Saturday, December 11, 1965 — Point Place, Wisconsin
(Pre-Series • Monica age 7)
December in Point Place made people kinder on the surface.
And meaner underneath.
Lights went up in windows. Wreaths appeared on doors. Women baked too much. Men drank too early. Children got dragged into choir practice and told to "smile like you mean it."
The town dressed itself in cheer like it was trying to convince God it deserved good things.
Monica watched it with the steady caution of someone who knew that "nice" was often just another kind of performance.
Because Monica had seen communities before.
They weren't warm because they cared.
They were warm because warmth was a currency.
And in a town like Point Place, currency was everything.
______
Kitty had been excited for a week about the Christmas bazaar at the church hall.
Not because Kitty was overly religious.
Because the bazaar was social.
It was where women traded recipes and rumors and measured each other's marriages like they were quilts.
Kitty wanted to be measured and found acceptable.
Red didn't care about being acceptable.
Red cared about not being pitied.
Those two needs did not play nicely together.
The morning of the bazaar, Kitty dressed the girls in matching winter coats—Laurie's with a nicer scarf, Monica's with the practical gloves.
Laurie complained about the scarf. Monica didn't.
Eric toddled around in boots that were too big, chanting, "Candy! Candy!" like he'd heard the word once and decided it was his new religion.
Red sat at the table with coffee, silent, face pulled tight like he'd already fought three battles before breakfast.
Kitty fluttered. "Red, it'll be fun. There's going to be hot cocoa, and crafts, and—oh! They're doing a little children's choir performance."
Red grunted. "Great. Torture."
Kitty smiled too brightly. "It's Christmas."
Red's jaw tightened. "Christmas doesn't pay bills."
Kitty's smile faltered—just for a second.
Then she patched it back on like she always did.
Monica saw it.
Monica always saw it.
Kitty turned to Monica. "Honey, can you carry the tin of cookies?"
Monica nodded. "Yes, Mommy."
Laurie's eyes narrowed immediately. "Why does she get to carry them."
Kitty sighed. "Because Monica is careful."
Laurie's cheeks flushed. "I'm careful!"
Red muttered into his coffee, "No you're not."
Laurie glared at him, wounded and furious, then turned that fury toward Monica like Monica was the safer target.
Monica didn't react.
Not today.
Today was a community day.
Community days were when you did not give people stories to tell about your family.
_______
The church hall smelled like cinnamon, coffee, and wet wool from coats shaking off snow.
Tables lined the room with baked goods and crafts and raffle baskets. Women buzzed around like bees—laughing, smiling, watching.
Kitty lit up the moment they walked in.
"Oh! Hi! Hi, everyone!" Kitty chirped, waving at women who responded with polite smiles that didn't quite reach their eyes.
Red's posture stiffened.
Red hated this kind of room.
Too many eyes. Too many judgments. Too many men pretending they weren't being judged too.
Monica scanned automatically:
•exits
•adults who looked like gossip engines
•children who looked like trouble
•and where Red was standing, because Red's mood could become weather
Laurie immediately took off like a dart, drawn toward a cluster of girls near the craft table—hair bows, shiny shoes, little queens in training.
Eric clung to Kitty, whining for cocoa.
Monica stayed close to Red.
Not because she was afraid.
Because Red's pride was a live wire in public spaces.
And Monica knew how to ground him.
______
Kitty set the cookie tin down on the baked goods table and began arranging them like presentation mattered more than taste.
A woman nearby—Mrs. Thompson, of course—smiled wide.
"Kitty Forman! Those look darling."
Kitty beamed. "Oh, thank you!"
Mrs. Thompson leaned closer, eyes flicking to Monica. "And how are the twins doing? Still inseparable?"
Kitty's smile tightened a fraction. "Oh, yes! Well—mostly."
Monica didn't move.
Mrs. Thompson's gaze lingered on Monica. "Monica is always so… serious."
Kitty laughed too brightly. "Oh, she's just thoughtful!"
Red's jaw clenched.
Because Red hated people commenting on his kids like they were pets.
Mrs. Thompson tilted her head, voice sugary. "And work, Red? How's the plant?"
Silence.
Kitty's hands paused on the cookie tray.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Because this wasn't small talk.
This was fishing.
Red's eyes narrowed. "It's work."
Mrs. Thompson laughed lightly. "Oh, of course! Of course. I just heard—well, you know how people talk—something about cut shifts."
Kitty's face went too still.
Red's voice turned flat. "People should mind their damn business."
Mrs. Thompson blinked, startled—then recovered with a giggle. "Oh, Red! Always so blunt."
Red didn't smile.
Kitty rushed in, desperate to smooth it. "We're fine! Everything's fine."
Mrs. Thompson's gaze flicked between them, satisfied—because now she had something real.
Now she had confirmation.
Monica watched Mrs. Thompson's face and felt that familiar cold recognition:
In Point Place, hardship wasn't private.
Hardship was entertainment.
_______
Across the room, Laurie laughed too loudly at something a girl said, flipping her hair like she'd seen older girls do.
Monica could see Laurie performing.
Laurie didn't want anyone to know the Formans were shaky.
Laurie didn't want anyone to know her dad's job was unstable.
Laurie wanted the illusion of power.
Monica understood that.
Power was safety.
But Laurie didn't understand the cost of chasing it.
A volunteer called for children to line up for the choir performance.
Kids shuffled to the front, some excited, some miserable.
Laurie darted into the line immediately, because Laurie loved being visible.
Monica didn't move.
Kitty turned to Monica, hopeful. "Honey, do you want to sing too?"
Monica smiled politely. "No, thank you."
Kitty's face fell for a second—then she hid it, because Kitty didn't want people seeing disappointment.
Red grunted like he approved. "Good. No need to make a spectacle."
Kitty shot him a look. "Red—"
Red's eyes narrowed. "What. I'm right."
Kitty inhaled, then forced a smile at the nearby women, pretending her husband wasn't a walking landmine.
Monica leaned slightly toward Kitty and whispered, "I can help you pack up after."
Kitty's shoulders loosened, relief flooding her face.
"Thank you, honey," Kitty whispered back, like Monica was her anchor too.
Monica was starting to feel that weight more and more.
A seven-year-old should not be an anchor.
But Monica had never been normal.
______
The children began singing—a messy, high-pitched version of a Christmas carol that made adults clap anyway.
Laurie sang the loudest.
Of course she did.
She grinned like she was on stage.
When the song ended, adults cheered.
Laurie bowed dramatically.
Monica watched Red's face soften—just a fraction—as he saw Laurie's pride.
Then his jaw tightened again like he'd caught himself being soft.
Because Red didn't trust softness.
Softness didn't keep the heat on.
After the performance, a man from the plant—Mr. Hargrove—approached Red, hands in his pockets, posture tense.
"Red," Hargrove said quietly.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Hargrove."
Kitty's smile went rigid.
Monica immediately took Eric's hand, because Eric was loud and unpredictable and adults talked differently when toddlers weren't right underfoot.
Mr. Hargrove leaned in slightly. "Heard you got cut early last month."
Red's jaw clenched. "Yeah."
Hargrove exhaled, eyes darting around like he didn't want the church hall hearing. "They're talking more cuts. Maybe after New Year."
Red's face went stony.
Kitty's breathing changed—small, quick, controlled.
Hargrove added, "Union's gonna push back, but you know how it is."
Red muttered, "Yeah. I know."
Hargrove's gaze flicked to Monica and Eric, then back to Red. "You'll be alright?"
Red's voice was flat, proud. "We're fine."
Hargrove nodded, then drifted away like he'd delivered bad news and wanted no part of the fallout.
Kitty stood too still, smile frozen.
Red stared at the wall like he could punch the problem through it.
Monica felt the room tilt—not physically, but emotionally.
This was the cold that Kitty had been trying to keep out with cookies and carols.
This was the real December.
________
On the drive home, Kitty kept talking too brightly—about crafts, about cocoa, about how "nice" everyone was.
Red didn't respond much.
Laurie chattered about how she "sounded the best" in the choir.
Eric fell asleep with chocolate on his lip.
Monica sat quietly, watching Red's knuckles on the steering wheel.
White.
Too tight.
At home, Kitty began taking off coats, moving too fast—cleaning, organizing, trying to regain control through chores.
Red went straight to the garage without speaking.
Laurie ran upstairs with her craft ornament like it was proof she mattered.
Monica followed Kitty into the kitchen.
Kitty's hands shook as she rinsed cups that weren't dirty.
Monica stepped closer. "Mommy."
Kitty flinched, then forced a smile. "Yes, honey?"
Monica spoke gently, like she was careful with fragile glass. "Do you want me to make dinner tonight?"
Kitty's eyes shimmered immediately.
"Oh—Monica…" Kitty swallowed hard. "You don't have to."
Monica nodded. "I know. But I can."
Kitty's smile wobbled. "Okay. Okay, honey. That would be… wonderful."
Monica moved to the counter and began pulling out ingredients the way she'd watched Kitty do a hundred times.
Not because Monica loved cooking.
Because cooking was control.
Cooking was stability.
Cooking was a way to keep the house from feeling like it was falling apart.
From the garage, Monica could hear Red moving tools around—too loudly, too aggressively, like he was trying to fix the world by fixing metal.
Monica chopped carefully, hands steady.
Kitty hovered, wiping invisible crumbs, trying not to cry.
After a while, Monica said quietly, "Daddy is scared."
Kitty froze.
Then she whispered, like admitting it was dangerous. "Red isn't scared."
Monica didn't look up. "Yes, he is."
Kitty's breath hitched.
Monica kept her voice soft. "He just doesn't say it like other people."
Kitty swallowed hard, then nodded faintly.
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
Monica didn't point it out.
She didn't make Kitty feel exposed.
She just kept cooking.
Because sometimes love was not big speeches.
Sometimes love was pretending you didn't see the tear so the person could keep standing.
______
That night, Monica opened her Future Box and wrote:
December 11, 1965: Church bazaar. People smile while they hunt for weakness.
Mrs. Thompson fished for plant rumors. Hargrove confirmed more cuts after New Year. Dad is proud and scared. Mom is trying to hold warmth together with cookies.
Lesson: In Point Place, hardship becomes gossip. Protect the family narrative in public.
Action: Be useful at home. Keep Dad anchored. Keep Mom from breaking.
She stared at what she'd written for a long moment.
Then she added one more line—quiet, honest, adult:
This town doesn't forgive people for struggling.
Monica closed the box, climbed into bed, and listened to the house.
The garage door shutting.
Red's footsteps heavy.
Kitty's quiet humming returning, forced and brave.
Laurie laughing upstairs like nothing could touch her.
Eric breathing softly, still innocent.
Monica stared at the ceiling and whispered the rule that had become her prayer:
"Act normal."
Then she whispered the second rule, the one she was building her whole life around:
"Get ready."