December 31, 1958 — Point Place, Wisconsin
Winter turned the Forman house into a box of quiet noises.
The radiator clicked and hissed like it was thinking too hard. The windows sang faintly whenever the wind pressed snow against the glass. Kitty's slippers whispered across the linoleum in quick, purposeful loops—kitchen to living room to hallway and back again—like she could outrun the end of the year if she moved fast enough.
Monica sat on the living room floor, legs splayed in the awkward, sturdy way babies sat when they'd learned balance but still didn't trust it. A year ago—in another life—she would've been drinking something overpriced, scrolling something pointless, pretending she wasn't lonely. Now she was nine months old with cold air in her lungs and a body that insisted on drooling when she concentrated too hard.
Laurie was across from her, leaning against the couch cushion Kitty had propped like a barricade. Laurie's cheeks were pink from heat and anger; she'd been trying to pull herself up on the coffee table leg for the last ten minutes and had failed every time in a way that clearly offended her personal belief system.
Monica understood the feeling.
She could crawl now. It wasn't pretty, but it worked. She could get where she wanted to go if she set her mind to it. Her hands had learned grip. Her knees had learned rhythm. The first time she'd successfully crossed the carpet on her own, Kitty had clapped like Monica had cured polio and Red had muttered, "Good," in that same low tone he used when he didn't want to admit he was proud.
Monica had filed it away with everything else.
What mattered tonight wasn't crawling.
What mattered tonight was the way Kitty kept looking at the clock like it was a judge.
"What are you doing?" Red asked from his recliner.
He was home early—rare. A half day from the plant, which meant the world had to be ending or Kitty had given him that look that made him fold. He sat with his work boots still on, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, newspaper spread open like a shield. But he wasn't really reading it.
Red Forman never truly relaxed.
Kitty, in the doorway between kitchen and living room, stopped mid-step and lifted her chin with theatrical offense. "I am making this house presentable."
"For who?" Red said flatly. "The Pope?"
Kitty's mouth twitched, trying not to smile. "For us. It's New Year's Eve."
Red grunted. "It's Tuesday."
"It's the end of the year," Kitty corrected, like she was speaking to a toddler. "And we had twins this year."
Red's gaze flicked to Monica without permission. Monica met it immediately. Red's face tightened in the way it always did when emotion tried to sneak up on him.
"Yeah," he said, quiet. "We did."
Kitty softened at the sound. "So I'm making it nice."
Red went back to pretending to read. "It's already nice."
Kitty's eyes narrowed like she'd just been handed a challenge. "Red Forman, there is mashed banana on the wall."
Red didn't look up. "That's character."
Kitty gasped, appalled. "It is not character."
Monica's gaze slid to the wall in question. She'd watched Kitty wipe it three times already today. She'd watched Laurie smear banana once with the focused determination of someone signing a treaty in pulp. Monica hadn't participated. Not because she couldn't. Because she didn't want to.
There was a difference between being a baby and being careless.
And Monica couldn't afford careless—not in this house, not in this timeline, not with the weight of the future pressing against the back of her skull like a hand.
Laurie let out a frustrated squawk and slapped her palm against the floor.
Kitty's attention snapped to her instantly. "Oh—Laurie. Laurie, honey, no fussing."
Laurie fussed harder.
Kitty moved toward her, arms already out.
Monica watched the pattern before it finished forming.
Laurie made noise. Kitty rushed. Laurie learned: volume = power.
Monica hated that she understood it better than Kitty did. Kitty wanted to believe her daughters were just… babies. Not little humans wiring their brains around cause and effect, reward and attention, comfort and dominance.
Monica knew better.
Red's voice cut in without him moving. "Kitty."
Kitty froze mid-step. "What?"
Red lowered his newspaper slightly, eyes narrowing at Laurie. "Let her fuss."
Kitty blinked. "Red—"
"She's not hurt," Red said. "She's mad."
Laurie, offended by being correctly assessed, escalated. A sharp wail, the sound of a child declaring war.
Kitty's face pinched. She looked torn—instinct to soothe, instinct to obey Red, instinct to not lose her mind.
Monica made a decision.
She leaned forward, palms down, and crawled—fast, practiced—toward Laurie. Her body moved on autopilot while her mind stayed cold and clear.
Laurie's eyes snapped to Monica's movement, the scream faltering for half a second in surprise.
Monica reached the couch cushion barricade and slapped her hand against it once. Then again. A simple rhythm.
Thump. Thump.
Laurie stared.
Monica did it again—thump, thump—and added a sharp babble. Not a cry. Not a demand. A sound designed to cut through noise without escalating it.
"Gah!"
Laurie blinked, attention snagging. Her scream dropped into an annoyed grumble.
Kitty exhaled, relief loosening her shoulders. "Oh—good. Good."
Red lowered the newspaper completely now, watching Monica like she was a tiny, inexplicable phenomenon. "Huh," he muttered.
Monica didn't look at him. She kept her focus on Laurie. She slapped the cushion again, then patted the floor beside her as if inviting Laurie into the game.
Laurie hesitated—pride fighting curiosity—then scooted forward awkwardly, little hands grabbing at the cushion edge.
Monica shifted back an inch to give Laurie space.
A truce. Temporary.
Kitty looked like she might cry from sheer gratitude.
Red stared down at Monica, eyes sharp. "You did that on purpose."
Kitty, still hovering, whispered like it was sacred. "She always does."
Red's jaw tightened, like pride and suspicion lived too close together in him. "She's nine months old."
Kitty smiled too brightly. "And she's… Monica."
Red made a sound in his throat that could've been agreement or could've been don't you dare start.
Kitty, of course, started anyway. "I just—Red, I can't believe it. A whole year. We made it."
Red snorted softly. "We didn't have a choice."
Kitty crossed the room and sat on the couch carefully, watching the twins like they were the only thing keeping her upright. "I know. But still. We did it."
Monica kept tapping the cushion slowly. Laurie kept watching, calmer now.
And Monica listened—because listening was how she survived.
—
Kitty's New Year's Eve "celebration" was small and stubborn.
There was no party. No neighbors. No fancy dress. Just the Formans, the radio, and a plate of appetizers Kitty had assembled like she was hosting the Kennedys.
Little sausages. Deviled eggs. A bowl of chips. Something she called "special dip" that Red suspiciously poked with a cracker like it might be alive.
"You didn't have to do all this," Red said, but he ate anyway.
"I wanted to," Kitty said, brighter than her exhaustion. "It's nice. It makes it feel—" She stopped, searching for the word.
Red supplied it grudgingly. "Normal."
Kitty's eyes softened. "Yes."
Normal. Monica almost laughed, a sound stuck behind baby lungs.
There was nothing normal about a grown woman's mind trapped behind infant gums. There was nothing normal about knowing you were going to meet a brother in May of 1960 and that the way he would be loved—and not loved—would shape everything.
There was nothing normal about the future looming like a shadow in a house where the biggest worry was hospital bills and banana on the wall.
But Monica didn't correct them.
People needed normal the way they needed heat. Kitty especially.
Red turned the radio up a little. A man's voice announced something about New Year's Eve programming, about music, about the ball dropping in Times Square. It felt far away from Point Place, like another planet.
Kitty laughed softly. "Can you imagine being in New York tonight?"
Red's expression went flat. "No."
Kitty elbowed him. "Oh, come on."
"I don't like crowds," Red said, like it was obvious.
Kitty smiled. "I know."
Monica watched the exchange, cataloging the way Kitty softened Red without him noticing. The way Red allowed it because Kitty's happiness was one of the few things he would bend for.
Kitty turned her gaze toward the twins. "Should we… should we keep them up until midnight?"
Red looked horrified. "No."
Kitty laughed. "Red!"
"They'll be miserable," Red said. "You'll be miserable. I'll be miserable."
Kitty's mouth twitched. "We could try."
Red's stare turned pointed. "Kitty."
Kitty surrendered with a dramatic sigh. "Fine. Fine. We'll put them down soon."
Laurie, who had been quietly chewing on a rubber ring, suddenly tossed it and let out a loud protest noise—as if she'd been eavesdropping and disapproved of bedtime.
Kitty's eyes widened. "Oh, Laurie heard that."
Red's mouth tightened. "She didn't hear anything."
Laurie protested louder, face scrunching into outrage.
Monica, on the floor beside Kitty's feet, didn't move. She stared at Laurie with the calm of someone watching a storm form over a flat field.
Kitty leaned forward, arms out. "Okay, okay—"
Red's voice cut in again, sharper. "Kitty. Don't."
Kitty froze, caught between instinct and command. "Red, she's—"
"She's mad," Red said. "Let her be mad."
Laurie's scream escalated. Kitty flinched. Red's jaw clenched.
Monica saw the tension spike—and she saw what happened next if she didn't intervene: Kitty would rush, Red would snap, Laurie would learn the scream worked.
So Monica moved.
She crawled toward Laurie, palms quick against the rug, and slapped the rubber ring once, making it bounce. The movement caught Laurie's attention.
Monica slapped it again. A tiny game. A distraction.
Laurie's scream faltered. Her eyes locked on the ring.
Monica made a soft babble, then shoved the ring gently toward Laurie with the clumsy precision of baby hands.
Laurie grabbed it automatically.
The scream turned into a grumble.
Kitty exhaled like she'd been drowning. "Monica…"
Red stared at Monica, expression unreadable. Something was happening behind his eyes—something like the slow realization that his daughter wasn't just quiet. She was intentional.
Red didn't like things he couldn't explain.
But he respected competence. Even in a baby.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low. "Alright," he muttered. "Alright, kid."
Monica didn't look at him. She didn't want his approval to become the air she breathed.
But her body warmed anyway at the sound.
—
Bedtime came with its usual ritual: warm bath, fresh pajamas, Kitty humming, Red pretending he wasn't listening while he checked locks and windows like the world was out to steal his family.
Kitty carried Laurie upstairs first, bouncing her gently. Laurie tried to protest, but sleep was already pulling at her eyelids.
Monica was scooped second—by Red.
Red didn't ask. He never asked. He simply decided, lifted, and carried her like it was his right.
Monica accepted it because fighting was pointless and because—if she was honest—Red's arms were steady in a way the world hadn't been since she died.
The hallway upstairs smelled like clean sheets and cold air from the window cracks. The nursery was dim, lit by a small lamp Kitty insisted on because "babies don't like the dark."
Red lowered Monica into her crib carefully. Not gentle like Kitty, but careful like he'd sworn not to drop the most important thing he'd ever held.
Monica's hands gripped the crib rail automatically. Her mind stayed awake.
Kitty returned, hair loosened, cheeks pink. "Okay," she whispered. "Okay, girls. Sleep."
Laurie mumbled something in baby-sound language and rolled onto her side, already drifting.
Monica stared at the ceiling.
Red hovered, arms crossed. He looked like he didn't know what to do with the quiet.
Kitty noticed. "Red," she whispered. "Come on. Let's go sit. We can listen to the radio."
Red hesitated, gaze fixed on Monica. "She's awake."
Kitty smiled softly. "She always is."
Red's mouth tightened. Then, quietly, he stepped closer to Monica's crib and leaned over the rail.
Monica turned her head, meeting his gaze.
Red's face was half shadow in the dim light. His eyes were sharp even when he was tired.
"You remember the rules?" he asked, like Monica had been taking notes since birth.
Monica made a soft sound. Not quite "Da." Not quite anything.
Red took it as yes, because of course he did.
"No whining," Red murmured. "No taking crap. Respect your mother. Work for what you want. Don't let anyone tell you what you are."
Kitty watched from the doorway, hand over her mouth like she was trying not to cry again.
Red glanced at her. "What."
Kitty shook her head quickly. "Nothing. It's just…"
Red's voice went gruff. "Go to bed, Kitty."
Kitty made a small laugh, watery. "Okay."
But she didn't move yet. She lingered, watching Red in that rare moment where he let his guard down enough to talk softly to a baby.
Monica stared up at him, mind racing behind sleep-heavy eyes.
House rules were nice. They were survival. They were structure.
But Monica needed more than rules.
She needed leverage. Time. Money. Protection. A future that didn't crush Kitty's softness and didn't turn Red's love into bitterness.
Red's voice dropped even lower, just for Monica. "You keep doing that thing," he said.
Monica blinked slowly.
"That thing," Red repeated, as if annoyed he had to explain, "where you… calm her down."
Monica's mouth opened. A babble slipped out.
Red's jaw tightened. "Yeah. That."
He stared down at her, and something in his expression shifted—something like wary respect. Like he'd recognized a soldier in training.
"Good," he said quietly. "That's… good."
Monica's chest tightened. She didn't want praise. Praise created expectations. Expectations created pressure. Pressure created fractures.
But Red's voice—rarely soft, rarely approving—landed anyway.
Monica's lips moved. Her tongue pushed awkwardly against gums. Her body fought her.
And then she made the sound—clearer than she'd ever managed before.
"Da… ddy."
The room went still.
Kitty inhaled sharply.
Red froze as if someone had struck him.
Monica stared up at him, annoyed with herself for choosing now of all times to let a milestone slip. It wasn't strategy. It was… truth. Some stupid body-level truth that recognized him as father before her mind had a chance to veto it.
Red's mouth opened. Shut. Opened again.
Kitty whispered, shaking. "Red… she—"
Red's voice came out rough, almost angry with emotion. "Yeah," he said. "I heard it."
Kitty's eyes overflowed. She turned her face away quickly, wiping tears like she was embarrassed by joy.
Red stared down at Monica as if he was seeing her for the first time.
Then, carefully—stiffly, like he hated himself for it—he reached over the crib rail and touched Monica's tiny hand with the tip of one finger.
Monica curled her fingers around it automatically.
Red swallowed hard.
"Alright," he muttered, voice low. "Alright."
Kitty's laugh broke into a quiet sob. "Oh my God."
Red shot her a look. "Kitty."
Kitty wiped her cheeks and nodded rapidly. "I know. I know. I'm going. I'm going."
She stepped back into the hallway, still smiling through tears.
Red stayed.
He leaned over the crib rail a little closer, voice barely above a whisper. "You keep that up," he said, and Monica could feel the weight of it—promise, command, devotion all in one. "You hear me?"
Monica stared back, eyes heavy, body sinking toward sleep.
Red's thumb brushed her knuckles once. Then he straightened abruptly, like he'd allowed softness for too long.
"Sleep," he ordered, gruff again.
Monica's eyelids drooped.
Red turned and left the nursery, pulling the door nearly shut behind him.
The room dimmed.
Laurie breathed softly in her crib, already lost to sleep. Monica stayed awake a moment longer, staring at the line of light under the door.
Downstairs, the radio continued. Somewhere far away, people were cheering already. In Times Square, there would be crowds and glitter and strangers kissing.
In Point Place, Wisconsin, in a small house filled with radiator clicks and the smell of fried chicken, Red and Kitty Forman sat together on the couch.
Monica could hear their voices faintly through the floorboards.
Kitty's soft, exhausted laugh.
Red's low reply.
A pause that felt like they were holding hands.
Monica let her eyes close fully.
New year, her mind thought, sharp even as sleep dragged her under. New rules. New leverage. New chances.
She didn't know exactly how she would do it yet—how she would turn this life into something secure, something powerful, something that protected everyone in this house from the slow grind of disappointment.
But she knew this:
She had time.
And she had Red Forman.
And as the old year died quietly in the living room below, Monica made herself one more silent vow—truer than any house rule:
I will make this family rich enough that we never flinch at a bill again.
I will make my father proud without letting it destroy us.
And I will never, ever forget that I already survived one ending—so I know how to survive the next.