March 15, 1958 — Point Place, Wisconsin
Light hit her like a slap.
Not sunlight—something harsher, whiter, humming with heat. It found every nerve she hadn't known she still owned. The world roared into being: clipped voices, metallic clinks, a woman's strained cry that ended in a sob of relief, and somewhere beneath it all the steady, stubborn beat of a heart that wasn't hers.
No.
It was hers now. Or she was it.
Monica tried to inhale like she had a thousand times before in a different body, in a different year, with lungs that obeyed. What came instead was a ragged, furious scream ripped from a throat too small to contain it.
"Good lungs," someone said, amused. "She's mad about something."
Mad didn't cover it.
She couldn't lift her head. Couldn't blink on command. The air felt too cold, the light too sharp, and her limbs—God, her limbs—were useless soft weights that jerked without permission. She was being handled, turned, patted. She hated it immediately.
I'm dead. I died. I—
Memory slammed into her in fragments so vivid it was like swallowing glass: fluorescent hospital hallways in 2024, the sting of disinfectant, hands that weren't gentle, a ceiling tile with a water stain shaped like a crooked heart. Someone calling her name—Monica Jeverkoski—like it could tether her to the right timeline.
Then nothing.
And now—this.
A nurse's face hovered above her. The woman was middle-aged with careful lipstick, the kind that didn't smear even under pressure. Her eyes softened like she'd seen this miracle a thousand times and still let it get to her.
"Hello there, sweetheart."
The nurse's voice bent into a sing-song coo meant for something brainless and brand new.
Monica tried to snarl. It came out as another wail.
Warm hands wrapped her, brisk and practiced, swaddling her so tight she wanted to fight. Her body accepted the cocoon like it had been waiting for it, and rage became—without permission—something like exhausted shock.
She was carried sideways, and the room shifted in blur. Shapes resolved: a bed, white sheets damp at the edges, a woman with sweat-dark hair plastered to her forehead. Kitty. Kitty Forman. Younger than Monica had ever seen her on screen—before the laugh lines, before the perpetual tiredness, before the sharp mothering instincts had been honed on three children and a husband built out of iron.
Kitty looked wrecked in the way only childbirth could wreck you. But her eyes—her eyes were bright, shining, fixed on Monica as if she'd pulled her straight out of heaven.
"Oh," Kitty breathed, voice breaking. "Oh, hi."
Monica froze inside herself.
It wasn't because she was suddenly sentimental. She wasn't. She was disoriented, furious, terrified, and wholly trapped in a body that couldn't even clench its fists properly.
But Kitty's voice carried something Monica hadn't expected to hear so soon: love without conditions. The kind of warmth that didn't ask what you could do for it. The kind of softness Monica had always found harder to accept than cruelty—because softness required trust.
Kitty's fingers trembled as she reached, tracing Monica's cheek with a knuckle.
"She's beautiful," Kitty whispered. "She's… Red, look."
A man stepped into Monica's narrowing field of vision. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Face set like it had been carved to hold back emotion.
Red Forman.
Not old Red—this Red had a darker head of hair, less gray at the temples. His jaw was still the same, though. The kind of jaw that said no before his mouth even opened. His eyes were fixed and severe, like he was already measuring the world for threats.
He looked down at Monica. His gaze didn't soften. Not exactly.
But it sharpened with something fierce and protective that made Monica's stomach drop—because she recognized it instantly.
Red Forman didn't do gentle. Red Forman did loyal.
"She's got your nose," he said to Kitty, like that was the highest form of praise he could safely offer in front of witnesses.
Kitty let out a wet laugh that turned into a sniffle.
"She's got your temper," the nurse said, wrapping the blanket tighter. "And she's hungry."
Monica didn't understand hunger yet. Not the way an infant understood it—raw, immediate need without thought. But her body did. A hollow ache twisted, and she began to fuss again, frantic and offended.
"Okay, okay," Kitty soothed, tears spilling now without shame. "I'm right here."
Monica's eyes—uncooperative, half-lidded—tracked Kitty's face as she was maneuvered. There was pressure, then warmth, then a scent that anchored the world: milk, skin, clean soap, and something sweet beneath it. Kitty's heartbeat thumped against Monica's ear.
For a second, the chaos went quiet.
Monica stopped screaming—not because she'd been soothed emotionally, but because her body latched onto the comfort like a starving animal finding water. The relief was humiliating.
This is ridiculous, she thought, furious at herself and at biology. I can't even protest properly.
Red watched, arms crossed. His mouth was a line. But Monica felt his attention like a weight. She hated being observed.
Kitty murmured nonsense, soft and rhythmic. "There you go… there you go… my baby…"
My baby.
Monica's mind snagged on the phrase like a hook.
I'm not yours. I'm—
Who? Monica Jeverkoski, thirty-something, certified hairdresser and cosmetologist, a woman with her own adult history, her own grief, her own scars.
And also—somehow—Monica Katherine Forman. Born into a life she'd watched on television. Born into a family she knew in a way no child should.
Because she knew what this house would become. She knew the basement. The smoke. The laughter that sounded like freedom and the resentment that tasted like pennies. She knew Eric's slouch, Laurie's cruelty, Red's volcanic temper, Kitty's bright, frantic love.
She knew that in May of 1976, in a basement in Point Place, this family would become a story people watched to feel better about their own.
And now she was inside it.
A nurse leaned over Kitty's shoulder. "You did great, Mrs. Forman. Both girls are healthy. Laurie's already in the nursery, getting cleaned up."
Laurie.
Two minutes older. Two minutes, and yet that tiny lead would become a weapon for years.
Monica didn't have the energy to panic about it yet. But her mind filed it away with cold precision.
"Twins," Kitty whispered again, dazed. "I can't believe it."
Red's gaze shifted briefly to the nurse. "How soon can we see the other one?"
"Soon," the nurse promised. "But let Mom rest a minute."
Kitty's eyes fluttered. Exhaustion hit her like a wave. But she fought it, clinging to Monica with both arms like the world might steal her away.
Red stepped closer. His shadow fell across Monica. His voice dropped lower, meant for Kitty but also, unmistakably, for the child pressed against her.
"House rules," he said.
Kitty's mouth twitched, like she'd expected it.
"Oh, Red," she murmured, half amused. "It's a baby."
Red didn't flinch. "Still."
Kitty laughed softly. "Okay. Fine. What are the rules, Sergeant Forman?"
Monica's ears—tiny, too sensitive—caught everything.
Red leaned in. His face was close enough that Monica could see the pores on his skin, the faint scar near his eyebrow, the way his eyes didn't wander. He looked like a man who'd already decided his daughters would not be eaten alive by the world.
"One," he said, firm. "No whining."
Monica, without permission, let out a tiny offended noise.
Kitty stifled another laugh.
Red continued like he hadn't heard it. "Two: you don't take crap from anybody."
Kitty's smile softened. "Red…"
"Three," he said, voice hardening. "If someone tries to mess with you, you tell me. I'll handle it."
Monica's mind flickered. That's not how it works. Not always. Not once she was older, once the world recognized talent and tried to own it. Men in suits. Contracts. Greed. Cameras. Whispered threats disguised as compliments.
Red didn't know any of that yet. But he would.
He looked down at Monica. For the first time, his mouth shifted—not into a smile, exactly, but into something almost vulnerable. Something protective enough to hurt.
"And four," he said quietly, "you respect your mother."
Kitty's breath caught.
Monica's mind caught too—not because she needed the reminder, but because the way he said it felt like a vow. Like he was drawing a line in the world and daring anything to cross it.
Monica blinked slowly. Not on purpose. Just… a reflex.
Red took it as agreement, because of course he did. "Good."
Kitty's eyes went wet again. "You're ridiculous."
Red straightened. "I'm right."
Kitty's laugh was tired, but warm. "You're right."
Monica listened. Absorbed.
She didn't know what kind of mother Kitty would be to her. She knew Kitty as a character, as a mother to Eric and Laurie. But this Kitty was new. Softer. Less tired. Less sharpened by disappointment.
Red's attention moved away. He spoke to the nurse again. "I want to see Laurie."
"Of course," the nurse said. "I'll bring her in as soon as she's cleaned up."
Monica's body began to sink into heavy warmth. Her eyelids drooped again. The world muffled. Kitty's heartbeat stayed steady, like a metronome pulling her toward sleep.
Monica fought it.
She didn't want to lose time. She didn't want to slip into a baby's haze and wake up months later without control.
But the body was stronger than the mind. That was the cruelty of it.
She drifted anyway, clinging to one last coherent thought like a life raft:
I will not waste this. If I'm trapped here, I'll make it count.
—
The next time she surfaced, the room was dimmer. The overhead lights had been softened, and the voices were fewer.
She was no longer pressed to Kitty's chest. She lay in a plastic bassinet beside the bed, swaddled like a hostage. Her arms were pinned. Her legs kicked weakly against the blanket, accomplishing nothing.
Kitty was asleep now, mouth slightly open, hair damp and messy. She looked younger in sleep. More human.
Red sat in a chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees. He looked like he hadn't blinked in hours. His posture radiated vigilance.
A nurse entered quietly. "Mr. Forman?"
Red stood immediately, like he'd been waiting to spring.
"We're bringing Laurie in."
Monica's stomach tightened. She couldn't help it. Laurie wasn't even capable of being Laurie yet, but Monica's memory carried the weight of a lifetime of sibling warfare.
The nurse wheeled in another bassinet.
Inside it, a baby—her twin—slept peacefully, cheeks round and red. Laurie's hair looked darker than Monica's, though it was hard to tell in the low light. Her mouth was pursed like she'd already decided the world wasn't impressive.
Kitty stirred. "Laurie?"
Her voice cracked, half asleep, half overwhelmed.
Red moved to her bedside. "They brought her."
Kitty pushed herself up slowly, grimacing. Her eyes fixed on Laurie with stunned devotion, like she couldn't believe she'd made a whole extra human.
"Oh my God," Kitty whispered. "Hi, Laurie…"
Laurie slept through it, unbothered.
Monica stared at her sister, her vision still blurry, her mind too sharp.
Two minutes, she thought. Two minutes is not a crown.
Red looked from Laurie to Monica, then back to Kitty. He cleared his throat, like emotion irritated him.
"We did good," he said, rough.
Kitty laughed weakly, tears spilling again. "We did… we did."
Red glanced down at Monica's bassinet. For a second, his gaze lingered on her longer than it needed to.
Monica's body betrayed her with a tiny hiccup of a cry. Not full screaming—just a thin, needy noise.
Red stiffened like he'd been insulted.
Kitty reached out, exhausted. "She's hungry again."
Red hesitated. Then, with the stiff caution of a man handling something fragile he didn't fully trust himself not to break, he lifted Monica out of the bassinet.
Monica wanted to tell him off. She wanted to say, Support the head, because his grip was too uncertain. She wanted to say, You're holding your daughter like a grenade.
But she couldn't.
She could only glare—if her face even managed to communicate that.
Red stared down at her. His hands were big, warm. His shirt smelled like soap, metal, and something faintly smoky, like the world outside the hospital was always lurking.
Monica's body settled against him despite herself, comforted by the heat.
Red looked disgusted with how natural it felt. "Huh," he muttered, like he'd just discovered gravity.
Kitty watched them with sleepy fondness. "She likes you."
Red snorted. "She doesn't know anything."
Monica, in perfect timing, made a tiny sound that could've been agreement or complaint.
Red's eyes narrowed. "You got something to say?"
Kitty's laugh turned into a cough.
Red adjusted Monica, holding her more securely now. His gaze remained fixed on her face as if he was trying to memorize every detail before life got in the way.
"You listen," he said quietly.
Monica's mind sharpened. She listened.
"I don't know what kind of world you're gonna grow up in," Red said, voice low, meant only for her. "But I'm gonna make damn sure you're ready for it."
Kitty's eyes glistened. She didn't interrupt. Even she seemed to recognize that Red didn't hand out vows often.
Red's thumb brushed Monica's tiny fist, and her fingers—traitorous—curled around his thumb like it belonged there.
Something flashed across Red's face. Shock. Then, instantly, the hard mask returned, like softness was a liability.
He leaned closer anyway.
"You don't let anybody tell you what you are," he said. "You hear me? Not teachers. Not boys. Not anybody."
Monica's throat tightened with something unfamiliar. Not emotion exactly—more like the deep, quiet recognition of a weapon being placed in her hands.
If she was going to survive this life—this time, this family, this town—she'd need allies. She'd need armor.
Red was offering himself as both.
Monica couldn't answer. Her mouth couldn't form words. Her limbs couldn't reach. Her mind could only burn with intent.
So she did the only thing her body could do: she gripped his thumb harder.
Red stared down at that grip like it offended him.
Then he exhaled through his nose.
"Alright," he muttered. "Alright."
Kitty wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Red…"
He shot her a look that said don't get sappy.
Kitty ignored him because she was Kitty. "She's going to be something special."
Red's jaw tightened. His gaze didn't leave Monica. "Yeah," he said, rougher than before. "I know."
Monica blinked slowly. The room swayed at the edges again. Her body was dragging her under, back into that heavy infant sleep.
She fought it one last time, forcing her mind to lock down something solid before the dark took her.
A promise.
I'll respect you, she thought, not because she had to, but because she recognized what he was: a fortress disguised as a man. I'll respect you the way you need. I'll call you Dad. I'll play the part. I'll be good—until I can be dangerous.
Her eyelids fell.
The last thing she heard before sleep swallowed her was Red's voice, low and certain:
"Welcome to the family, Monica."
And somewhere beside her, in another bassinet, Laurie Forman slept like she owned the world.