Thursday, December 31, 1959 — Point Place, Wisconsin
If Point Place had a sound for the last day of the year, it wasn't fireworks.
It was wind.
It rattled the bare branches outside the Forman house and shoved cold air under the doorframes like it had a right to be there. It made Kitty tighten every curtain, double-check every latch, and mutter to herself about drafts and "how this house breathes like it's alive."
Red called it "winter."
Kitty called it "a personal attack."
Monica—twenty-one months old, twin to Laurie, still small enough to be picked up like a bundle but old enough to walk with purpose—called it what it really was:
A boundary.
Everything about winter was boundaries. Where you could go, what you could do, what you had to endure. The world shrinking down to the size of whatever warm space you could hold onto.
And today, on December thirty-first, the Forman house felt like it was holding its breath.
Not because anything bad was happening.
Because Kitty had decided they were going to "welcome the new year properly," and Kitty Forman's definition of properly required a level of control that the universe rarely provided.
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and butter and something on the stove that had been "just simmering" for so long it was starting to feel like it belonged to the house. Kitty moved between counters with a dish towel slung over one shoulder, cheeks pink from the heat of the oven, hair pinned up like she was bracing for battle.
Laurie sat on the living room rug with a doll and the satisfaction of someone who'd already decided she was going to be difficult later.
Monica sat beside her with a wooden block, face calm, eyes too steady.
Kitty poked her head into the living room. "Girls—no sticky hands on the couch."
Laurie immediately slapped her palm on the couch cushion like she was signing her name.
Kitty's eyes widened. "Laurie!"
Laurie smiled.
Monica didn't move.
Monica just watched Kitty's face—watched the way her mother's expression tightened, then softened, then tightened again, as if Kitty was constantly trying to choose between discipline and affection and never quite satisfied with either.
Red came in from the garage with cold air clinging to him. He stamped snow off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket, and stared at the living room like he was counting hazards.
His gaze landed on Laurie's handprint on the couch.
Red's mouth flattened. "No."
Laurie stared back, unbothered.
Kitty huffed. "I just told her."
Red's voice stayed flat. "Then make her listen."
Kitty's eyes flashed. "Red."
Red pointed at Laurie. "Wipe it."
Laurie did not wipe anything. Laurie wasn't even sure what wiping was. Laurie's entire personality was a refusal to comply with reality.
So Red did what he always did:
He enforced the rule anyway.
Red reached for a rag from the kitchen counter, handed it to Kitty without looking at her, then picked Laurie up under the arms and set her down next to the toy basket with the kind of firm finality that said: This is where you are now.
Laurie's mouth opened.
Kitty braced for screaming.
Laurie made a small offended noise—like a princess realizing she'd been moved from the throne—but she didn't scream.
Not yet.
Monica felt the shift in the room like a change in weather.
Laurie wasn't screaming because she'd learned something recently:
Red didn't respond to screaming the way Kitty did.
Screaming at Kitty got you attention.
Screaming at Red got you removed from the situation and ignored.
Laurie hated being ignored more than anything.
So she held her breath and glared instead.
Red's eyes flicked to Monica.
Monica blinked wide and soft and toddler-sweet.
Red's gaze narrowed like he didn't believe a single thing about her expression.
Then he grunted. "Come here."
Kitty looked up, surprised. "Red?"
Red didn't answer. He reached down, scooped Monica up with stiff careful arms, and carried her toward the kitchen.
Monica let her head rest against his shoulder like she was sleepy, harmless.
Inside, her mind clicked into place:
He's choosing.
Not consciously. Not in the dramatic way adults confessed on television.
But he was choosing.
Because Red didn't scoop up Laurie when the house felt tense.
Red scooped up Monica.
Kitty followed them into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her towel. "What are you doing?"
Red set Monica on the kitchen chair—his chair—like it was intentional. Then he reached for the belt of Monica's little bib and tied it with a tight knot that said he expected it to stay.
"Teaching her," Red said.
Kitty blinked. "Teaching her what?"
Red didn't look up. "The rules."
Kitty laughed softly, half amused, half confused. "Red, she's not even two."
Red's eyes lifted to Kitty, sharp. "She listens."
Kitty's smile faltered for a second.
Monica kept her face calm.
Because Kitty had noticed too—maybe not in full detail, not in the way Red did, but Kitty had felt it in her bones for months: Monica was quiet in a way that wasn't empty.
Kitty's voice softened. "Red…"
Red waved a hand like he didn't want to talk about the why of it. "Just—listen."
Kitty hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Okay."
She moved back to the stove, but her attention stayed locked on them like she didn't trust the moment not to crack.
Red leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossed, staring down at Monica like she was a soldier in training.
Monica stared back, wide-eyed.
Red's mouth tightened, then he said, slow and deliberate, like the words mattered:
"In this house, we don't whine."
Laurie's distant whining floated in from the living room as if the universe had comedic timing.
Red ignored it.
"We don't throw," Red continued, gaze steady on Monica. "We don't hit. We don't scream to get what we want."
Monica made a small baby sound—soft and agreeable. "Mm."
Red's eyes narrowed like he knew she understood more than she should. "And we don't lie."
Kitty's head snapped up from the stove. "Red."
Red's jaw tightened. "What."
Kitty's voice went careful. "Don't scare her."
Red scoffed. "I'm not scaring her."
Kitty's eyes flashed. "Red—"
Red cut her off without raising his voice, which somehow made it firmer. "Kitty. She's fine."
Kitty held his gaze for a long moment, then turned back to the stove with a huff. "Okay. Fine."
Monica watched it all like she watched everything: as a pattern.
Kitty feared emotional damage. Red feared weakness.
Kitty tried to soften edges. Red tried to sharpen them.
And somewhere in the middle, two toddlers were being shaped into people.
Red leaned closer, his face serious enough to make most children freeze. "You hear me?"
Monica lifted her hands and patted the edge of the table, then nodded once—tiny, toddler nod, but deliberate.
Red's eyebrows lifted a fraction.
Kitty paused again, as if her breath got stuck.
Because toddlers didn't nod like that.
Not unless they were copying.
Not unless they were understanding.
Red stared at Monica for a long beat, then muttered, "Jesus."
Kitty's voice snapped. "Red!"
Red didn't apologize. He looked at Monica again and continued like the word hadn't happened.
"We respect your mother," Red said, voice low. "You don't talk back to her. You don't make her life harder."
Kitty's throat tightened.
Monica made a soft sound and reached toward Red's hand.
Red stiffened automatically, like affection caught him off guard.
Then—slowly—he placed his hand on the table and let Monica's small fingers curl around one of his.
The gesture was so restrained it almost didn't count.
But Monica felt it anyway.
A quiet kind of trust.
A quiet kind of claim.
Red's voice softened by a fraction—so small Kitty might not have heard it if she hadn't been listening so hard.
"And you respect me."
Monica stared up at him.
Of course.
Red Forman's world was built on respect. He didn't know what to do with love unless it was wrapped in rules and responsibility.
Monica could work with that.
Because rules were predictable.
Rules were safety.
Red leaned closer, eyes narrowed. "If something's wrong, you come to me."
Kitty froze at the stove.
Monica's chest tightened in a way her toddler body couldn't fully express.
Red didn't say things like that.
Not even to Kitty, half the time.
He implied. He enforced. He protected.
But he didn't offer himself so directly.
Red's mouth tightened like he regretted being vulnerable even for that second. "You understand?"
Monica nodded again, slow and deliberate.
Red stared like he'd been punched in the gut.
Kitty's voice trembled slightly. "Red…"
Red snapped his gaze to her. "What."
Kitty swallowed. "Nothing. I just—" She forced brightness into her tone like she always did when emotions got too big. "I just… I think that's sweet."
Red's face hardened instantly. "It's not sweet. It's common sense."
Kitty smiled anyway, eyes shining. "Sure."
Red grunted and straightened up, as if he'd finished a job.
Then he did something that didn't fit his "job" tone at all:
He reached down, tugged Monica's bib straighter, and brushed a crumb off her chin with his thumb—gentle, quick, almost like he didn't want anyone to see.
Monica stayed still and let him.
In the living room, Laurie started yelling again—bored, furious, offended by existing.
Kitty sighed. "I should check on Laurie."
Red's voice was immediate. "I will."
Kitty blinked. "Red—"
Red didn't wait for her approval. He turned, strode into the living room, and Monica watched his back like she was watching a wall move.
Kitty exhaled slowly, then turned to Monica with a look that was part wonder, part worry.
"You really do listen," Kitty murmured.
Monica made a small toddler noise and patted the table.
Kitty's smile trembled. "Sometimes I feel like you're…" Kitty stopped herself. Shook her head. Forced a laugh. "Never mind."
Monica blinked wide, baby-sweet.
Kitty leaned in and kissed Monica's forehead, warm and lingering. "Happy almost-new-year, sweetheart."
Monica's fingers curled around the edge of the table.
Happy almost-new-year, she thought, adult mind sharp behind toddler eyes.
Let's see what you bring.
—
By late afternoon, Kitty had transformed the house into something she could show people without feeling judged.
Not that she was actually inviting anyone.
But Kitty cleaned like she was preparing for guests anyway.
Because Kitty didn't clean for other people.
Kitty cleaned to soothe herself.
Red stayed tense all day, drifting between garage and living room with a restlessness that had been building since autumn.
The plant rumors hadn't vanished.
They'd only gotten quieter—like a storm cloud settling in rather than blowing away.
Monica watched Red's movements, listened to the way his conversations with Kitty shortened whenever money came up, and filed it all away.
She couldn't fix any of it yet.
Not with a toddler body.
Not with a brain trapped behind baby sounds.
But she could do something else:
She could observe.
And tonight, on New Year's Eve, the entire world would be talking about the future.
Even if they pretended they weren't.
When the sky went dark, Kitty put Laurie down early—because Laurie had been a terror and Kitty had finally reached the point where her patience broke into pieces.
Laurie screamed about it, of course.
Kitty soothed, Red glared, Laurie fought sleep like it was an enemy.
Monica went down too, tucked into her crib with a kiss from Kitty and a muttered "night" from Red that sounded like an order.
The house quieted.
The radio downstairs got louder.
Kitty wanted to stay up. She wanted to "see the year in."
Red wanted to sit in his chair and pretend the whole thing didn't matter.
Monica lay awake in the dark, eyes open.
She listened.
The radio's distant chatter drifted through vents and floorboards. A host talking about the end of the decade. About hope. About America. About "the bright future ahead."
Monica's mouth tightened.
Adults always loved bright futures.
They loved the idea of them.
They loved the promise.
They rarely loved the work.
She heard Kitty laugh—soft, tired. Heard Red grunt in response. Heard a clink like a glass being set down.
Then—footsteps.
Slow, heavy.
Red's footsteps.
Monica stayed still, eyes open in the dark.
The door creaked.
A sliver of hallway light spilled into the room.
Red stepped in, broad shape filling the doorway, and for a moment Monica couldn't tell if he was checking on the twins or if he just needed quiet that wasn't the garage.
Red's voice came low. "You awake."
Not a question.
Monica blinked once, slow.
Red sighed through his nose like he didn't know what to do with a child who didn't sleep on command.
He moved to the crib and stood there, looking down at Monica like he was trying to read her.
"You're supposed to be asleep," he muttered.
Monica made a small sound—soft, harmless. "Mm."
Red's eyes narrowed. Then, after a pause, he did something Monica had not expected:
He reached in and lifted her out.
Not rough. Not careless. Just… careful, stiff, like he was handling something precious that made him uncomfortable.
Monica settled against his chest automatically, head tucked under his chin.
Red carried her downstairs.
Kitty looked up, startled. "Red? What are you doing?"
Red muttered, "She's awake."
Kitty blinked. "Well—put her back down."
Red didn't. He carried Monica to his armchair and sat, settling her in his lap like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Kitty stood in the doorway, dish towel in hand, looking like she wanted to argue and also like she didn't want to ruin whatever this was.
The radio murmured in the background, a countdown still hours away.
Red's voice was low. "Let her sit."
Kitty's expression softened. "Okay."
Kitty moved quietly, turned down the radio a touch, then sat on the couch, watching them like she was witnessing something rare.
Red stared down at Monica. Monica stared up at him.
The house smelled like cinnamon and coffee and the faint bite of winter air that slipped in every time the door opened.
Red's hand rested on Monica's back—steady, heavy, grounding.
"You remember what I told you today," Red said, voice quiet.
Monica blinked.
Red's jaw flexed. "Rules don't change because it's a new year."
Kitty's mouth twitched. "Red…"
Red ignored her.
"You don't take shortcuts," Red continued. "You don't do stupid things because other people do them. You don't let people push you around."
Monica's fingers curled into Red's shirt.
Red stared at her, and the next words came out like they hurt him.
"And you don't let people make you feel small."
Kitty went still on the couch.
Monica's chest tightened again—tight enough it almost hurt.
Red didn't say things like that unless something in him was already afraid.
Already protective.
Already imagining a future where the world did, in fact, try to make Monica feel small.
Red's voice roughened. "You hear me."
Monica nodded once, deliberate.
Red's breath caught, just slightly.
Then he looked away, like he hated the effect she had on him.
Kitty's voice softened. "She's… special, Red."
Red's head snapped up. "Don't."
Kitty blinked. "Don't what?"
Red's jaw tightened. "Don't say it like that."
Kitty's eyes filled a little. "Like what."
Red's voice went sharp, defensive. "Like she's not… normal."
Kitty swallowed. "Red, I didn't mean—"
Red cut her off, but not cruelly. Just firm. "She's our kid."
Kitty nodded quickly, voice small. "I know."
Red stared down at Monica again, and for a moment his face looked older. Like the weight he carried wasn't just bills and the plant and his mother and the cold.
Like it was the fear of not being able to protect what mattered.
Red's hand moved—slow, awkward—and smoothed Monica's hair back.
"Formans don't need anybody," Red muttered.
Kitty's voice cracked. "Red."
Red's eyes narrowed at her. "What."
Kitty's lips trembled. "We need each other."
Red stared at her for a long beat.
Then he looked away again and muttered, barely audible, "Yeah."
Monica sat quietly in his lap, absorbing the moment like she absorbed everything.
This—this was the real lesson.
Not "don't whine."
Not "don't throw."
But the unspoken rule beneath all of it:
Red Forman loved like a fortress.
He didn't say it.
He built it.
And if Monica wanted to survive this life—this house, this town, this timeline—she'd have to learn how to build her own fortress too.
—
Later, when Kitty finally convinced Red to put Monica back down, Red carried her upstairs without argument.
He set her in her crib gently.
Monica stared at him through the bars.
Red stood there for a beat, hands on the crib rail like he didn't want to let go.
His voice came low. "You sleep."
Monica blinked.
Red's mouth tightened. "You got a lot of years ahead of you."
Kitty's voice called softly from the hallway. "Red?"
Red didn't answer.
He looked down at Monica again, and for the first time all night his voice softened into something almost… careful.
"Don't waste them," he said.
Monica's fingers curled around the crib rail.
Then Red turned and left, shutting the door behind him.
Monica lay awake in the dark, listening to the house settle again.
Downstairs, the radio host began talking louder as midnight approached. Kitty laughed softly at something. Red grunted.
The world prepared to flip a page like that meant anything.
Monica stared at the ceiling and thought about the Future Box hidden across the room.
Paper mattered.
Documentation mattered.
Planning mattered.
But so did something else:
Knowing your foundation.
Red had just given Monica her foundation, whether he realized it or not.
Rules. Strength. Loyalty. A promise—unspoken but real—that if Monica came to him, he would stand between her and anything that tried to crush her.
Monica's adult mind held that promise carefully.
Not like a fragile thing.
Like a weapon.
Because the future was coming whether she was ready or not.
And tonight, as 1959 slid into 1960, Monica didn't make a resolution.
She made a decision:
She would become the kind of person Red never had to fear for.
The kind of person Kitty could breathe around.
The kind of person who didn't get pushed into corners by Point Place whispers or adult underestimation or sibling jealousy.
She would build a life so solid that the plant's rumors and the town's judgments couldn't shake it.
And when her hands finally learned to hold a pencil instead of torn pages—
she'd start writing it into something real.