May 27, 1958 — Point Place, Wisconsin
The house smelled like milk and cigarettes and the particular, permanent damp of Wisconsin spring.
Monica hated that she already knew what this house would smell like when she was sixteen—beer, incense, and basement carpet that should've been replaced five years earlier. She hated that she knew the layout better than she should. She hated that she knew the sound of Red Forman's boots on the porch could mean two completely different things depending on the day: I'm home or I've had enough of everyone's crap.
Right now, in late May of 1958, it meant I'm exhausted.
She lay in a crib that had been assembled by a man who refused to read directions and then cursed the directions for being "stupid." The wood rails were too close together for comfort, the sheets smelled freshly boiled and sun-dried, and the blanket on her stomach was tucked with military precision.
Of course it was.
Her body was still mostly useless. Two months old—give or take—and still a prisoner of reflexes and needs that arrived like alarms. Hunger. Wet. Cold. Too loud. Too bright. Too lonely.
Her mind didn't obey those alarms as much anymore. It watched them like an irritated supervisor, taking notes, logging patterns.
This body will get stronger.
I will not be helpless forever.
A pale bar of sunlight slid across the nursery wall, catching dust in the air so it looked like the room was filled with slow-moving sparks. Monica stared at them because she couldn't do much else, and because staring was the one thing she could do with intensity that made people uneasy.
The door creaked.
Kitty appeared first, hair pinned back messily, wearing a blouse that had been washed too many times but still looked clean because Kitty was a wizard that way. She carried Laurie on one hip and a basket of folded cloth diapers balanced against her ribs.
Laurie was asleep, mouth open, fist curled like she was dreaming about winning.
Monica tracked them both with her eyes. Laurie's eyelashes were darker. Her cheeks were fuller. Her face—already—looked like she expected the world to cater to her.
Two minutes older, Monica thought, and felt the old, familiar spike of irritation. Two minutes doesn't make you the queen.
Kitty moved quietly, humming something under her breath—an old tune, soft and repetitive. She lowered Laurie into the other crib, patting her back until she settled deeper into sleep. Then Kitty turned, and her eyes found Monica's immediately.
"Hi," Kitty whispered, like Monica had been missing her specifically. "There you are."
Monica held the stare.
Kitty's smile tilted. "You're awake again. You always look so serious."
Monica wanted to say: Because I'm not supposed to be here.
Instead, her mouth made a tiny, displeased sound.
Kitty leaned over the crib rail and brushed Monica's forehead with a fingertip. Her touch was light and warm. "Okay, okay. No touching the hair. I know. You don't like it."
Monica didn't like a lot of things. Kitty's gentle, persistent affection was—annoyingly—starting to become one of the few things she didn't actively resent.
That scared her more than the helplessness.
Because affection made you soft. And soft got you hurt.
Kitty adjusted Monica's blanket, then reached for the diaper basket again. "Your father's going to be home soon," she said conversationally, as if Monica was capable of replying with anything besides noise. "He's been working extra hours. I told him he doesn't have to, but you know your dad. Once he decides something, it's like trying to move a refrigerator with a spoon."
Monica's eyes narrowed slightly.
Extra hours at the plant. Of course. Twins meant formula. Diapers. Doctor visits. Another mouth to feed, times two. Red Forman's love language wasn't words—it was sacrifice wrapped in stubbornness.
Kitty continued, voice soft. "I'm going to try to make something nice for dinner. Something real. Not just… whatever I can throw together." She paused, then added, quieter, "He's been so tired."
Monica's chest tightened with a feeling she didn't want to name.
Not pity. Not empathy.
Recognition.
She could already see the script forming: Red carrying the whole world on his shoulders because he didn't trust anyone else to do it right. Kitty compensating by being sunshine even when she was running out of light.
And Monica—Monica was a problem the universe had shoved into their home without consent.
Kitty lifted the basket and started toward the door.
"Mom," Red's voice called from somewhere deeper in the house.
Kitty paused and rolled her eyes in a way that somehow managed to be affectionate and exasperated at the same time. "I'm not your mother, Red."
Monica couldn't see him from the crib, but she heard the movement—boots on linoleum, the scrape of a chair, the sound of a man dropping something heavy on a table like he'd been carrying it with his teeth.
Red appeared in the doorway a moment later, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, collar open. His hair was slightly damp at the temples like he'd been outside or under factory heat. He didn't look angry—just… braced. Like the world was always one inconvenience away from testing him.
His eyes flicked to Laurie's crib first—quick, checking. Then to Monica.
Monica met his gaze and didn't blink.
Red stopped moving.
Kitty smirked. "See? She stares at you like you owe her money."
Red grunted. "She looks like she's judging me."
"She is," Kitty said cheerfully.
Red stepped into the nursery, lowering his voice as if the babies were tiny spies. "How were they?"
Kitty lifted one shoulder. "Fed. Changed. Laurie slept for almost two hours straight."
Red's gaze went to Monica again. "And… her?"
Kitty's smile softened. "Monica's been awake. Thinking. Plotting."
Red's mouth did that thing—almost a smile, but not quite. "That's my girl."
Monica's throat tightened. Not because she needed validation—she didn't. But because Red's attention wasn't casual. It was focused, deliberate, like he'd already decided she was worth defending.
And Monica couldn't afford to be anyone's weakness.
Red leaned over her crib rail. His shadow fell across her, solid and familiar already.
"What," he said quietly, "are you thinking about?"
Monica's body betrayed her with a soft coo. It wasn't intentional. It wasn't strategy. It was just… the reflexive sound infants made when a voice that felt safe entered their space.
Red stiffened like he'd been insulted by her own biology. He cleared his throat and straightened.
Kitty's eyes glittered with amusement. "She likes you."
"She doesn't know anything," Red muttered again, like in the hospital, like he needed to believe that.
Monica wanted to reach out and grab his finger again, just to prove a point. But her hands were still clumsy, her fingers curling like they were practicing.
Red glanced at Kitty. "Did the mail come?"
Kitty's expression shifted. "Yes."
Red's entire face changed. Not dramatic—just a tightening around the eyes, a subtle brace in his shoulders.
Monica watched closely.
Money stress wasn't new. Monica had lived through it in her other life too. She recognized the signs: the careful tone, the way conversations became shorter, the way people stopped buying small joys because they weren't sure they deserved them.
Kitty set the diaper basket down and walked out. "It's on the kitchen table."
Red followed her, then paused in the doorway like he couldn't help himself.
He looked back at Monica. "No fussing," he said, voice stern by habit. Then, quieter, "I'll be right back."
Monica stared until he left.
Then she turned her eyes to the ceiling and breathed as much as her little lungs would allow.
Okay, she thought. So this is it. This is my start line.
She couldn't write yet. Couldn't walk. Couldn't even roll over without looking like a drunk seal.
But she could listen.
And she could remember.
—
The kitchen table was only a partial view from the nursery doorway, but sound carried in this house like gossip.
Monica couldn't see the mail, but she heard the paper slide. Heard envelopes being sorted. Heard Red's chair scrape as he sat down.
Kitty moved around him, the soft clink of dishes as she started dinner prep, the faucet running, the faint hiss of the stove being lit.
Red said something under his breath—too low to catch.
Kitty's voice answered, gentle. "It's okay."
"It's not okay," Red said, louder now, sharper. Paper crinkled. "It's—" He stopped himself, like he didn't want to say certain words out loud in his own house.
Kitty's tone stayed calm. "Red, we knew it would be tight for a while."
"It shouldn't be," he snapped. "I work. I work my ass off. We shouldn't be—" Another stop. Another swallow.
Monica's stomach clenched, and not from hunger.
Kitty's footsteps approached. The nursery door creaked wider.
She came in with a pacifier in her hand and a look on her face that said she'd just had to pull Red back from the edge of his pride.
"Hi," Kitty whispered again, smiling too brightly.
Monica didn't care about pacifiers. Monica cared about information.
Kitty leaned in, offering the pacifier. Monica ignored it. Kitty tried again.
Monica opened her mouth—not for the pacifier, but to make a sound. Something urgent. Something sharp.
It came out as a wail.
Kitty immediately panicked, scooping Monica up like she'd been waiting for an excuse. "Oh, honey, okay, okay—"
Monica screamed louder, furious at herself for losing control, furious that this was the only way she could force adults to move.
Kitty bounced her gently. "You're okay, you're okay…"
From the kitchen, Red's chair scraped back hard.
Boots approached.
Red filled the doorway, frowning. "What's wrong?"
Kitty looked up, already defensive. "I don't know. She's just upset."
Red stepped closer, eyes narrowed at Monica like she was a tiny puzzle he wanted to solve by force of will.
Monica's crying faltered. She stared at him, wet-faced and furious.
Red stared back.
"Is she hungry?" he asked Kitty.
"She ate not long ago."
"Wet?"
"I changed her."
Red's jaw tightened, like the idea of an unsolved problem offended him personally. He leaned over and, awkwardly, brushed Monica's cheek with the back of one finger. His touch was less gentle than Kitty's, but somehow steadier.
Monica stopped crying. Not because she was soothed—because she'd achieved her goal.
Red noticed. His eyes narrowed. "What is it," he said quietly, "that you want?"
Monica's gaze flicked past him toward the kitchen.
Red followed her gaze without thinking.
Kitty blinked. "Oh my God," she whispered, like she'd just realized something. "Red—she's looking at the mail."
Red turned back slowly, suspicion sharpening. "That's ridiculous."
Kitty's eyes widened. "Is it?"
Monica held Red's stare again. Yes, you idiot. It's the mail.
Red looked offended. "She can't even hold her head up."
Kitty's mouth twitched. "She's… special."
Red scowled like that word tasted bad. "She's a baby."
Monica made a small, sharp sound—half complaint, half insistence.
Red exhaled, harsh. "Fine." He stepped back. "Kitty, bring her out."
Kitty, still looking amazed, carried Monica into the kitchen like she was presenting evidence.
The kitchen table came into view: a small stack of envelopes, a folded newspaper, and one official-looking letter that had Red's attention locked like a vise.
Monica's eyes went straight to the newspaper headline.
She couldn't read words yet—not with these eyes, not with this brain-body disconnect—but she recognized shapes, fonts, the layout of newsprint. She recognized the weight of it, the way grown-ups looked at newspapers like they were getting judged by the world.
Red's hand hovered over the official letter like it might bite him.
Kitty sat at the table with Monica on her lap, gently holding her upright.
Monica's neck wobbled. She hated that part. She forced herself to focus anyway.
Red tapped the letter with two fingers. "This," he said, flat, "is the hospital bill."
Kitty's smile softened. "Okay."
Red's eyes flashed. "Okay? It's not 'okay,' Kitty. It's—"
Kitty laid a hand on his arm. "Red."
His jaw clenched. He swallowed whatever he was going to say.
Monica stared at the letter like she could burn it.
So this is the first enemy, she thought. Not Hyde. Not Eric. Not publishers. Not fame.
Money.
Money was what would shape everything. Money was what made Red rigid. Money was what made Kitty smile too hard. Money was what made Laurie learn early that silence could be bought.
Monica understood money. Understood it in a way no infant should.
And, deep in her chest, something cold and determined settled into place.
I will never let this house feel like this again.
Red noticed her stare. "She's doing it again," he muttered.
Kitty beamed. "She's smart."
Red grunted. But his gaze softened—just slightly. "Yeah," he said, quieter, "I know."
Monica's eyes flicked from the bill to the newspaper to the kitchen counter where a can of hairspray sat—silver, with red text. An early aerosol. The kind of small thing most people didn't think about.
But Monica did.
She stared at the can like it was a prophecy.
Aerosols were the future. Hair. Beauty. Packaging. Branding. The way women would chase control through appearance when the world refused them control anywhere else.
Monica's other life had taught her that beauty wasn't frivolous. It was power. Armor. Currency.
And Monica had been reborn into a decade where that currency was about to explode.
She couldn't write yet. But she could store ideas like ammunition.
Her eyes moved again, scanning the kitchen like a hungry mind.
A calendar on the wall. 1958.
A radio humming softly in the background with some crooner's voice.
A stack of coupons clipped neatly, because Kitty was already doing what she had to do.
Monica didn't just see a kitchen.
She saw a battlefield.
Red rubbed a hand over his face. "I'm going to talk to someone at the plant," he said, stubborn. "Maybe I can pick up—"
Kitty's hand tightened on his arm. "Red, you can't work every hour."
He looked at her like she'd asked him to stop breathing. "We have twins."
Kitty's voice stayed gentle. "We also have each other."
Red's mouth opened, then shut again. His eyes flicked briefly to Monica—like she was part of the equation now, not just a mouth to feed.
Monica held his gaze.
Don't break yourself for us, she wanted to say. I'll pay you back.
Her body couldn't speak.
So she did the next best thing: she forced her face—her tiny, uncooperative face—into something like calm. Something like acceptance.
It wasn't a smile. Not yet.
But it was enough that Kitty gasped softly. "Red—look. She's… she's settling."
Red leaned closer, suspicious. "She's just tired."
Kitty's voice dropped, reverent. "No, I think she understands."
Red scoffed automatically—his favorite defense. But his eyes stayed on Monica's face too long, like he wasn't sure he believed himself.
Monica's fingers twitched. She reached—slowly, awkwardly—and her little hand brushed Red's knuckles where they rested on the table.
It wasn't on purpose at first. Just body movement.
But then she made it purposeful. She curled her fingers around his knuckle as best she could.
Red froze.
Kitty's breath caught.
Monica gripped harder.
Red stared at her hand like it was a handshake deal being signed in blood.
"See?" Kitty whispered. "She knows you."
Red swallowed. His voice came out rough. "She doesn't—"
Monica tightened her grip again, offended.
Red's mouth shut.
His shoulders lowered a fraction, like he'd been carrying weight and someone had just shifted it slightly.
He covered Monica's tiny fist with his larger hand—shielding it, warming it.
"Alright," he muttered, like the universe had bullied him into tenderness again. "Alright."
Kitty wiped at her eyes. "Oh, Red…"
He shot her a look. "Don't start."
Kitty sniffled anyway, because Kitty always started.
Monica stared at the hairspray can again, then the newspaper, then the bill.
In her mind, she built a list—quietly, relentlessly:
Future trends worth hiding.
Future stories worth stealing back.
Future investments worth making.
Hair, nails, fashion, publishing, contracts, media manipulation. The way to turn attention into safety. The way to turn talent into a fortress.
And one more thing, tucked beneath all the practical plans:
The people worth protecting.
Monica's grip loosened. Her body started to sag with exhaustion, the kind that came not from infant weakness but from the sheer effort of staying awake inside this strange new existence.
Kitty shifted her gently. "Time for a nap, baby."
Monica didn't fight this one.
Because she'd done what she needed to do.
She'd looked at the first bill.
She'd felt Red's fear and pride collide.
She'd recognized the exact kind of pressure that would shape this family.
And she'd made a decision, deep and silent, where no one could steal it:
I will not be a burden.
I will be the reason this house never has to flinch at an envelope again.
As sleep dragged her under, Monica clung to one last clear image—silver aerosol can, bright text, future power disguised as something small.
A trend worth hiding.
A weapon worth saving.
And she promised herself, with all the seriousness Kitty kept noticing:
Someday, she'd open that stash of ideas like a locked trunk.
And everything inside it would change Point Place forever.