February 10, 1959 — Point Place, Wisconsin
Point Place winter didn't just get cold.
It got personal.
Snow sat in hard drifts like it was refusing to leave. The sky hung low and gray for days at a time, and the sun—when it bothered showing up—did it weakly, like it didn't want to commit. Even the Forman house felt smaller in winter, heat trapped in certain rooms, cold lurking in the corners like a threat.
Monica sat on the living room rug with a wooden spoon in one hand and a sock in the other, because Kitty had decided that "sensory play" meant dumping a basket of household objects in front of the twins and letting them decide what mattered.
Laurie had chosen violence.
Specifically: she'd chosen the spoon, and she wanted Monica to know it.
Laurie's little fists clenched around it like she'd won a war. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, and she glared at Monica with the furious intensity of someone guarding a crown.
Monica didn't reach for it.
Not because she couldn't. Monica could crawl fast now, and she had the advantage of focus. She could absolutely launch herself at Laurie and win. But winning wasn't the goal.
In this house, in this town, at this age—being perceived correctly mattered more than being right.
Red sat at the kitchen table with coffee, newspaper open like a barricade. He'd turned the radio low—news murmuring through the house like an undercurrent. Kitty moved between counter and stove, humming softly as she cooked. Eggs. Toast. Something warm and simple.
The normal rhythm of a morning.
Except nothing about Monica's brain was normal.
Monica watched Kitty over the edge of her own lashes, timing her breaths to look like a baby who didn't understand the concept of timing. She made a soft babble—random, harmless, the right kind of noise that made adults smile and assume nothing complicated was happening behind her eyes.
"Da-da," she said, then added a breathy little "ba."
Kitty glanced down, delighted. "Oh! You're chatty today."
Red grunted without looking up. "She's always chatty."
Kitty's smile widened. "She's saying words."
Red's voice went flat. "She's making sounds."
Monica turned her head slowly and stared at Red.
Red's eyes flicked up instinctively, catching her stare, and his face tightened in that familiar way—like he felt watched and didn't like the feeling, but also didn't know how to stop it.
Monica blinked once, slow and innocent.
Red muttered, "Don't look at me like that."
Kitty laughed. "Like what?"
Red returned to his newspaper. "Like she knows something."
Monica made another babble, louder this time, and slapped the rug with her palm—performative, baby-appropriate.
Kitty beamed. "She's excited."
Red, under his breath: "She's plotting."
Monica's mouth almost twitched.
If Red had any idea.
—
Kitty had declared today a "check-up day," which meant coats, hats, mittens, and the kind of frantic preparation Kitty did whenever she had to leave the house with two babies.
The pediatrician's office was in town—small, warm, smelling faintly of disinfectant and old magazines. Kitty insisted it was important to go regularly "so we know you girls are healthy."
Red insisted it was "a racket."
Still, Red was coming.
Because Red didn't like the idea of Kitty handling anything medical alone, and because he didn't like the idea of other people looking at his kids without him present.
Monica understood that too.
The world felt safer when Red was in the room—because Red made the room his.
Kitty set out the twins' little coats on the couch like uniforms. Laurie immediately tried to chew hers.
Monica watched the movement of Kitty's hands as she worked—quick, practiced, a little tense. Kitty didn't just want the check-up. Kitty wanted the report card. She wanted reassurance. She wanted a professional to confirm she wasn't failing at motherhood.
Monica hated that for her.
She crawled toward Kitty's ankle and bumped her head lightly against Kitty's leg—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to be noticed.
Kitty paused mid-fold and looked down. Her expression softened instantly. "Hi, sweetheart."
Monica made a soft coo and leaned in again.
Kitty's hand brushed Monica's hair. "You're okay. You're okay."
Red, from the table: "Kitty."
Kitty looked up. "What?"
Red gestured at the clock with his coffee mug. "We leaving or are you going to reorganize the whole house first?"
Kitty huffed. "I'm not reorganizing."
Red raised his brows.
Kitty's mouth tightened. "Okay, fine. I'm preparing."
Red stood, grabbed his coat, and went to the door like he was leading a march. "Let's go."
Kitty rolled her eyes—but her shoulders eased a little. Because Red taking charge meant she didn't have to carry the full mental load.
Monica watched that too.
Red leading didn't make Kitty smaller. It made her safer.
That was important. That was the kind of dynamic Monica wanted to preserve.
Not the kind where Red's leadership turned into control.
Not the kind where Kitty's softness turned into resentment.
Monica's adult mind tracked those lines like a map.
—
Outside, the cold hit like a slap.
Monica's cheeks stung immediately. Laurie squawked in outrage. Kitty laughed nervously and adjusted Laurie's blanket. Red stomped snow off the steps as if he could intimidate winter into behaving.
They drove into town in Red's car, heater blasting, windows fogging. Kitty talked the whole way—small-town chatter, weather, what she wanted to cook for dinner, how she might try a new recipe if Red didn't "complain like a bear."
Red grunted in the way he did when he was listening but refused to admit it.
Monica stared out the window at the frozen world—houses, bare trees, the town's main street like a quiet set. She watched people through glass: a woman carrying groceries, a man shoveling, kids in thick coats waddling like penguins.
Everyone watched everyone.
Small towns lived on it.
And Monica—Monica was already learning that she couldn't just survive. She had to perform survivability.
She couldn't be too different. Not yet.
Not until she had something solid to stand on.
—
The pediatrician's waiting room was warm enough to make Monica sleepy. The air smelled like paper and medicine and the faint sweetness of something trying to cover it up. A few women sat with toddlers. An older man in a work coat coughed into a handkerchief. A receptionist smiled too brightly, like smiling was her job.
Kitty checked in, voice polite and cheerful. Red hovered beside her like a guard dog with a tie.
Monica watched the receptionist's eyes flick down to the twins, linger longer on Monica.
"It's the Forman twins," the receptionist said, delighted. "Laurie and Monica, right?"
Kitty smiled proudly. "Yes."
Red's mouth tightened. He didn't like strangers knowing their names.
The receptionist leaned in, cooing. "They're getting so big! And this one—" her eyes flicked to Monica again "—she looks like she's listening."
Kitty laughed, a little too quickly. "Oh, she's just… observant."
Red's voice went flat. "She's a baby."
The receptionist chuckled awkwardly and returned to her desk.
Kitty exhaled, then leaned down and whispered like it was a secret. "Red, you don't have to scare everybody."
Red muttered, "Good."
Monica's mouth almost twitched again.
The waiting room was a stage, and Monica could feel eyes sliding over them—women whispering, people recognizing Red from the plant, recognizing Kitty from church, recognizing the twins as the Formans' new story.
Monica didn't like being a story.
But she could use it.
If people expected the Formans to be solid, then Monica would reinforce that expectation. She'd become part of the household's reputation—stable, polite, impressive but not threatening.
Impressive, she thought, but not suspicious.
The nurse called them in: "Forman?"
Kitty stood instantly. Red followed. Monica and Laurie were carried into a small exam room painted a cheery color that didn't fool anyone.
The nurse was young, brisk, with clipped hair and bright lipstick. She weighed Laurie first. Laurie protested like the scale had insulted her.
Then Monica.
Monica decided to keep her face neutral—no panic, no fear. Just the calm, slightly curious look of a baby who didn't understand weight, only the sensation of being placed on a cold surface.
The nurse smiled. "Well, aren't you easy."
Kitty laughed, relieved. "Monica's always been… calm."
Red's eyes flicked to Monica like he agreed, but he didn't say it.
The nurse checked height, head circumference, reflexes. The usual.
Then she asked the question Monica was already anticipating.
"Any words yet?"
Kitty brightened. "She says 'Daddy.'"
Red's shoulders tightened like he didn't want the nurse to hear that.
Monica, sensing danger, kept her mouth shut.
The nurse smiled. "Oh! That's sweet."
Kitty turned to Monica, delighted. "Say it, honey. Say 'Daddy.'"
Monica stared back with wide eyes.
Her mind raced.
If she said it now, in front of the nurse—if she demonstrated that she could associate and repeat on command—Kitty would glow, Red would be proud, and the nurse would mark it down.
And then the town would hear.
And then every woman in Point Place would have an opinion about the Forman twins and which one was "special."
Special got attention.
Attention got pressure.
Pressure got resentment—from Laurie, from the future brother who wasn't even born yet.
Monica couldn't afford that.
So Monica did the thing she'd been practicing in her head for weeks:
She acted like a baby.
Monica let her mouth open into a soft babble—nonsense sounds, easy sounds, the kind that filled the air without meaning.
"Ba… ga… mmm."
Kitty's smile faltered for half a second.
The nurse laughed lightly. "That's okay. She's still little."
Kitty recovered quickly. "Yes. Yes, of course."
Red's gaze slid to Monica, sharp.
Monica didn't look away.
She blinked slowly, then turned her head like something shiny had caught her attention.
Red stared at her like he didn't like what he was seeing but couldn't name why.
Kitty tried again. "Monica, say 'Daddy.'"
Monica made a delighted squeal and slapped her hands together, then leaned toward Kitty as if trying to climb into her arms—physical affection as a distraction.
Kitty melted immediately. "Oh! Okay, okay."
Red's jaw tightened.
Monica had succeeded.
No words recorded. No milestone performance for outsiders. No proof she was different.
But Red—Red wasn't an outsider.
He knew.
He could feel it.
The doctor came in a few minutes later—older, calm, glasses low on his nose. He checked them quickly, asked Kitty questions, listened to Red's clipped answers about feeding and sleep and "they're fine."
The doctor smiled. "They're healthy. Doing great."
Kitty's shoulders loosened like someone had cut a rope around her chest. "Thank you."
The doctor glanced at Monica again. "This one seems… attentive."
Kitty smiled nervously. "She just likes watching people."
Red's voice cut in, flat. "She's fine."
The doctor chuckled. "I didn't say she wasn't."
Red didn't laugh.
Monica watched Red's face. Watched the way he stood between strangers and his family like a wall.
It was protective.
It could also become isolating, if Red got too suspicious of everyone.
Monica knew she'd have to manage that too, someday.
—
They left the doctor's office with Kitty lighter than she'd been in weeks and Red grumpier, as if other people's opinions had contaminated his day.
In the car, heater roaring, Kitty turned toward Red with a bright smile. "See? They're perfect."
Red's mouth tightened. "They're babies."
Kitty's eyes sparkled. "They're our babies."
Red glanced at her, then looked back at the road. "Yeah."
Kitty leaned back, humming under her breath again. It wasn't a performance now. It was relief.
Monica sat bundled in her seat, eyes half-lidded, pretending drowsiness while her mind replayed the exam room.
The nurse. The doctor. The word attentive. The way people kept noticing.
They weren't wrong.
Monica was attentive because Monica was planning.
She needed to be careful.
Because if she was too careful, too controlled—people noticed that too.
Normal babies were messy. Normal babies made mistakes. Normal babies didn't stare like they were reading minds.
Monica would have to learn to sprinkle chaos into her performance.
A little drool. A little clumsy frustration. A little "oops."
Just enough, she thought, to be believable.
—
That night, after dinner and baths and Kitty's soft singing, the house settled.
Laurie fell asleep first, curled like a satisfied dictator.
Monica stayed awake, as usual.
She lay in her crib, watching the shadows shift on the wall from the hallway light. Listening to the muted sounds downstairs—Kitty cleaning, Red moving around, the low murmur of the radio.
Then—footsteps.
Red.
The nursery door opened quietly. Red stepped in like he didn't want Kitty to know he was doing this. He moved to Monica's crib and leaned over the rail, his face half shadow.
Monica turned her head slowly and met his gaze.
Red stared at her for a long beat.
Then, quietly, he said, "You didn't say it."
Monica blinked.
Red's jaw tightened. "Kitty told that nurse you said 'Daddy.'"
Monica kept her expression neutral—baby calm, baby blank.
Red's eyes narrowed, suspicious. "And then you didn't."
Monica made a soft babble. Harmless. Meaningless.
Red didn't buy it.
"I know you can," he muttered.
Monica didn't move.
Red's voice dropped lower, rougher, almost irritated with himself. "Why didn't you?"
Monica's throat tightened with frustration, because this was the problem: she couldn't explain. She couldn't lay out strategy and timelines and the way a small town turned "smart little girl" into a spectacle. She couldn't warn him about jealousy and resentment and the long-term consequences of favoritism.
All she could do was stare.
So she did.
Red stared back, and Monica watched the understanding begin to form—not full, not complete, but enough.
Red exhaled through his nose, slow. "You don't like strangers," he said finally, choosing the simplest interpretation.
Monica let her eyes soften slightly, like agreement.
Red nodded once, satisfied. "Good."
Monica's mind almost smiled.
Close enough, she thought. Let him believe that.
Red's expression hardened again, like softness was embarrassing. "You don't owe them anything," he said. "Not nurses. Not church ladies. Not anybody."
Monica's fingers curled around the crib rail.
Red's hand came down, resting on the rail near her fist—not touching, but close. A presence.
Then he said, quieter than before: "But you don't make your mother feel stupid."
Monica's chest tightened.
Kitty hadn't felt stupid. Kitty had felt proud, hopeful. Kitty wanted Monica to shine.
And Monica—Monica wanted Kitty to be happy.
But Monica also wanted to survive the consequences of shining too early.
She made a soft, sympathetic sound—almost a coo—and leaned her head slightly toward Red's hand.
Red's jaw eased, just a fraction. "Alright," he muttered. "Alright."
He lingered a moment, eyes on Monica like he was still trying to solve her.
Then he straightened, gruff again. "Sleep."
Monica closed her eyes—not because she was obedient, but because her body was tired and her mind needed silence to keep from overheating.
As Red left the nursery, Monica heard his boots pause in the hallway, heard the faint murmur of his voice to Kitty downstairs—something clipped, something that made Kitty laugh softly.
Then quiet.
Monica lay in the dark, thinking like an adult trapped in a baby's life.
Act normal.
Don't perform brilliance for strangers.
Protect Kitty's pride without feeding the town's appetite.
Keep Laurie from escalating.
Prepare for Eric—because he's coming, and the family balance will shift the moment he arrives.
The future pressed at the edges of her mind like a storm on the horizon.
But for now—here, in the dark nursery, with Red's rules echoing faintly under her ribs—Monica allowed herself one small, private victory:
She'd controlled the narrative today.
Point Place didn't get to label her yet.
Not until she was ready.