October 19, 1958 — Point Place, Wisconsin
Fall came in like it had something to prove.
The heat of summer had finally broken, and Point Place traded sticky air for sharp wind that slipped under doors and made the whole house smell like cold wood and laundry hung too long on the line. Kitty called it "crisp." Red called it "about damn time."
Monica lay in the living room again—this time not on a quilt, but in a little padded seat Kitty had hauled home from town like it was contraband. It propped Monica upright at an angle that made her feel like she was perpetually being displayed. She hated it.
She also loved it.
Because upright meant she could see more.
The living room was small, neat in the way Kitty insisted on, even with two babies constantly leaking something. A crocheted throw draped over the couch. A stack of magazines on the coffee table. The radio in the corner murmuring news and music like a second heartbeat in the house. A vase of grocery-store chrysanthemums on the end table—yellow and stubborn, the kind of flowers that refused to be elegant but showed up anyway.
Laurie was on the floor in front of Monica, rolling halfheartedly and making annoyed little noises at the unfairness of not being immediately competent at everything. Laurie's temperament was already distinct: she wanted what she wanted, and she expected the world to hand it over quickly.
Monica's temperament was also distinct.
Monica wanted control. And she knew control wasn't given—it was built.
Kitty moved around the room with her usual busy-bright energy, humming while she folded laundry. It was a domestic performance that looked effortless if you didn't stare too hard at the tiny tells: the way her shoulders sagged for half a second when she thought no one was looking, the little breath she took before picking up another task like she was bracing for a wave.
She was tired.
Monica noticed. Monica always noticed.
Kitty glanced at Monica, smiled, and immediately perked her voice up as if Monica needed cheerleading. "There we go! Look at you sitting like a big girl."
Monica's lips pressed together. Her body wobbled in the seat, her head still heavier than it had any right to be.
Big girl. Right.
Her adult mind felt like a fully furnished house trapped inside a closet. She could think in complete sentences. She could map out a future business plan in her head while her hands flailed like damp noodles.
The radio crackled. A man's voice read headlines: politics, unions, the Soviets, something about Detroit that Red would probably complain about later. Monica listened anyway, storing context like she was building a file.
Kitty folded a tiny onesie with an almost religious care. "Your daddy's bringing home dinner tonight," she announced, like it was a special treat.
Monica's eyes tracked to the front window. The light outside was already thinning—late afternoon turning the street gold. Leaves scudded along the road like scraps.
Laurie made a sound that might've been curiosity or might've been outrage at being ignored for three consecutive seconds.
Kitty leaned down and bopped Laurie's nose gently. "No fussing. Not today."
Monica's mind snagged.
No fussing.
It was one of Red's first rules. He'd said it at the hospital like he was addressing a new recruit. Monica had filed it away, not as parenting advice, but as a glimpse into Red Forman's core belief system:
If you could control your emotions, you could control your life.
Monica didn't fully agree. Emotions were useful information. But she understood the appeal of discipline. She understood why a man like Red clung to rules. Rules were predictable. People weren't.
The sound of the porch step creaking made Kitty turn immediately.
Boots followed. Heavy, familiar, purposeful.
Red entered like weather: unavoidable and slightly too loud.
He was still in his work clothes, jacket open, tie loosened. The cold had reddened his cheeks. He carried a paper bag in one hand and a small cardboard box in the other.
Kitty brightened. "Red!"
Red grunted in response—the closest he ever came to a greeting—then his gaze swept the room with the same quick assessment he always did: Kitty—alive. Babies—present. House—not on fire. Good.
His eyes landed on Monica upright in the seat.
Monica met his stare without blinking.
Red paused like he'd just walked into a conversation he didn't remember starting. His mouth tightened, suspicious. "Why is she sitting like that?"
Kitty moved toward him, taking the paper bag. "Because she keeps trying to sit up on her own and face-planting."
Red's eyes flicked to Monica again, then down to Laurie rolling on the floor.
"And her?"
Kitty sighed. "Laurie thinks sitting up is beneath her."
Laurie kicked once in insult.
Red's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Sounds right."
Kitty peered into the bag and made a pleased noise. "Oh! Fried chicken."
Red shrugged, like feeding his family was a casual accident. "They had it ready."
Kitty kissed his cheek quickly—fast enough that he didn't have time to flinch, but he still stiffened like affection was an ambush. "You're wonderful."
Red grumbled something that might've been yeah if you tilted your head.
Monica watched the exchange with the sharp focus of someone studying a language. Kitty expressed love like air—constant, warm, unavoidable. Red expressed love like labor—silent, heavy, relentless.
Monica understood both.
Red set the small box on the coffee table with a thump.
Kitty glanced at it. "What's that?"
Red's eyes didn't leave Monica. "Something I picked up."
Kitty narrowed her eyes. "Red…"
He ignored her and stepped closer to Monica's seat. His shadow fell across her face, and Monica felt her body respond before her mind had a chance to approve—calming slightly, settling, as if it recognized him as safe.
She hated that too.
Red crouched, bringing himself level with her. The cold air from outside clung to him. He smelled like metal and soap and wind.
"You," he said, voice low, as if Monica was the only one in the room. "You've been staring again."
Monica's mouth opened. Not to speak—she couldn't—but to make a sound. Something sharp. Something acknowledging.
It came out as a babble that sounded like: "Da."
Red froze.
Kitty, at the dining table, whipped her head around. "Did she just—"
Red's eyes narrowed at Monica like she'd committed a crime. "No."
Monica tried again, stubborn. "Da."
Not a word. Not really. Just a sound. But the timing of it made the room go still.
Kitty's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh my God. Red, she—"
Red stood up abruptly, as if being emotionally affected was dangerous. "She made a noise."
Kitty's eyes glittered. "She said 'Da.'"
Red scoffed, automatic defense. "She can't talk."
Monica stared at him, unimpressed.
Red stared back, jaw tight. His gaze flicked to Kitty—warning. Don't make this a thing.
Kitty ignored him, because Kitty always ignored Red when it came to joy. "She was talking to you!"
Red muttered, "She's just making sounds."
Monica made the sound again. "Da."
Red's face hardened like he was determined not to let the softness in. But his ears had turned slightly pink.
Kitty laughed—quiet, delighted, triumphant. "She knows you."
Red didn't answer. He reached down and, with a stiff kind of care, unbuckled the strap holding Monica in the seat. Then he scooped her up like he'd done it a thousand times and still hadn't admitted he was good at it.
Monica's body settled against his chest immediately.
She pretended it didn't.
Red's arm was firm. Steady. His hand supported her back properly, no hesitation now. He carried her with the unspoken certainty of someone who'd decided she was his responsibility and therefore his.
Kitty watched them with a soft expression that made Monica's skin itch with unease. Kitty's happiness always came with the threat of tears.
Red shifted Monica slightly and looked down at her face. "Alright," he said quietly. "House rules."
Kitty blinked. "Red, she's a baby."
Red's gaze didn't move. "Still."
Monica's mind sharpened. House rules meant Red was about to do what he always did when he felt out of control: create structure.
Monica approved, reluctantly.
Red carried Monica to his recliner near the window. He sat, adjusting her in the crook of his arm so she was propped upright against his chest. Monica's head wobbled once, then steadied.
Laurie, sensing attention shifting away from her, began to fuss on the floor. Not crying yet, but gearing up.
Red didn't look at Laurie. His attention stayed locked on Monica like she was the one who mattered.
Monica's stomach tightened.
Careful, she thought. Don't make me the favorite so early that it becomes a weapon.
Red's voice dropped lower, like he was imparting state secrets. "Rule one: no whining."
Monica stared up at him, expression flat.
Red narrowed his eyes. "That means when something's wrong, you fix it. Or you ask for help. But you don't sit there making noise just to make noise."
Monica's mind almost smiled.
It was ridiculous advice for an infant. But it wasn't meant for an infant.
It was meant for the future.
Red continued, counting on his fingers like he was building a list he could cling to. "Rule two: you don't take crap from anybody."
Kitty, still hovering near the dining table, sighed. "Red…"
Red shot her a look. "It's a good rule."
Kitty's mouth twitched. "I'm not saying it's not. I'm just saying maybe don't teach babies about 'crap.'"
Red ignored her.
Monica stored the rule anyway.
"Rule three," Red said, voice firming, "you respect your mother."
Kitty went still.
Red's gaze flicked up toward Kitty for half a second, softer than his voice allowed, then returned to Monica. "Your mother does everything. You don't talk back to her. You don't make her life harder."
Monica's throat tightened with something complicated. Because she did respect Kitty. Not in the blind, obedient way Red meant—Monica respected competence, effort, softness that refused to die.
Kitty was all of that.
Monica made a quiet coo, not quite agreement, but acknowledgment.
Red's jaw eased slightly, like he'd gotten the answer he wanted.
"Rule four," he said, "you work for what you want."
Kitty frowned. "Red—"
"Kitty," Red warned.
Kitty threw her hands up. "Fine. Keep going. Teach our infant daughters about capitalism."
Red glared at her, then looked down at Monica. "I'm serious."
Monica stared back. She was always serious.
Red's expression softened by a fraction. "You want something? You earn it. You don't sit around waiting for someone to hand it to you."
Monica's mind hummed. Finally. Something useful.
Red shifted her slightly so she could see his face. "And rule five—"
Laurie finally snapped.
A sharp, offended wail filled the room.
Kitty moved instantly. "Okay, okay, Laurie—"
Red's shoulders tightened. He looked toward Laurie with irritation, then back down at Monica, like Laurie was an interruption.
Monica didn't like that.
She couldn't fix favoritism yet. She couldn't stop Red from gravitating toward the child who seemed "easier." But she could—she could redirect.
Monica made a sound. Not a cry. Not a scream.
A sharp little babble—the same rhythm she'd used months ago, the noise that cut through chaos like a hand clap.
"Gah!"
Red blinked, startled.
Laurie's wail faltered for half a second.
Kitty froze mid-reach.
Monica did it again, softer. "Gah." Then she kicked once—firm enough that Red felt it through his arm.
Red looked down at her like she'd just issued an order.
Monica widened her eyes and shifted her gaze toward Laurie deliberately.
Red followed Monica's gaze without thinking—because Red was a man who responded to focus.
Kitty, catching on, scooped Laurie up. "Hey, hey, it's okay—look, Monica's here."
Laurie continued fussing, but her eyes flicked to Monica's face, drawn by the sound.
Monica made the "gah" again and kicked once more—an improvised signal, a rhythm.
Laurie paused longer this time, attention snagged. Her mouth trembled like she was deciding whether to continue screaming.
Kitty bounced Laurie gently, using Monica's distraction like a tool. "See? Monica's talking to you."
Laurie's fussing dropped to a grumble.
Red stared at Monica like she was a tiny general managing the room.
"What the hell," he muttered under his breath.
Monica, exhausted by the effort, let her head rest against Red's chest for a moment.
Red's hand adjusted automatically, supporting her neck. His fingers were careful in a way he'd never admit.
Kitty exhaled, relief loosening her shoulders. "Thank you," she whispered—not to Monica, not to Red, but to the moment itself.
Red cleared his throat as if gratitude made him itchy. He looked down at Monica again, the previous thread of conversation returning.
"Rule five," he said quietly, "you don't let anybody tell you what you are."
Kitty went still again.
Monica's mind went even stiller.
Red's voice was low, rough, too sincere to be comfortable. "Not teachers. Not neighbors. Not anyone."
He hesitated, then added, almost like he was admitting something: "People like to put you in a box. Don't let them."
Monica stared at him, and for the first time since waking up in this body, she felt something like… alignment.
Because Monica had lived the box. She'd lived being underestimated, dismissed, infantilized, ignored—until she proved herself, and then she'd been shoved into another box labeled useful and expected to stay there.
Red didn't know any of that yet. But he knew the shape of the world. He knew how it tried to flatten people into acceptable forms.
Monica's fingers curled against his shirt, gripping fabric like it anchored her.
Red noticed. His mouth tightened. He covered her tiny hand with his larger one, shielding it.
Kitty watched them with damp eyes and tried to pretend she wasn't.
Laurie, now quieter in Kitty's arms, stared at Monica with an expression that was already beginning to sharpen into something else—curiosity, irritation, the early seed of competition.
Monica held Laurie's stare for a second.
Then Monica looked away deliberately.
Not out of fear. Out of strategy.
Not yet, she thought. We don't start this yet.
Red shifted, and the cardboard box on the coffee table caught Monica's attention. It was small, plain, not wrapped. Kitty glanced at it again, suspicious.
"What did you buy?" Kitty asked.
Red grunted. "Something for Monica."
Kitty blinked. "Red…"
"What?" he snapped defensively. "It's not like I bought her a car."
Kitty walked over and opened the box carefully. Inside was a tiny book—cloth-bound, thick pages, simple illustrations. The kind made for babies to chew on without destroying it.
Kitty looked up, stunned. "Red… this is—"
"A book," Red said like it was obvious.
Kitty's face softened, joy blooming. "You bought her a book."
Red's eyes flicked away. "So she stops staring at the wall like a weirdo."
Monica, hearing the word book, felt a jolt in her chest that was almost painful.
Because books were the future. Books were the weapon. Books were the plan.
Kitty lifted the little cloth book and sat beside Red, sliding it into Monica's line of sight. Bright colors. Simple shapes. A cartoon dog. Big block letters.
Monica's eyes locked onto it.
Kitty laughed softly. "Oh, she likes it."
Red muttered, "Of course she does."
Kitty opened the book and began to read the words out loud, slow and sweet, as if Monica's baby brain needed it. Monica didn't care about the words. She cared about the concept: a book exists in this house, and Red brought it.
It wasn't a grand gesture. Red didn't do grand gestures.
But it was a message.
I see you.
I'm investing in you.
I'm preparing you.
And Monica, in return, felt the dangerous urge to become exactly what he hoped she'd be.
Special. Smart. Worth it.
That urge was a trap.
It would make her chase perfection to keep Red's approval, and it would deepen Eric's future resentment, and it would sharpen Laurie's jealousy into something crueler.
Monica knew that.
And still—still—she couldn't deny the warmth in her chest when Red adjusted the book so she could see it better without Kitty's help.
Red tapped the cover once, as if sealing the deal. "You listen to me, kid."
Monica's gaze lifted to his face.
Red's eyes were steady. "You're a Forman," he said, like it meant something sacred. "That means you don't quit. You don't beg. You don't get pushed around."
Kitty's voice softened. "Red…"
Red ignored her, because he always did when he was in vow mode. "And if someone tries," he added, quieter, "you tell me. I'll handle it."
Monica's mind flashed forward—publishers, contracts, tabloid cameras, men in suits who smiled like sharks.
I won't always be able to tell you, she thought. But I'll remember this anyway.
She made a sound again. "Da."
Red froze like he'd been shot.
Kitty's hands flew to her mouth again, eyes sparkling. "Red!"
Red's ears went pink. "She's making noise."
Monica stared at him, unimpressed by his denial.
Kitty laughed softly, delighted. "She's calling you 'Dad.'"
Red's mouth opened, shut, then opened again as if he was fighting the word. "She doesn't know what that means."
Monica made the sound again, slower this time, deliberate. "Da."
Red stared down at her for a long beat.
Then, quietly—so quietly Kitty almost missed it—he answered.
"Yeah," Red said, rough. "I'm here."
Monica's chest tightened. Her body relaxed against him without permission. She hated that too.
Because it meant she was already bonding.
Kitty wiped her eyes quickly, pretending it was dust. "Okay," she whispered brightly, like she needed to change the tone before she burst into full crying. "Okay! Dinner. Fried chicken. We're going to have a nice night."
Laurie fussed again, sensing the emotional shift and wanting in.
Kitty bounced her. "Yes, yes, you too."
Red leaned back in his chair, Monica still tucked in his arm. He looked like a man who'd settled into a rare moment of calm and didn't want anyone to ruin it.
Monica stared at the little book on her lap.
A baby book. Chew-proof. Ridiculous.
And yet it felt like the first brick in a future foundation.
Not because the book itself mattered, but because it represented something Monica had been starving for since waking up in this life:
Proof that she could build something here.
Proof that she wasn't just trapped—she was positioned.
Kitty carried plates to the table, humming again. The radio played softly. Outside, leaves scraped the sidewalk.
Red's hand rested over Monica's tiny fist like a shield.
Monica let her eyes drift half-closed, the book heavy in her lap, the room steady around her.
And in the dark space behind her eyelids, her adult mind kept working—quietly mapping strategies, timelines, leverage points.
House rules.
They weren't just rules.
They were the language of survival in the Forman house.
And Monica was already learning how to speak it fluently.