January 1, 1959 — Point Place, Wisconsin
New Year's Day in Point Place didn't feel new.
It felt like yesterday, just colder.
Snow had fallen sometime in the night—quiet, stubborn, the kind that didn't sparkle prettily so much as pile up and make everything look muted and restrained. The world outside the Forman house was white and gray and still, like the town was holding its breath.
Inside, the radiator ticked like an impatient clock. The kitchen smelled like coffee and toast and the faint chemical bite of floor polish—Kitty's idea of starting fresh.
Monica sat in her padded seat again, propped up like a display in a shop window. She wore a little knit sweater Kitty had made herself, soft and too warm, with tiny buttons that Monica wanted to bite purely out of spite.
Across from her on the rug, Laurie was chewing on a rubber ring with the single-minded intensity of a person who believed the ring had personally wronged her. Every so often Laurie would pause, stare at Monica like she was assessing whether Monica was watching, then resume gnawing as if to say: I'm still the main character.
Monica's gaze moved past her sister, past the coffee table, to the front window.
The street looked peaceful.
That was the lie small towns told—white snow, clean houses, quiet roads.
Monica had lived long enough to know peace was often just conflict that hadn't found a reason to speak out loud yet.
Kitty fluttered through the living room and kitchen like a woman determined to outmaneuver exhaustion. Her hair was pinned up, cheeks slightly pink from heat and effort, her smile bright enough to make you believe she wasn't running on fumes.
She set a plate of toast on the table, then immediately wiped the counter again like the counter had insulted her.
Red sat at the table with his coffee, reading the newspaper like it was a legal document and he was preparing to sue it. His work boots were on. Not because he was going out yet—because Red Forman believed in being ready. Being unprepared was how life humiliated you.
Kitty glanced at him. "You don't have to wear your boots in the house."
Red didn't look up. "I'm not wearing them to sleep, Kitty."
"You wore them yesterday to go get the mail," Kitty said sweetly.
Red flipped a page. "The mail's outside."
Kitty's eyes narrowed, then she smiled again—because fighting Red about boots on the first day of the year was not the hill she wanted to die on.
Monica watched the exchange, cataloging it like she cataloged everything.
Red's love language: stubborn preparation.
Kitty's love language: making the world soft even when it refused to be.
Laurie made a noise—half complaint, half demand—and tossed her rubber ring away.
Kitty turned instantly. "Oh! Laurie, honey—"
Red's voice cut in without him moving. "Kitty."
Kitty stopped, hands hovering in the air like she'd been caught stealing. "What?"
Red's eyes remained on the paper. "Let her."
Kitty blinked. "Red, she's—"
"She's not hurt," he said. "She's bored."
Laurie proved him right by escalating anyway, her face scrunching into outrage at being ignored. A sharp wail started to build.
Monica shifted her gaze to Laurie calmly. She didn't move yet—she was saving energy, because she'd already learned that if she became the household's little peacekeeper, it would be useful… and dangerous.
But Kitty's shoulders tensed, her smile faltering for half a second.
Monica decided it was worth it.
She leaned forward, braced her hands, and crawled—quick, practiced, competent—toward Laurie. Her palms slapped the rug. The movement alone pulled Laurie's attention like a hook.
Laurie's scream faltered.
Monica grabbed the rubber ring with clumsy precision and slapped it against the floor once. Then again. A simple rhythm.
Thump. Thump.
Laurie stared, annoyed but curious.
Monica babbled—sharp, not a cry, a signal. "Gah!"
Laurie's wail deflated into a grumble like someone had removed the air from her balloon. She scooted closer, grabbed the ring back with possessive triumph, and began chewing again—this time quieter.
Kitty exhaled, relief loosening her face. "Oh—thank you, Monica."
Red lowered his newspaper a fraction, eyes narrowing at Monica like she'd committed a suspicious act of competence. "You keep doing that."
Monica stared at him, expression flat.
Red frowned. "Don't."
Kitty's head snapped up. "Red!"
Red's jaw tightened. "I didn't say stop. I said don't keep doing it like it's your job. You're a baby."
Monica almost laughed.
Red Forman, she thought, you have no idea what my job is.
Kitty walked over and crouched near Monica, brushing a stray hair away from her forehead gently—careful, because Kitty had learned Monica didn't like being handled like a doll.
"We're going to go out today," Kitty said softly, as if Monica could understand. As if Monica wasn't already ten steps ahead.
Red grunted. "We are?"
Kitty stood and turned, hands on her hips. "Yes. We are."
Red's eyes narrowed, as if he suspected an ambush. "Where."
Kitty brightened. "Church."
Red looked like he'd been asked to volunteer for a bake sale. "It's New Year's Day."
"That's exactly why," Kitty said, like it was obvious. "People go. They say hello. They… start fresh."
Red's gaze slid to the window, to the snow, to the cold. "It's icy."
Kitty smiled harder. "We'll bundle up."
Red muttered, "It's unnecessary."
Kitty's smile turned sharp. "Red Forman, you can handle the factory. You can handle snow."
Red stared at her for a long beat, then took a slow sip of coffee like he was swallowing his surrender. "Fine."
Kitty's face lit up as if she'd just won a prize. "Good!"
Monica watched the victory. Not because church mattered to Monica—not spiritually. Monica's relationship with faith was complicated and private and not something she intended to unpack at nine months old.
But community mattered.
Small towns were ecosystems. They ran on reputation, gossip, favors, and the unspoken rules of who belonged where.
Monica needed to learn those rules before the town learned it could write her story for her.
—
Getting ready took forever, because Kitty did everything thoroughly.
The twins were layered like tiny onions: undershirts, dresses, tights, sweaters, coats, hats, mittens that kept falling off because baby hands were traitors.
Laurie protested the entire process like a tiny dictator being dressed against her will. Monica endured it with stiff patience, because she'd already learned that resistance wasted energy.
Red stood by the door the whole time, coat on, keys in hand, radiating impatience.
"Kitty," he said flatly. "It's not a wedding."
Kitty, struggling with Laurie's mitten, smiled through her teeth. "It might as well be, with the way you're acting."
Red grunted. "I'm acting normal."
"You're acting like you're going to the dentist," Kitty shot back.
Monica watched the scene like she was studying a documentary on Midwestern marriage.
When Kitty finally got the twins bundled and placed in their carrier seats, Red opened the door with a dramatic sigh that made Kitty roll her eyes.
The cold hit Monica immediately—a sharp bite that made her eyes water. She hated it. Her body hated it. Her mind respected it.
Cold was honest. Cold didn't pretend.
Red carried one seat. Kitty carried the other. Laurie's eyes were wide, furious about the outdoors. Monica stared up at the pale sky and stored the sensation: winter air, snow glare, the weight of wool against her cheeks.
The Formans' yard was quiet. Snow covered the steps, and Red stomped it down with his boots like he was declaring dominance over nature.
They didn't have much—Monica could feel that in the way Kitty's coat was older, in the way Red's gloves were patched, in the way their car looked used but cared for. But they had stability. Pride. A clean house.
In Point Place, that counted.
At the end of the driveway, Mrs. Dugan from two houses down was shoveling her walkway like it was an Olympic sport. She paused as the Formans approached, her cheeks red from cold, her eyes sharp with curiosity.
"Kitty!" she called, waving.
Kitty waved back immediately, smile bright. "Happy New Year!"
Mrs. Dugan's gaze flicked to the babies, hunger in it—not hunger like malice, hunger like information.
"Oh my goodness," she exclaimed as the Formans reached the sidewalk. "The twins! Look at them!"
Kitty's smile softened. "Yes! Laurie and Monica."
Red gave a stiff nod, like acknowledging a neighbor was a duty.
Mrs. Dugan leaned closer, peering into the baby seats. "Which one's which?"
Kitty pointed gently. "Laurie's the older one—by two minutes. Monica's—"
Mrs. Dugan interrupted, delighted. "Two minutes! Oh, Red, you have your hands full."
Red's mouth tightened. "We're managing."
Mrs. Dugan laughed, a little too loud. "That's Red Forman. 'Managing.'" Her gaze slid to Monica again. "This one's got eyes like she's thinking."
Kitty laughed nervously. "Oh, she always looks serious."
Mrs. Dugan's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Well, don't let her turn out too smart. People don't like that."
Kitty blinked, startled.
Red's voice went flat. "We're going."
Mrs. Dugan waved again, still smiling. "See you at church!"
As they walked away, Kitty's hand tightened on the baby seat handle. Monica watched her mother's face—how it smoothed back into polite pleasantness, but the comment had landed.
People don't like that.
Monica filed it away.
Lesson: the town liked babies. The town liked cute. The town liked manageable.
The town did not like girls who threatened the script.
Perfect.
—
The church was warm and smelled like old wood, perfume, and candle wax. The air held the soft murmur of small-town voices: greetings, laughter, whispers that carried more meaning than they should.
Kitty brightened instantly upon entering. This was her territory—the social world where she could shine without Red's shadow. Red stood beside her like a reluctant bodyguard.
"Red!" a man called out near the entrance.
Red's posture changed immediately—subtle, defensive. He turned.
A man in a dark coat approached with confident steps. He was clean-cut, well-fed, the kind of person whose hands didn't look like they'd been chewed by machinery. He smiled as if smiling was easy.
Red's eyes narrowed. "Jack."
Kitty's smile became polite. "Mr. Burkhart."
Jack Burkhart's gaze slid to Kitty, then to the twins, lingering like he was assessing an investment. "Happy New Year, Katherine."
Kitty's eyes flickered—she didn't love when people used her full name like that, but she was too polite to object. "Happy New Year."
Jack leaned down and peered at the babies. "Well," he said, amused, "aren't they something."
Red's jaw tightened. "They're my kids."
Jack laughed lightly. "Yes, yes. I meant—" He straightened, eyes on Red now. "How's the plant treating you?"
Red's mouth flattened. "Same."
Jack's smile didn't change, but something colder lived beneath it. "I hear there's talk of tightening belts. Some overtime might dry up."
Kitty's face tightened.
Red's expression didn't shift, but Monica saw it—his shoulders stiffening, the way his hand tightened on the baby seat handle.
Economic strain. Whispered, not shouted. Power delivered like casual conversation.
Red's voice went even flatter. "We'll be fine."
Jack's eyes flicked briefly to the twins again—an appraisal. "Of course you will. You're Red Forman."
He patted Red's shoulder like Red belonged to him, then turned to Kitty, smile warm again. "My wife sends her regards. Perhaps we'll have you over for dinner sometime. It's good to keep community, isn't it?"
Kitty smiled politely. "That would be nice."
Red looked like he'd rather eat glass.
Jack nodded once, satisfied, and moved on—already turning his charm toward the next family.
Kitty exhaled softly once he was gone. "Red…"
Red's voice was low. "Not now."
Monica watched them, absorbing the hierarchy.
Jack Burkhart wasn't just Red's boss. He was the kind of man who enjoyed being the boss. The kind of man who used "community" as a leash.
Monica filed that away too.
Lesson: power doesn't always shout. Sometimes it smiles and pats your shoulder.
—
They settled into a pew halfway back. Kitty fussed with the twins' blankets, making sure their cheeks were covered. Red sat rigidly, hands clasped, looking like he'd been forced into a performance.
The service began. Hymns. Prayers. A pastor speaking about new beginnings, about humility, about gratitude.
Monica listened. Not because she was looking for salvation. Because adults revealed themselves when they spoke about what people "should" be.
Humility. Gratitude. Submission disguised as virtue.
Kitty sang softly, voice gentle. Red didn't sing. He watched the pastor with the skeptical eye of a man who didn't trust anyone whose job was words.
Laurie dozed, head lolling. Monica stayed awake, alert, eyes scanning the room.
Families. Couples. Older women with hats. Men with heavy hands and heavier pride. Kids fidgeting, teenagers pretending they weren't bored.
Monica found herself watching the girls—older girls, maybe twelve or thirteen, whispering behind gloved hands, their eyes sharp even at that age. The kind of girls who learned early that social power was as real as money.
Monica knew she'd meet girls like that again. She'd have to navigate them.
She'd have to beat them, eventually.
The service ended with handshakes and greetings. The church became a buzzing hive. People leaned in, asked about babies, asked about work, asked about weather as if weather wasn't a stand-in for everything else.
Kitty was immediately surrounded.
"Oh, Kitty Forman!" a woman cooed. "Twins! How are you surviving?"
Kitty laughed politely. "Day by day."
Another woman leaned in. "Are they sleeping through the night yet?"
Kitty's smile strained. "Sometimes."
Red stood a little behind her, like a wall. People nodded at him, offered greetings, but he wasn't the draw.
The babies were.
Monica.
People leaned toward her seat, cooing. "Oh, look at those eyes." "She's so serious." "What a pretty little thing."
Monica endured it, because she had to. She forced her face into neutral softness. She let her lashes lower, made herself look harmless.
Harmless was useful.
But one older woman—Mrs. Jensen, from the way someone addressed her—leaned in too close, eyes narrowing at Monica with something like suspicion.
"This one," Mrs. Jensen murmured, not unkindly but not warmly either, "looks like she's listening."
Kitty laughed nervously. "She's just… observant."
Mrs. Jensen hummed. "Mm."
Red's voice cut in like a blade. "Don't crowd her."
Mrs. Jensen straightened, offended. "I'm not crowding."
Red's stare didn't budge. "Yes, you are."
A beat of silence.
Then Mrs. Jensen huffed and turned away, muttering to another woman about "men these days" as if Red Forman was some kind of modern phenomenon and not just a man who didn't tolerate people touching his child.
Kitty's eyes flicked to Red—grateful, stressed, both at once. "Red…"
Red's jaw tightened. "I don't like people in her face."
Kitty softened. "I know."
Monica stared at Red, feeling something dangerous again—the pull of safety, the certainty that he'd step between her and the world without hesitation.
She needed that.
She also needed to make sure it didn't turn into a spotlight that burned everyone else.
—
On the walk back to the car, the wind had picked up. Snow bit at exposed skin. Kitty hunched slightly, protecting the baby seat.
Red moved closer, shoulder nearly touching Kitty's. He didn't say anything, but the motion itself was a statement: I've got you.
At the car, Red paused, keys in hand, and looked down at the baby seats.
His voice was quiet. "You hear what Burkhart said."
Kitty's mouth tightened. "About overtime."
Red's jaw flexed. "Yeah."
Kitty's voice softened, trying to soothe. "Red, we'll be okay."
Red's eyes were sharp. "That's what you always say."
Kitty lifted her chin. "Because it's true."
Red stared at her for a beat. Then his gaze slid to Monica, as if Monica was part of the equation—like Red already saw her as something that could change things.
Monica held his gaze steadily, then looked away deliberately.
Not rejection. Strategy.
Red didn't speak again until they were in the car, heat blasting, windows fogging.
As they drove through Point Place, Monica stared out at the small houses, the church steeple fading behind them, the smoke curling from chimneys. She watched men shoveling walkways, women carrying groceries, kids throwing snowballs.
A town of routines.
A town of scripts.
A town that watched and judged and decided who you were before you had the chance to tell them yourself.
Red's voice broke the quiet. "Factory's starting early tomorrow."
Kitty made a small sound. "You were supposed to have today."
Red's hands tightened on the wheel. "We need it."
Kitty's shoulders sagged for half a second, then she straightened, smile trying to return. "Okay. I'll make you lunch."
Red grunted. "Don't—"
Kitty's voice sharpened gently. "Red. Let me."
Red's jaw tightened, then eased. "Fine."
Monica watched the exchange and felt the old, familiar anger rise—not at Red, not at Kitty, but at the system that made love feel like survival.
Red shouldn't have to trade his body to keep the house warm.
Kitty shouldn't have to smile through fear.
And Monica—Monica would not grow up in a home where money was a constant predator.
Not if she could help it.
She couldn't write yet. Couldn't speak. Couldn't even hold a pencil.
But she could learn.
And she could wait.
—
That night, the Forman house settled into quiet again.
Kitty rocked Laurie to sleep first, humming softly. Red paced once through the living room, checking the door locks out of habit, then stopped by Monica's crib.
Monica lay awake, eyes open in the dark, watching the line of light under the nursery door.
Red leaned over the rail, voice low. "You've been watching people."
Monica blinked slowly.
Red's mouth tightened, almost a smile. "Yeah. Me too."
He was quiet for a moment, then added, rough and honest: "They don't get to decide anything about you."
Monica's chest tightened.
Red's voice stayed firm. "You're mine. You're a Forman. That's it."
Monica's lips moved. The sound that came out was softer than she meant it to be.
"Da."
Red froze like he'd been struck again, like that sound still surprised him even though it shouldn't.
He cleared his throat, irritated with himself, and tapped the crib rail once. "Sleep."
Monica let her eyes close—not because she was obedient, but because she was tired.
As she drifted, her adult mind kept working in the dark.
Point Place watches.
Power smiles.
Money threatens quietly.
Red protects.
Kitty holds everything together with warmth.
And Monica, nine months old on the first day of 1959, made herself a promise that felt more solid than the snow piled outside the door:
Someday, she wouldn't just survive this town's gaze.
She'd own it.