Saturday, May 2, 1959 — Point Place, Wisconsin
Spring in Point Place didn't bloom so much as thaw.
The snow was gone, but winter left a mess behind—mud that swallowed shoes, damp cold that clung to doorframes, and a gray sky that looked like it hadn't decided whether it was done being mean. The yard outside the Forman house had patches of stubborn grass and puddles that reflected the world like dull mirrors.
Inside, the house smelled like coffee, dish soap, and Kitty's determination to pretend the season had changed just because the calendar said so.
Saturday meant Red was home.
Which meant the house felt… different.
Not softer. Not louder. Just tighter, like every sound had to pass through Red Forman's patience filter first.
Monica sat on the living room rug, her knees wide, her back straight because she'd learned balance and insisted on it. A stack of wooden blocks sat in front of her—bright colors, simple shapes. She held one in each hand, tapping them together slowly, practicing a rhythm that soothed Laurie as reliably as it annoyed Red.
Across from her, Laurie had positioned herself like a queen on a cushion—one leg tucked, one stretched, chin lifted. She was one year old and already carried herself like she owned the room.
Because in her head, she did.
Laurie stared at Monica with a hard, assessing intensity, then slapped her own block against the rug—louder, more chaotic, like she was daring Monica to respond.
Monica didn't.
She kept tapping calmly. Tap. Tap.
Laurie's lips tightened. Her eyes narrowed.
Then she did what Monica had come to recognize as Laurie's favorite hobby:
Boundary testing.
Laurie reached forward and grabbed Monica's nearest block with a quick little snatch.
Monica let it go.
Not because she couldn't fight. Not because she didn't care. Because the room had rules.
And one of the most important rules in the Forman house was: don't start a war when Red is in range.
Laurie clutched the stolen block to her chest like a trophy and waited—quiet, expectant, watching Monica to see if she'd cry or lunge.
Monica blinked slowly and, very deliberately, reached for another block.
Laurie's face tightened with offense.
Because the theft hadn't worked the way Laurie wanted.
The theft wasn't the point.
The reaction was.
From the kitchen, Kitty's voice floated in, bright and sing-song. "Red! Do you want eggs or cereal?"
Red's reply was flat, inevitable. "Eggs."
Kitty laughed like he'd said something adorable. "Eggs it is!"
A cabinet door closed. A pan clinked. The radio muttered low—news, weather, a voice that sounded like it had been born tired.
Red's boots thudded once on the kitchen floor, a sound Monica felt in her chest like a warning bell.
Laurie heard it too.
Laurie's head snapped toward the kitchen doorway, then back to Monica.
Laurie's eyes sharpened.
She shifted tactics.
Laurie raised the stolen block, lifted it high above her head… and dropped it.
It clacked loudly against the coffee table leg.
Kitty called, cheerful. "Girls, are you playing nice?"
Red's voice cut in, dry. "Or are they destroying the house already?"
Monica's hands tightened around her own block.
Laurie—pleased now—did it again. Another block, another drop. Louder this time.
Kitty's footsteps approached, quick and light.
Red's didn't. Red stayed where he was, because Red believed in giving Kitty chances to manage things—until he didn't.
Kitty appeared in the living room doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel, smile ready. "Hi, babies!"
Laurie looked up at Kitty, eyes wide and innocent like she hadn't just started a demolition experiment.
Monica watched Kitty's face—how it softened automatically when she saw them both sitting upright, how relief flickered under her smile. Kitty loved the look of calm. Kitty loved the illusion that everything was fine.
Laurie understood that.
Laurie pushed another block off the stack with her fingertips, slow and deliberate—testing.
Kitty's smile twitched. "Laurie… no, honey. We don't throw."
Laurie stared at her like she was considering the concept.
Then Laurie shoved the entire stack over.
Blocks scattered across the rug like hard little accusations.
Kitty inhaled sharply. "Laurie!"
Red's voice—without him even entering the room—came flat as a hammer. "Kitty."
Kitty froze mid-step, caught between instinct and pride and exhaustion. "Red, she—"
"She's fine," Red called. "She's doing it because it works."
Laurie—hearing Red's voice—paused.
Then, like she couldn't stand being correctly identified, she opened her mouth and screamed.
Not a hurt scream.
Not a scared scream.
An outraged scream, like the world had just committed a crime.
Kitty's shoulders tightened. Monica saw it—the way Kitty's patience thinned like paper. Kitty wanted to soothe, but she also wanted to teach. Kitty wanted to be gentle, but she also wanted to keep Red from stomping in and making everything worse.
And Red… Red didn't do gentle corrections.
Red did thunder.
Monica shifted her weight forward.
She didn't rush Laurie. That would draw Red's attention—Monica taking control again, Monica "doing it like it's her job." Red had said that. He meant it.
Instead, Monica crawled toward the scattered blocks slowly, deliberately, like she was only interested in the mess itself.
Laurie's scream wavered, confusion slipping in.
Monica picked up a block, turned it over in her hands as if fascinated by the color, then tapped it on the rug.
Tap. Tap.
A soft, steady rhythm.
Laurie's scream faltered.
Monica picked up another block and tapped it twice against the first.
Tap. Tap.
Then Monica slid one block toward Laurie—an offering, not a surrender. Something to do besides scream.
Laurie stared at it, sniffled, screamed again—shorter, angrier.
Kitty's face pinched. "Laurie—"
Red's voice cut in sharper now. "Kitty, don't."
Kitty's eyes flashed. "Red, I'm not—"
Red appeared in the doorway then, coffee mug in hand, newspaper folded under his arm like a weapon. His expression was already irritated, like Laurie's scream had punched a hole in his morning.
He looked at Laurie. Looked at the blocks.
Then his gaze landed on Monica, crawling among the mess with quiet competence.
Red's eyes narrowed.
Monica kept tapping the blocks. Kept her face soft. Kept her movements baby-slow.
No direct intervention. No "parenting." Just… play.
Laurie's scream faltered again, her eyes locked on Monica's hands.
Kitty tried to smooth it over—Kitty always did. "They're just playing, Red."
Red's mouth tightened. "That's not playing."
Laurie let out another offended noise and slapped the offered block away.
It skidded across the rug and bumped Red's boot.
Red's stare dropped slowly to the block by his foot.
Then up to Laurie.
The room held its breath.
Laurie stared back—defiant, daring, testing the strongest boundary in the house.
Red's voice went low. "No."
Laurie blinked, like she'd never heard the word applied to her.
Then she screamed again—full volume, full fury.
Kitty flinched. "Red—"
Red's jaw flexed. His grip tightened around the coffee mug.
Monica didn't move faster. She didn't make a big show of calming Laurie. That would put Monica in Red's sights.
Instead, Monica changed the environment.
She crawled toward Red's boot—toward the block that had bumped him—and picked it up like it was simply part of the game. Then she turned, crawled back toward Laurie, and set the block down in front of her with a gentle pat.
Pat. Pat.
Laurie stared.
Monica made the softest sound she could manage, the kind Kitty always interpreted as sweetness.
"Mmm."
Laurie's scream wavered.
Monica tapped the block twice. Tap. Tap.
Laurie's breathing hitched. Her eyes flicked between Monica's hands and Red's boots and Kitty's tense face.
Then—slowly, like she was choosing—Laurie slapped her hand down on the block.
Not gentle. But not violent either.
Her scream died into a grumble.
Kitty exhaled like she'd been drowning. "Good girl."
Red's gaze stayed on Laurie. "Yeah. Good."
Kitty shot him a look, warning him not to push. Red ignored it.
Monica sat back on her heels, letting the moment settle without claiming it.
Laurie's eyes slid to Monica—sharp again, resentful now, like she'd noticed Monica had won without looking like she was trying.
Monica blinked slowly.
Laurie wasn't finished.
Not even close.
—
Breakfast was eggs, toast, and quiet tension.
Kitty sat Laurie in her high chair and Monica in hers, wiping hands, straightening bibs, trying to keep the morning from turning into a battle. Red sat at the table, newspaper open again, coffee refilled. He ate fast, efficient, like eating was fuel and nothing else.
Laurie stared at Red with narrowed eyes.
Then she picked up a piece of egg and dropped it.
It landed on the floor with a soft plop.
Kitty sighed. "Laurie…"
Laurie smiled—tiny, smug—and did it again.
Egg. Drop.
Kitty's smile thinned. "Laurie, we don't do that."
Laurie stared at Kitty like she was weighing the risk.
Then Laurie picked up her cup and tipped it—slowly.
Milk began to spill toward the tray edge.
Kitty lunged. "Laurie—no!"
The cup toppled. Milk splashed everywhere.
Kitty gasped. "Oh my gosh—"
Red's newspaper lowered. His eyes narrowed. "Kitty."
Kitty's face flushed, embarrassed and angry all at once. "I know, Red."
Red's stare locked on Laurie. "What did you do."
Laurie blinked, innocent.
Then, as if offended by being questioned, she shrieked.
Red's jaw clenched. "Jesus—"
Monica saw the snap coming like a train you could hear before it arrived.
If Red snapped, Kitty would flinch. Kitty would get sharp. Laurie would escalate. And the entire day would become a war zone.
Monica couldn't stop Red from being Red.
But she could redirect the moment.
Monica picked up a piece of toast from her own tray—dry, safe—and deliberately dropped it.
It landed on the floor with a loud little smack.
Kitty blinked, startled. "Monica—"
Red's gaze snapped to Monica automatically.
Monica widened her eyes—big, baby round—and made an exaggerated "uh!" sound, then laughed. A short, bright baby laugh.
Not fake. Not fully.
But enough to change the energy.
Kitty's mouth opened, half-scolding, half-confused.
Red's eyes narrowed as if he suspected Monica had done it on purpose—which she had, but not in a way he could prove.
Monica slapped her tray once, then pointed loosely at the floor like it was all a game.
Laurie paused mid-scream, watching Monica's laugh like it was a new toy.
Kitty—caught between wanting to correct and wanting to avoid Red's anger—chose the safer option. She forced a light tone. "Oh, okay. Okay, we're being silly."
Red's stare stayed sharp. "We're not being silly."
Kitty's eyes flashed at him. "Red—please."
Red's mouth tightened, but he didn't snap. He stood instead—abrupt, annoyed—and grabbed a towel. "I'll clean it."
Kitty blinked, surprised. "Red, I—"
Red cut her off. "I said I'll clean it."
Kitty's shoulders loosened a fraction, relief flickering. "Okay."
Monica watched Red crouch and wipe milk off the floor with stiff, irritated efficiency.
Laurie watched too, fascinated.
Laurie's scream had fully died.
And now, with Red on the floor and Kitty calmer, Laurie found a new interest: banging her spoon.
Clang. Clang.
Kitty sighed like she'd been given one crisis for another, but she didn't look as frightened.
Monica sat quietly, chewing her toast like a normal baby and letting the room reset.
Redirect without triggering Red.
That was the line.
Monica could cross it if she made herself look like she was "in charge." Red hated that. Not because he didn't respect Monica—he did, maybe more than he wanted to admit. But because Red didn't want his daughter burdened.
And Monica couldn't afford to look burdened.
Not now.
Not at one year old.
—
After breakfast, Kitty attempted to reclaim the day.
"We're going outside," Kitty announced, voice too bright. "Fresh air. Sunshine—well, not sunshine, but—outside."
Red grunted. "It's mud."
Kitty's eyes narrowed. "It's spring."
Red looked unimpressed. "It's swamp."
Kitty ignored him and began bundling the twins again. Coats. Hats. Little shoes that didn't stay on. Laurie protested with a single, dramatic wail just to test whether the day still belonged to her.
It didn't.
Red opened the back door and stared out at the yard like he was judging it morally. "Don't get wet."
Kitty chirped, "We won't!"
Monica was placed on a blanket spread near the back step. Laurie was placed beside her. Kitty knelt, hands on her thighs, smiling at them like this was wholesome and simple.
"See?" Kitty said. "Outside is nice."
Monica stared at the yard.
Nice wasn't the word.
The grass was patchy. The earth was damp. A few sad-looking leaves still clung to the bushes like they'd forgotten to die properly.
But the air smelled different—wet dirt, thawing earth, something alive underneath.
Monica liked that.
Laurie, however, immediately grabbed a handful of damp grass and tried to eat it.
Kitty yelped softly. "Laurie—no, honey, not that."
Laurie yanked her hand away, offended, and shoved grass into her mouth anyway.
Kitty reached to pull it out gently.
Laurie jerked back and screamed.
Red's voice came from the doorway, irritated already. "Kitty."
Kitty turned, tense. "I know."
Red's eyes narrowed at Laurie. "If she eats dirt, let her eat dirt."
Kitty's face pinched. "Red!"
Red shrugged. "She'll learn."
Kitty's shoulders tightened. "She's a baby."
Red's mouth flattened. "So am I, compared to her."
Kitty blinked, baffled. "Stop saying that."
Monica stared at Red from the blanket, blinking slowly.
Red caught her gaze and narrowed his eyes. "Don't start."
Monica made a soft baby coo and turned her attention back to Laurie, who was now spitting grass out dramatically like she was making a point.
Laurie crawled off the blanket toward a puddle.
Kitty reached to pull her back. "Laurie—stay—"
Laurie twisted away and slapped Kitty's hand.
Kitty froze, shocked.
Red's posture changed instantly. "Hey."
Kitty whispered, "Red…"
Red's voice went low. "No."
Laurie stared back at him, defiant.
Then Laurie did something Monica recognized immediately as escalation: she crawled faster toward the puddle.
Kitty lunged.
Laurie shrieked.
Red took one step forward, anger flashing.
And Monica—Monica made a decision.
She crawled off the blanket too.
Not toward Laurie.
Toward Red.
Monica reached Red's boot and grabbed the pant leg—tight, little fist. She tugged once, not hard, just enough to pull attention.
Red froze mid-step.
His gaze dropped to Monica's hand on his pants.
Monica looked up at him with wide baby eyes and made a soft sound—half babble, half plea.
"Da."
Red's jaw clenched.
But his anger—his momentum—paused.
Kitty took that second and scooped Laurie up before she hit the puddle. Laurie screamed, furious.
Kitty bounced her, tense. "No. No puddle."
Laurie fought in Kitty's arms like a tiny demon.
Kitty's face flushed. "Laurie—stop—"
Red's voice, when it came, was still rough, but it wasn't explosive. "Kitty, take her inside."
Kitty hesitated, pride flaring. "Red, she's—"
Red cut in, sharp. "Inside."
Kitty swallowed and nodded. "Okay."
She carried Laurie inside, Laurie screaming the entire way as if she was being dragged to prison.
Monica stayed at Red's boot, fingers still gripping his pant leg.
Red stared down at her like he was trying to decide if she'd done that on purpose.
She had.
But it wasn't parenting.
It wasn't calming Laurie.
It was… anchoring Red.
Red's mouth tightened. He crouched, close enough that Monica could smell coffee on his breath.
"You," he muttered, low, "don't pull that with me."
Monica blinked slowly, innocent.
Red stared for a beat longer, then sighed like he'd swallowed a swear. "Alright."
He lifted Monica carefully—stiff but careful—and carried her inside too.
Monica rested her head against his shoulder, pretending baby comfort.
In reality, her mind was a careful, quiet storm.
That was the line, she thought.
Not managing Laurie.
Managing Red.
But even that had to be subtle.
Because if Red realized Monica was using him—guiding him—he'd resent it. Not Monica, exactly. The idea that she had to.
Red wanted to be the protector.
He didn't want his baby daughter protecting him from his own temper.
Inside, the house was tense.
—
Kitty sat on the couch with Laurie in her lap, trying to hold Laurie's hands gently. Laurie fought, face red with anger, breath hitching like she was gearing up for another scream.
Kitty's voice was soft, pleading. "Laurie… honey. We don't hit."
Laurie screamed anyway.
Red stood near the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched.
Monica sat on the rug near the coffee table, watching. Not staring too hard. Not looking too knowing.
Just… present.
Laurie's scream grew louder.
Kitty's eyes flashed with exhaustion. "Laurie, if you keep screaming—"
Red's voice cut in. "Enough."
Kitty flinched slightly.
Laurie screamed harder.
Red took a step forward.
Monica felt the snap coming again—felt it in the way Red's shoulders tightened and the air seemed to sharpen.
So Monica did what she'd been practicing:
She created a distraction that didn't look like control.
Monica grabbed a cloth book from the toy basket and slapped it open on the rug with a dramatic flourish—like it was the most exciting thing in the world. She made a bright babble sound and slapped the page.
"Ah!"
Kitty's gaze flicked to Monica automatically. "Oh—Monica—"
Red's gaze followed too, because Red's attention always moved toward Monica when Monica did something deliberate.
Laurie's scream stuttered, attention snagging on Monica's sudden noise.
Monica slapped the page again, then turned the book clumsily and let it fall backward—like an accident.
It flopped loudly.
Kitty blinked, surprised, then laughed despite herself. "Oh my gosh—"
The laugh shifted the energy.
Kitty's shoulders loosened a fraction.
Red paused, annoyance redirected into suspicion. "What the hell is she doing."
Monica made another excited babble, then slapped the book again and leaned toward it like she was just playing.
Laurie stared, breaths hitching, scream fading into a whiny grumble.
Kitty seized the moment. "See? Look, Laurie—book!"
Laurie—still furious but curious—leaned forward slightly.
Monica turned a page and tapped it twice. Tap. Tap.
Laurie quieted.
Not because she'd learned a lesson.
Because her brain had switched tracks.
Red exhaled slowly through his nose. "Finally."
Kitty gave him a look—half warning, half grateful. "Red."
Red muttered, "Don't start."
Kitty softened anyway. "I won't."
Monica sat quietly, turning pages and letting Kitty guide Laurie's attention toward the book without making it look like Monica was orchestrating anything.
Because Monica was orchestrating it.
She just couldn't look like she was.
—
Later, when Laurie finally went down for a nap—exhausted from fighting boundaries—Kitty collapsed into an armchair like she'd run a marathon. She stared at the wall for a long beat, then whispered, almost to herself, "She's… a lot."
Red sat on the couch, newspaper open again, but he wasn't reading. "She's testing," he said.
Kitty's voice trembled with frustration. "I know she's testing."
Red's jaw tightened. "Don't give her what she wants."
Kitty turned toward him, eyes tired. "And what does she want, Red?"
Red's reply was immediate. "Control."
Kitty's mouth opened, then closed. She looked… shaken. Because the word felt too big for a baby.
Monica sat on the rug nearby, quietly stacking blocks, pretending she wasn't listening.
But she was.
Kitty rubbed her eyes. "I just… I don't want her to turn into—"
Red cut in, flat. "Like Laurie?"
Kitty blinked, startled. "Red!"
Red's mouth tightened. "You know what I mean."
Kitty's face flushed, guilt and irritation mixing. "She's one."
Red's eyes hardened. "And she's already learning what works."
Kitty's shoulders sagged. "I don't want to be harsh."
Red's voice went lower. "Then don't be harsh. Be consistent."
Kitty swallowed. "I'm trying."
Red's gaze drifted to Monica—subtle, automatic—like he was checking that Monica was still calm, still steady.
Monica kept stacking blocks, careful not to look too competent.
Red's mouth tightened. "And don't make Monica handle it."
Kitty blinked, confused. "What?"
Red's jaw clenched, like he hated having to explain. "She keeps… fixing it."
Kitty's expression softened. "She's just playing."
Red's stare didn't budge. "No."
Kitty hesitated, then whispered, "Red… she's a baby."
Red's voice dropped, rough. "Yeah. I know."
A beat of silence.
Then Red added, quieter—like it cost him something to say it. "And I don't want her thinking she has to keep the peace in this house."
Kitty's eyes flickered, something tender breaking through her exhaustion. "Oh, Red…"
Red's mouth tightened. "Don't."
Kitty didn't push. She just nodded, gently. "Okay."
Monica stacked another block and let it topple on purpose—messy, normal, harmless.
Because she heard Red's words, and she understood the truth under them.
Red wasn't just protecting Monica from strangers.
He was trying—clumsily, stubbornly—to protect her from being needed too early.
Monica's chest tightened.
Because Monica was needed.
But she also didn't want Red to carry the guilt of knowing it.
So Monica kept her face soft. Kept her movements baby-simple.
Let Red believe he was still the wall.
Let Kitty believe softness still worked.
And let Laurie—Laurie could keep testing, for now.
Monica would learn her patterns the same way she learned everyone's.
Quietly. Patiently.
Until she was ready to write the rules herself.