March 23, 1959 — Point Place, Wisconsin
March in Point Place didn't arrive politely.
It came in like a negotiation—snow still piled in the corners of the yard, muddy slush creeping along the road, cold mornings that made the windows sweat from the inside. The calendar said spring. Wisconsin disagreed.
Inside the Forman house, Kitty was trying to force the season into existence.
The living room smelled faintly like lemon cleaner and determination. The curtains were pulled wide even though the sky was a flat, stubborn gray. A bowl of those pastel mints—hard enough to crack a tooth—sat on the coffee table like it was the centerpiece of a parade.
Monica watched it all from the rug, legs splayed, one hand resting on a cloth book, the other holding a wooden block she had no intention of eating.
She was a year old now.
A whole year since she'd been reborn into this reality, in this town, in this body that still felt too small for the amount of thought she carried.
A whole year of learning how to perform.
A whole year of surviving the constant temptation to do something too advanced, too controlled, too un-baby—and wake up one morning to find herself turned into Point Place's favorite rumor.
Laurie was across from her, already offended by the existence of the world. She'd discovered the joy of standing by gripping furniture and had decided she deserved to do it flawlessly on the first try. She was currently clutching the couch cushion with two white-knuckled fists, wobbling like a drunk sailor, and glaring at Monica as if Monica had personally made gravity.
Kitty swept through the room again, smoothing the rug for the third time like the rug had insulted her. "Okay," she chirped, as if she was talking herself into peace. "Okay! We're going to have a nice day."
Red's voice came from the kitchen, dry as sandpaper. "It's Monday."
Kitty didn't even flinch. "It's a new week, Red."
Red, unimpressed: "It's a week."
Monica's gaze drifted toward the kitchen doorway. Red sat at the table with his coffee and newspaper, boots on, posture squared like he was bracing for a fight that hadn't started yet. The radio muttered low—news, weather, some talk about Chicago that Red pretended not to care about but always listened to anyway.
Kitty hovered between kitchen and living room, fussy energy wrapping around her like a shawl. Monica could feel the reason for it under the surface.
Kitty had been like this since Monica and Laurie's birthday.
March 15 had come and gone with a tiny cake, two candles Kitty refused to light because "fire is dangerous," and pictures that Kitty already planned to put in an album. Kitty had cried. Red had stood beside her stiffly and muttered, "Alright, that's enough," when Kitty tried to kiss both babies and sob at the same time.
It wasn't a big party. Kitty hadn't invited half the town, because Red would've rather died. But Kitty had still treated it like an event.
Because it meant they'd made it.
Because it meant the twins were real and alive and staying.
And because Kitty's love always came with the need to make moments count.
Monica understood that. She respected it. She also knew it could suffocate if Kitty tried to wrap every day in meaning.
Today, Kitty's meaning was clean and presentable and normal.
Normal was a shield.
Kitty needed it.
Monica did too.
Laurie made a sharp noise—half frustration, half demand—then released the couch cushion and promptly dropped onto her diapered butt with a thump.
Kitty jolted. "Laurie! Honey—"
Red's voice cut in, flat and immediate. "Kitty."
Kitty stopped mid-step, hands hovering. "What?"
"She's not hurt," Red said without looking up. "She's mad."
Laurie proved him right by letting out a wail so offended it sounded like she'd been betrayed.
Kitty's face pinched, caught between instinct and exhaustion. She looked at Red like she wanted permission to soothe.
Red didn't give it. He sipped his coffee instead.
Monica watched the pattern forming. She'd seen it a dozen times. Laurie screamed. Kitty rushed. Red snapped. Laurie learned.
Monica didn't want that.
Not because she was trying to be a saint. Because she was trying to keep the household balanced. Because a tense Red made everything harder. Because a stressed Kitty got quieter in ways Monica didn't like. Because Laurie—Laurie was already learning how to weaponize attention.
So Monica moved.
She crawled toward Laurie, fast enough that Kitty noticed and paused. Monica slapped the rug twice—firm, rhythmic—and made the sharp sound she'd learned cut through Laurie's noise without escalating.
"Gah!"
Laurie's scream faltered.
Monica reached for a block, shoved it toward Laurie, then tapped it again—thump, thump—like it was a game.
Laurie stared, sniffled, then grabbed the block with possessive triumph.
Her scream deflated into grumbling.
Kitty exhaled like she'd been holding her breath. "Oh, Monica…"
Red lowered his newspaper slightly, eyes narrowing at Monica like competence in a baby was suspicious. "You keep doing that."
Monica didn't look at him. She kept her focus on Laurie until Laurie was fully distracted.
Then Monica sat back on her heels and turned toward Red slowly, blinking in a wide-eyed, baby-innocent way.
Red stared at her for a beat, then muttered, "Don't."
Kitty's head snapped up. "Red!"
Red didn't look at Kitty. "I didn't say stop. I said don't make it your job."
Monica's mind hummed.
It already is my job, she thought. Someone has to manage the household mood, and you're not exactly built for emotional finesse.
But she didn't say it. Obviously.
Instead, Monica leaned forward and made a soft, harmless babble. "Ba… da…"
Kitty smiled automatically. "Oh, listen to you!"
Red's eyes narrowed further. "She's doing that on purpose."
Kitty scoffed gently. "Red, she's a baby."
Red's voice stayed flat. "So am I, compared to her."
Kitty blinked. "What does that even mean?"
Red returned to his paper like he hadn't said something insane.
Monica's chest warmed anyway.
Red saw her.
Not fully—not the adult mind, not the whole truth—but he saw the intent. He saw that Monica wasn't just reacting. She was choosing.
That was dangerous.
That was also power.
—
By late morning, Kitty had decided she needed to run into town.
"It's just a few things," she announced, already pulling on her coat like she could will Red into agreeing with sheer momentum. "I need diapers, and I want to look at fabric—just look—and then we'll get home before lunch."
Red stared over his coffee. "Why."
Kitty blinked like the question was a personal insult. "Because we need diapers."
Red's mouth tightened. "We have diapers."
Kitty's smile sharpened. "We have some."
Red's eyes narrowed.
Kitty leaned closer, voice bright but deadly. "And I am not running out again. Not like last time."
Red grunted, remembering. Last time Kitty had run out, she'd been forced to improvise with cloth and safety pins while Red stood in the doorway looking like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him to fatherhood.
"Fine," Red muttered. "Go."
Kitty brightened instantly. "Good! You'll come?"
Red's face hardened. "No."
Kitty sighed dramatically. "Red…"
"I've got work tomorrow," Red said. "I'm not wasting my day in town."
Kitty's eyes narrowed. "Red Forman, you're not wasting your day. You're accompanying your wife so she doesn't get stuck juggling two babies alone in a store."
Red's jaw tightened like he hated how reasonable she sounded.
Monica watched him calculate: annoyance versus duty versus love.
Red stood abruptly, grabbed his coat, and muttered, "Fine."
Kitty's grin was victorious. "Wonderful!"
Red shot her a look. "Don't."
Kitty's smile only widened. "I won't."
Monica was bundled again—coat, hat, mittens that never stayed on. Laurie protested the entire process like she was being dressed for execution.
Monica endured it, eyes steady, mind already shifting into public mode.
Act normal, she reminded herself. Drool a little. Blink slower. Don't stare at strangers like you're collecting blackmail.
Red carried Monica's seat. Kitty carried Laurie's. They stepped out into the cold, and Monica felt the sharp bite of air on her cheeks.
She hated it.
She respected it.
The world outside didn't care that she'd been reborn. It didn't care that she was thinking in paragraphs. It didn't care that she was already plotting the rest of her life.
Outside was honest.
—
Town was small enough that "running errands" meant seeing everyone you'd ever met whether you wanted to or not.
The grocery store was warm and smelled like bread, floor cleaner, and winter coats drying. Kitty brightened immediately, voice lifting into her social register.
"Oh, hello!" she called to Mrs. Dugan near the produce section.
Mrs. Dugan turned, eyes lighting up the moment she saw the babies. "Kitty! Red!"
Red nodded stiffly. "Dugan."
Mrs. Dugan leaned toward the baby seats immediately, her curiosity hungry. "Look at them! Oh, they've grown."
Kitty smiled, proud and tired. "Yes."
Mrs. Dugan peered at Laurie first, cooing. "Laurie, you little doll."
Laurie stared back like she was assessing whether Mrs. Dugan was worthy of existing.
Then Mrs. Dugan leaned toward Monica.
Her smile faltered a fraction. "And Monica…"
Monica softened her face deliberately—open, baby-sweet. She let her mouth part slightly and made a quiet, meaningless coo.
Mrs. Dugan still hesitated, eyes narrowing like she couldn't quite place why Monica felt different.
"That one," Mrs. Dugan murmured, not unkindly, "has eyes like she's listening."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Oh, she's just… serious."
Red's voice cut in, flat as a slap. "She's fine."
Mrs. Dugan straightened, offended. "I didn't say she wasn't."
Red's stare didn't budge. "Good."
Kitty elbowed him lightly. "Red."
Red ignored it.
Monica watched it all, filing away the lesson again:
People noticed. Even when Monica performed sweetness. Even when she babbled nonsense. Even when she tried to blur the edges of her intelligence.
Something about her presence registered.
That meant she needed a different strategy.
Not just acting normal.
Acting unremarkable.
Which was harder.
Because Monica wasn't built to be unremarkable. Not even as a baby.
They moved on through the store. Kitty talked to a woman about coupons. Red pushed the cart like it was a chore. Laurie tried to grab a loaf of bread and got her hand slapped gently by Kitty.
Monica watched everything: prices, brands, packaging. She stored it not because she cared about grocery economics at one year old, but because her brain refused to stop gathering context.
Red paused near the coffee aisle, frowning at a price tag. "Jesus."
Kitty leaned in. "What?"
Red jabbed a finger at the sign. "It went up again."
Kitty's smile tightened. "Everything's going up."
Red muttered, "And wages don't."
Monica stared at the shelf, mind cold and sharp.
Money again.
Always money.
Red's tension at the plant. Overtime whispers. Prices climbing.
This was the pressure that would shape the Forman house, whether Kitty wanted to pretend otherwise or not.
Monica's stomach tightened with familiar anger—old life anger, new life anger, the same fury at systems that made families flinch over groceries.
Red's hand tightened on the cart handle.
Monica watched it and knew—this was the part she'd change someday.
Not with wishes.
With leverage.
—
The fabric store was Kitty's last stop, and Red hated it on principle.
"It's just looking," Kitty promised, already stepping inside.
Red followed like a man walking into his own demise.
The store smelled like cotton and dye, bolts of color stacked in neat rows. Kitty's eyes softened the moment she saw the fabric—like she was remembering herself as more than mother, more than wife.
Monica understood that too.
Kitty ran her fingers over a bolt of pale yellow, smiling. "This would make such a sweet dress."
Red muttered, "They grow out of it in a month."
Kitty shot him a look. "Let me enjoy things, Red."
Red's mouth tightened, but he didn't argue.
Kitty moved down the aisle, half humming, half thinking aloud. "Maybe I'll make matching dresses for Easter."
Red grunted. "If you want."
Kitty's voice warmed. "Maybe I do."
Laurie fussed, bored, and Kitty bounced her gently while still scanning fabric like she could multitask her way into sanity.
Monica sat quietly in her seat, eyes scanning the store—and then she noticed it.
A woman near the counter, older, hair perfectly set, lipstick neat, gaze sharp. She was watching Kitty.
Not admiring. Assessing.
The woman's eyes slid to Monica next—and paused.
Monica felt it like a hook.
The woman smiled, but it was the kind of smile that didn't reach the eyes. The kind of smile that meant I've decided something about you.
Monica's body stayed still. Her face stayed soft.
Her mind, however, cataloged the woman instantly:
Nosy. Socially positioned. The type who spreads stories.
Kitty waved politely because Kitty waved at everyone. "Hello!"
The woman's smile widened. "Kitty Forman, isn't it?"
Kitty blinked, then smiled. "Yes."
Red's posture stiffened immediately.
The woman leaned closer, gaze sliding over the twins. "I've heard about your girls."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Oh—well—yes."
The woman's eyes landed on Monica again. "This one looks… different."
Kitty's smile faltered. "Different?"
Red's voice cut in, flat and dangerous. "They're babies."
The woman chuckled lightly, like Red was being silly. "Of course. But you know how people talk."
Kitty's shoulders tightened. "People talk?"
The woman shrugged, still smiling. "Oh, you know. 'The Formans' little genius baby.'"
Kitty froze.
Red went still in a way Monica recognized immediately: controlled anger.
Monica's chest tightened.
So it had already started.
The rumor. The label. The town trying to make Monica into a story.
Kitty forced a laugh, too bright. "Oh, that's ridiculous."
The woman's smile stayed sharp. "Is it?"
Red's voice dropped. "We're leaving."
Kitty blinked, startled. "Red—"
Red didn't wait. He grabbed Monica's seat handle and lifted it with stiff care, then reached for the cart like he was done pretending this outing was normal.
Kitty hurried after him, face tense, Laurie fussing in her arms.
The woman watched them go, still smiling like she'd won something.
Monica stared back over the edge of her blanket as they left.
She didn't glare.
She didn't frown.
She didn't show anger.
She gave the woman the softest, sweetest baby look she could manage—wide eyes, innocent expression—like Monica was harmless.
Like Monica was nothing.
The woman's smile faltered a fraction.
Good.
—
The car ride home was silent.
Red drove with both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the road. Kitty stared out the window, but Monica could see the tension in her shoulders—the way her mind was replaying the woman's words.
Genius baby.
The thing Kitty wanted—pride—had already become something else: pressure.
Laurie dozed, exhausted from being bored and dramatic. Monica stayed awake, watching Red's profile, watching Kitty's hands twist together in her lap.
Finally, Kitty whispered, "Red…"
Red's voice was flat. "Don't."
Kitty swallowed. "People are saying things."
Red's jaw flexed. "People always say things."
Kitty's voice shook. "About Monica."
Red's eyes stayed on the road. "Let them."
Kitty turned toward him, eyes bright with worry. "Red, I don't want them—"
Red cut in, sharper now. "They don't get to decide anything about her."
Kitty's breath caught.
Red's voice went lower, rougher. "And if anyone tries to get in her face again, I'll handle it."
Kitty whispered, "Red…"
Red didn't soften. "I'm serious."
Monica listened, mind racing.
Red's protection was a shield.
It could also become a spotlight.
Because Red handling things often meant intimidation. And intimidation made people whisper more. And whispering made stories grow teeth.
Monica needed a plan that didn't rely on Red scaring every woman in Wisconsin into silence.
But for now—she let Red have this.
Red needed to feel like he could protect his family.
Kitty needed to feel like Red could protect them.
Monica needed both of them steady.
—
That evening, after dinner—after Kitty's nervous fussing with dishes, after Laurie's sleepy tantrum, after the house finally settled into a quiet that felt earned—Red came into the nursery.
He moved like he didn't want Kitty to notice he was doing this. He always did. Red didn't like being witnessed in softness.
Monica lay awake in her crib, eyes open in the dim light, staring at the ceiling like she was thinking.
Because she was.
Red stopped beside the crib and leaned over the rail. His face was shadowed, but his eyes were sharp.
"You heard that," he said quietly.
Monica blinked slowly.
Red's jaw tightened. "That lady."
Monica's fingers curled around the crib rail.
Red's voice went rough. "You don't have to do anything for them. You hear me?"
Monica made a soft sound. "Mm."
Red stared at her like he was trying to decide whether that counted as understanding.
Then he muttered, "Course you understand."
Monica's chest warmed despite herself.
Red's hand gripped the crib rail. "Kitty gets… nervous," he said, like admitting it was a crime. "Because she wants people to like you."
Monica's throat tightened.
Kitty didn't just want people to like Monica. Kitty wanted Monica to be safe.
Kitty thought safety came from community approval.
Red thought safety came from force.
Monica knew safety came from leverage.
But Monica couldn't say that.
Red exhaled slowly. "So here's the deal."
Monica's eyes stayed on him.
Red's voice went firm—house rules voice. "Rule one: you don't show off for strangers."
Monica's mind went still.
Red's eyes narrowed, like he was measuring her reaction. "Rule two: you don't let anyone put ideas in your mother's head."
Monica blinked, slow, patient.
Red's voice dropped lower. "Rule three: you keep your head down until you're ready."
Monica's heart thudded softly.
That wasn't just a rule. That was strategy.
Red didn't know it, but he'd just given Monica exactly what she needed: permission to wait.
Monica's lips moved. The word came out softer than she meant it to be, because her body always betrayed her at the worst times.
"Daddy."
Red froze.
In the dim light, his face tightened—like emotion hit him and he didn't know where to put it.
Monica held his gaze steadily. Not sweet. Not performative.
Honest.
Red swallowed hard and muttered, "Yeah."
His hand reached down—stiff, careful—and touched Monica's knuckles once with the tip of his finger.
Monica curled her fingers around it automatically.
Red's jaw clenched.
"You keep doing what you're doing," he said, voice rough. "You hear me?"
Monica made a soft coo that could pass as baby nonsense, but Red took it as yes anyway.
Red straightened abruptly, like he'd stayed too long. "Sleep."
Monica's eyelids drooped—not because she was obedient, but because her body was tired and her mind needed to cool down.
As Red left the nursery, Monica stared at the line of light under the door.
The town had started talking.
Earlier than Monica wanted.
But that was fine.
Because now Monica knew the shape of the enemy:
Not a person.
Not even a rumor.
A story.
And Monica—Monica was going to become an author someday.
Which meant, eventually, she would learn how to write the story herself.