August 8, 1958 — Point Place, Wisconsin
Summer in Point Place didn't arrive politely.
It sank into the walls and clung to fabric. It turned the kitchen into a slow cooker and made the air inside the Forman house feel thick enough to chew. Even the curtains looked tired—sun-bleached and hanging limp, as if they'd surrendered.
Monica lay on a quilt spread across the living room rug, her head propped at a wobbly angle because her body still insisted on being ridiculous. Five months old and already sick of it. She could roll—sometimes. She could grab—if the object stayed still long enough. She could babble, laugh, and shriek with enough volume to wake the dead.
She could not speak. Could not stand. Could not do any of the things her mind burned to do.
Which meant she had one weapon that actually worked: observation.
And today, observation told her something important.
Laurie had learned a new trick.
Kitty hovered over them like a sunbeam with frayed edges. She'd tied her hair back in a scarf that kept slipping, cheeks pink from heat and the constant motion of motherhood. Sweat gathered at her temples, but she kept smiling anyway—kept making little encouraging noises as if she could out-cheer exhaustion.
"There we go," Kitty said, voice bright. "Tummy time. You girls are getting so strong!"
Laurie wasn't interested in strength. Laurie was interested in results.
Laurie lay on her belly beside Monica, her face mashed into the quilt for a moment before she lifted her head and immediately made a noise like she'd been personally insulted by gravity.
It wasn't a cry at first.
It was a sound designed to test the room.
A warning shot.
Kitty turned instantly. "Oh, Laurie, honey, what's wrong?"
Laurie made the sound again—louder. Then, as if satisfied Kitty had taken the bait, she escalated into full-volume outrage. A wail sharp enough to scrape paint off walls.
Monica flinched involuntarily. Her ears hated that pitch. Her mind hated the timing.
Because she understood it. Laurie wasn't in pain. Laurie wasn't hungry. Laurie wasn't wet. Laurie wasn't even scared.
Laurie wanted the world to move.
And Kitty did.
Kitty scooped Laurie up and began bouncing her lightly, murmuring soothing nonsense. "Shh, shh, it's okay. Mommy's got you. Mommy's got you."
Laurie's scream didn't stop.
Instead, it modulated—like she was fine-tuning it.
Monica stared, half impressed and half horrified. Not because Laurie was some secret genius—she wasn't—but because everyone learned quickly what got them what they wanted. Laurie's brain had simply stumbled on the most effective lever.
Sound.
Kitty's shoulders tightened. She kept bouncing, kept smiling, but Monica could see the thin stress line forming between her brows. It wasn't dramatic. Kitty didn't do dramatic. Kitty did cheerful endurance until she cracked quietly in the laundry room where nobody could see.
From the kitchen, something clinked—Red moving around, making coffee like it was a religion.
He'd taken a half day. Not for leisure. Red Forman didn't understand leisure. He'd taken a half day because Kitty's eyes had looked too tired this morning, and because even Red could do the math: two infants + summer heat + chores = disaster.
Kitty tried changing positions. Laurie's wail only sharpened.
"Okay," Kitty said, still sweet but with a tiny edge. "Okay, okay, we hear you."
Laurie screamed again, louder, as if offended by the idea of being heard without being obeyed.
Monica watched Kitty's mouth tighten.
Then—boots.
Heavy steps approaching. A doorframe shadow fell over the living room.
Red appeared.
He took one look at Kitty bouncing Laurie like a frantic metronome and the sound coming out of Laurie's lungs, and his face did that thing Monica was already learning to read: the tight set of his jaw that meant I'm trying not to explode because it won't solve anything, but it would feel fantastic.
"What's her problem?" Red asked.
Kitty didn't look up. "I don't know."
Red's eyes narrowed at Laurie. "Hungry?"
"She just ate."
"Wet?"
"I changed her."
"Then what," Red said, voice sharpening, "is she screaming about?"
Laurie screamed harder, as if answering: You.
Red leaned forward like he might be able to stare her into silence.
Monica tracked him calmly.
Red's gaze flicked to Monica for half a second—checking. As if Monica's quiet presence in the room mattered to his stress levels.
It did.
Monica was very aware of that. Very aware of the danger in it.
Because if Red started thinking of her as the "easy" one, the "good" one, the "steady" one… then Laurie would react the only way she knew how.
By escalating.
Kitty's bounce slowed. "Red," she warned softly.
Red didn't look away from Laurie. "She's fine," he muttered. "She's just—"
Laurie let out a shriek so high it made the lamp shade vibrate.
Red's jaw clenched. "—being dramatic."
Monica's fingers flexed against the quilt. She couldn't stand. Couldn't speak. Couldn't physically intervene.
But she could redirect.
Monica took in a quick breath and made a sound—not a cry, not a wail, not anything that would add to the chaos.
A sharp, strange little babble.
It came out like: "Gah!"
It was loud enough to cut through Laurie's noise for a fraction of a second.
Laurie hiccupped mid-scream, startled.
Kitty blinked. "Monica?"
Monica did it again. "Gah!" Then she kicked one leg hard against the quilt—thump, thump—making a rhythm.
Red's eyes snapped to her, suspicious. Kitty's mouth parted in surprise.
Laurie paused.
Not because she'd suddenly become calm. Because she'd been interrupted.
Monica followed up immediately, before Laurie could reclaim the room. She widened her eyes—exaggerated expression, eyebrows raised, face animated in a way that felt ridiculous for an adult mind and yet effective for an infant audience.
Laurie stared. Her mouth trembled like she was deciding whether to scream again.
Monica made the sound a third time, softer this time, and kicked twice again like a drumbeat. She grabbed at the edge of the quilt clumsily and yanked it, making it ripple.
Laurie's attention snapped to the moving fabric.
Kitty froze, holding Laurie still. Red watched like he didn't trust what he was seeing.
Laurie went silent, eyes locked on the quilt ripple, captivated by the sudden shift in stimulus.
Kitty whispered, almost reverent, "Oh my God."
Red muttered, "What the hell."
Monica didn't stop. She kept the rhythm—kick, kick—then made a softer coo. Something that sounded inviting. She couldn't offer Laurie a toy. She couldn't hand her anything.
But she could become interesting enough that Laurie forgot to be furious.
Laurie made a small sound—still annoyed, but no longer screaming. She leaned forward slightly in Kitty's arms, reaching instinctively for the quilt.
Monica seized the moment and rolled onto her side—messy, awkward, but deliberate. It wasn't graceful. It was a struggle against limbs that still wanted to flop. But she managed it.
Kitty gasped like Monica had just performed surgery.
"Red," Kitty whispered, thrilled. "She rolled!"
Red's stare flicked between the two babies as if he was trying to figure out which one of them was plotting to embarrass him.
Monica didn't care about applause. She cared about Laurie staying quiet long enough for Kitty's shoulders to un-knot and Red to stop vibrating with irritation.
Laurie made another small sound—then, realizing she no longer had the spotlight, she started to fuss again. Not a full scream this time. A protest.
Kitty softened. "It's okay, honey. You want down? You want to play with your sister?"
Laurie's eyes sharpened at the word sister. Like it offended her already.
Monica kept her face neutral.
Kitty lowered Laurie carefully back onto the quilt near Monica's side. Laurie immediately reached for Monica's arm—grabbing clumsily, not gentle. Her fingers dug in.
Monica's body jerked at the discomfort. Her mind flared.
This is how it starts, she thought. Not with words. With grabbing. With claiming.
Monica refused to cry. Refused to give Laurie the satisfaction of causing a reaction that would summon adults.
Instead, Monica turned her head slowly and stared directly at Laurie—steady, unblinking.
Laurie stared back.
For a long second, the two babies locked eyes like tiny rivals who didn't understand the stakes but still knew the shape of a fight.
Then Laurie did something almost comical.
She leaned forward and shoved her face into Monica's shoulder, drooling and pressing her gums there as if she might bite.
Kitty laughed once—tired but delighted. "Laurie, no. Gentle."
Red's voice cut in from above them, dry. "She's trying to eat her."
Kitty swatted Red's arm without looking. "She's not trying to eat her."
Red watched, arms folded, and Monica could feel the thought running behind his eyes: Laurie's a handful. Monica… isn't.
Monica didn't want that thought to root. She couldn't control Red's mind. Couldn't control Kitty's. Couldn't control Laurie's impulses.
But she could control the moments that shaped perception.
So Monica did something she hated doing—something that felt like performing.
She made a soft laugh. A breathy baby giggle that wasn't entirely fake, because part of her body genuinely found the absurdity of Laurie attempting to gum her shoulder… ridiculous.
The sound was small.
But it hit the room like a charm.
Kitty melted instantly. "Oh—oh, did you hear that?" She clapped her hands softly. "Red! She laughed!"
Red's eyebrows lifted. He tried to hide it, but the smallest spark of pride flickered. "Yeah," he said, and his voice softened despite himself. "I heard it."
Laurie froze.
Laurie's head snapped up, and her eyes tracked Red's face like she was reading his reaction. Like she recognized, even at five months, that attention was currency and Monica had just earned some.
Laurie's mouth opened.
Monica braced.
Laurie didn't scream.
Instead, Laurie made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an attempt to mimic Monica's laugh—an awkward, breathy little "ha"—and then she stared at Red as if waiting for applause.
Kitty laughed again, delighted. "Oh! Laurie's trying too!"
Red grunted. "Good."
Not as soft as he'd said it to Monica.
Laurie's face tightened. Monica watched the micro-shift—confusion, frustration, the beginning of anger.
There it was. The pivot.
Monica knew what happened next if nobody intervened: Laurie escalated. Kitty got overwhelmed. Red got short. The house went tense. And one day, Laurie would learn the easiest way to reclaim Red's focus was to hurt Eric, or Monica, or anyone weaker.
Monica wasn't going to let that pattern set like cement.
So she redirected again—this time with something physical.
Monica grabbed the quilt edge between her fingers—better grip now—and yanked. The fabric slid a few inches. It made a gentle ripple that caught Laurie's attention again.
Laurie's gaze snapped down to the movement.
Monica made the soft "gah" again, almost playful now, and kicked once. A single deliberate thump.
Laurie stared, then kicked too—accidentally, not coordinated, but clearly responding.
Monica kicked again.
Laurie kicked again.
A tiny, ridiculous rhythm formed between them: two babies thumping the quilt like a drum.
Kitty's eyes filled again—not with stress this time, but with joy. Pure, aching joy.
"Oh," Kitty whispered, voice breaking. "Look at you two."
Red's posture eased. His shoulders dropped the smallest fraction.
Monica kept kicking until Laurie's face softened—until Laurie forgot she'd been angry and became absorbed in the shared game.
For a brief moment, the room felt… peaceful.
Monica filed that away too.
Shared focus creates calm.
Red responds to calm.
Kitty thrives on moments that feel like success.
Red shifted his weight. "I'm gonna go fix that damn fan in the bedroom," he said, gruff. Like he needed to break the softness before it embarrassed him.
Kitty nodded. "Okay."
Red paused at the doorway, glancing back at Monica again. "She did that on purpose," he muttered.
Kitty smiled. "Of course she did."
Red's mouth tightened. "She's—" He stopped himself, as if the word he wanted to say was too big to place on an infant.
Kitty supplied it gently. "Smart."
Red exhaled through his nose. "Yeah."
Then he was gone, boots retreating.
Kitty's hand smoothed over Monica's hair—very gently, as if she'd learned Monica's tolerance levels. Monica allowed it. Barely.
Laurie rolled clumsily toward Monica, face scrunching with effort. She bumped Monica's side like a sleepy bulldozer and then—without warning—rested her forehead against Monica's arm.
It wasn't a cuddle. Not exactly.
It was more like a territorial claim: this is mine.
Monica stared at the ceiling and endured it.
But she didn't pull away.
Because whatever Laurie became later—whatever cruelty, whatever manipulation—right now she was still only a baby learning cause and effect in a world that responded to volume.
And Monica had to live with her.
Monica had to survive her.
And Monica had to make sure Laurie didn't become a weapon that shattered the family before Eric was even born.
Kitty's voice drifted down, soft and warm. "You girls are going to be best friends," she whispered, like it was a prayer.
Monica didn't believe in prayers.
But she believed in strategy.
And if being "best friends" was what kept Laurie from escalating into constant war—if it kept Red from splitting his love into favorites and disappointments—then Monica would play the role.
She could play the role perfectly.
Laurie's breathing slowed. Her eyelids drooped.
Monica watched her twin's face relax into sleep—soft, innocent, untroubled. The future version of Laurie with sharp words and sharper jealousy didn't exist yet. This Laurie hadn't learned how to cut.
Monica stared at her and made herself a promise that tasted bitter and necessary:
I will not be your enemy first.
If you choose war later, it won't be because I lit the match.
Kitty leaned back on the couch with a sigh that sounded like she'd been holding her breath for months. She fanned herself with a magazine and watched the two babies like they were the only good thing in the universe.
Outside, cicadas screamed in the heat. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower coughed to life.
Inside, Monica lay still, letting her body rest while her mind kept working.
Redirect. De-escalate. Protect Kitty's softness. Keep Red's temper from becoming the only language this house spoke.
It wasn't fair that these were the problems occupying an adult mind trapped in an infant body.
But life had never been fair.
Monica's eyes slid toward the hallway where Red had gone. She could hear the faint thud of tools, the muttered curses.
A sound that, strangely, soothed her.
Because it meant he was doing what he always did: fixing what he could fix.
Monica would learn to do the same.
And someday—when she could finally speak, finally move, finally act—she wouldn't just fix fans.
She'd fix the entire trajectory of this family.
For now, she closed her eyes and let the summer heat lull her into a rare, fragile thing:
Silence.
Not the silence of loneliness.
The silence of a battle postponed—because Monica had learned, at five months old, that sometimes the smartest move wasn't winning.
It was making sure nobody lost.