror—sharp, jealous. "Not the same ones."
Monica held Laurie's gaze in the reflection.
Then Monica did something that surprised even herself.
She said, quietly, "If you want Dad to notice you, stop making him mad."
Laurie's mouth twisted. "He's always mad."
Monica nodded once. "Yes."
Laurie glared. "You think you're better."
Monica's voice stayed level. "No."
Laurie's eyes narrowed. "Then why does he listen to you?"
Monica could have answered with a hundred adult truths.
She chose the simplest one.
"Because I'm calm," Monica said.
Laurie stared at her like calm was an insult.
Then Laurie turned back to her hair with a huff, like she'd decided Monica didn't deserve more words.
Monica retreated to her bed and opened her Future Box again.
She wrote:
September 21, 1965: Dad rewrote house rules for me.
•Don't start fights. Finish them.
•Don't show off, even when right.
•Keep family business private.
•Bring problems to Dad.
Then she paused and added:
Dad's love is protection disguised as discipline.
Mom's love is warmth disguised as cheer.
Laurie's love is… conditional.
Monica closed the box and lay back.
The ceiling fan turned slow.
Downstairs, Red's footsteps moved through the house with that steady patrol rhythm he didn't realize he had.
Kitty's laughter floated up for a moment—bright, forced, determined.
And in the dark, Monica repeated the rule that kept her alive:
Act normal.
But now, beneath it, she had a second rule too—one Red had given her without meaning to:
Don't be small.