Wednesday, July 22, 1959 — Point Place, Wisconsin
July heat in Wisconsin wasn't dramatic the way winter was.
It didn't scream.
It pressed.
It settled into curtains and carpets and the back of Kitty Forman's neck while she stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned, and swore—quietly, politely, and mostly under her breath—that if she had to wipe one more sticky handprint off one more surface, she was going to start charging admission to her own kitchen.
Red would've called it "a normal summer day."
Kitty called it "a disaster waiting to happen."
Monica, seated in her highchair with a smear of mashed banana at the corner of her mouth (strategically placed for believability), called it something else entirely.
A window.
Because Kitty had decided they were going into town.
Not for anything exciting—Kitty didn't need excitement, Kitty needed errands, interaction, and proof that she still existed outside this house.
But errands meant stores.
Stores meant posters and magazines and packaging.
And packaging meant trend lines—tiny, quiet, almost invisible lines that told you where people were headed before they knew they were moving.
Monica watched Kitty pace the kitchen like a woman preparing for battle. A shopping list. A purse check. Keys. A glance into the living room to make sure the couch pillows were in the right place as if a crooked pillow would somehow bring shame upon the Forman name.
Laurie sat in the other highchair, already furious about something Monica couldn't see but definitely felt. Laurie had discovered the joy of throwing food and now believed it was her moral right.
A spoon hit the floor.
Kitty flinched. "Laurie—no."
Laurie stared at her with calm defiance, then slid her cup toward the edge of the tray.
Kitty's eyes widened. "No—no, no—"
Red's voice drifted from the living room, where he sat with his newspaper like it was a shield. "If she spills it, let her sit in it."
Kitty snapped, "Red!"
Red didn't even look up. "She'll learn."
Kitty hissed, "You say that about everything."
Red's tone stayed flat. "Because it's true."
Monica watched the cup's slow glide and calculated how many seconds Kitty had before the spill became a crisis.
Then Monica did the smallest thing possible: she made a pleased baby noise—bright, harmless—and slapped her tray with open palms like the world was delightful.
Kitty's attention flicked, automatic. "Monica—oh—"
That single half-second of distraction was enough for Kitty's hand to land on Laurie's cup before it tipped.
Kitty exhaled, relief sharp. "Okay. Okay. We're not doing that today."
Laurie's mouth tightened like she'd been cheated.
Monica blinked slowly, innocent.
Red's newspaper lowered just enough for him to look over the edge.
His gaze landed on Monica's face—too steady for a baby, too calm in a kitchen that was always one Laurie tantrum away from chaos.
Red narrowed his eyes.
Monica widened hers in response, soft and blank.
Red muttered, "Don't start with me."
Kitty, still gathering her purse, called out brightly like she hadn't heard. "Red, we're leaving in ten minutes."
Red's answer came immediately. "I'm not going."
Kitty turned toward him with the smile she used when she'd already decided. "Yes, you are."
Red's jaw tightened. "Why."
Kitty's smile sharpened. "Because I'm not carrying two baby seats through the drugstore alone in July heat while every woman in town tries to touch my children and tell me what I'm doing wrong."
Red stared like he was offended by the accuracy.
Kitty sweetened her tone. "And because you love me."
Red's mouth flattened. "That has nothing to do with it."
Kitty's eyes glittered. "Sure."
Red sighed like the ceiling was collapsing. "Fine."
Kitty beamed. "Wonderful!"
Red pointed a finger at her without looking up from the paper. "Don't."
Kitty sang, "I won't!"
Monica quietly noted the pattern: Kitty pushed, Red resisted, Red caved, Kitty won, Red pretended he hadn't lost.
A marriage held together by stubbornness, love, and a mutual unwillingness to admit either.
It worked.
For now.
—
The car ride into town was hot enough that the vinyl seats tried to glue themselves to skin.
Kitty cracked the window and fanned herself with a folded receipt like it was a delicate Southern summer instead of Wisconsin deciding it wanted to try being humid for a month.
Red drove with one hand on the wheel, eyes narrowed at the road, jaw set like traffic was personal.
Laurie fussed in her seat because the world wasn't catering to her.
Monica sat quiet, head tilted slightly, looking out the window as if fascinated by trees.
In reality, she was tracking everything.
The billboard near the highway with a smiling woman and a slogan about "modern living."
The new storefront signs in town.
The way other women wore their hair—still neat, still curled, but starting to lift higher, just slightly, like the decade was stretching upward.
The teens on bikes with rolled cuffs and confidence they hadn't earned.
Information, everywhere.
Kitty spotted someone outside the grocery store and perked up. "Oh! That's Gloria!"
Red grunted. "Great."
Kitty ignored his tone. "She had her baby two months after us."
Red's mouth tightened. "I don't care."
Kitty's eyes narrowed. "Yes, you do. You just don't like admitting you have eyes."
Red stared straight ahead. "I have eyes. I don't use them for gossip."
Kitty's smile sharpened. "Liar."
Red pulled into a parking spot and killed the engine. "Let's get this over with."
Monica stayed baby-still while Red lifted her seat with stiff, careful strength. Kitty lifted Laurie's, already smiling like a woman stepping back into civilization.
The bell over the grocery store door chimed when they walked in. Cold air hit them—blessed relief—and the whole store smelled like bread, floor cleaner, and summer produce.
Kitty's shoulders eased instantly.
Red's did not.
Gloria swooped in within seconds, smiling too widely. "Kitty! Red!"
Kitty lit up. "Gloria!"
Gloria leaned toward the babies like she was entitled to them. "Oh my goodness. Look at you girls! Twins! I still can't imagine."
Laurie stared back like she was imagining violence.
Gloria cooed at Laurie, then turned to Monica. Her smile faltered a fraction.
Monica kept her expression soft and pleasant, a calm baby with a little drool still at the corner of her mouth.
Gloria murmured, "This one's… quiet."
Kitty laughed lightly. "Monica's just calm."
Red's voice cut in, flat. "She's fine."
Gloria blinked, then laughed awkwardly. "Of course. Of course! I just mean… she looks like she's listening."
Kitty's smile tightened.
Red's eyes narrowed.
Monica blinked slowly, then made a baby sound—gentle and meaningless. "Ba."
Gloria smiled, relieved. "Oh! See? Sweet."
Kitty forced a warmer smile. "She's sweet."
Red adjusted his grip on the baby seat handle, subtly pulling Monica closer to his leg like that would shield her from words.
Kitty chatted with Gloria for another minute, then guided the conversation away like a nurse steering a patient away from danger.
Monica listened to the way women talked—how they said nothing directly and still managed to say everything.
She already understood: the town had started telling stories about her.
It was early.
Earlier than she wanted.
But that didn't mean she couldn't control it.
It just meant she had to start laying groundwork now.
Quiet groundwork.
Invisible groundwork.
The kind that didn't look like work at all.
—
They moved through the store, Kitty picking up practical things and one "treat" item she didn't want to admit was a treat. Red checked prices like it was a personal insult. Laurie tried to grab produce. Kitty redirected with gentle firmness. Red offered no gentleness at all.
Monica watched the end-cap displays with bright, colorful packaging. She watched the little signs that said "NEW!" and "MODERN!" and "NOW!"
Those words mattered.
They were always the first warning.
Near the magazine rack, Monica saw something that made her brain sharpen:
A glossy ad—big hair, bright smile, a slogan about "lift" and "volume" and "confidence."
The woman on the cover wasn't wearing a beehive.
Not yet.
But her hair was higher than it would've been a year earlier. The shape was changing—slowly, quietly, like a tide.
Monica's fingers flexed against her blanket.
Kitty glanced toward the rack too, smiling. "Oh! I haven't read a magazine in weeks."
Red muttered, "Because we have babies."
Kitty shot him a look. "That's not a crime, Red."
Red stared at a price tag like it had offended him. "It's expensive."
Kitty's smile sharpened. "So is your coffee habit. And I'm not taking that away."
Red grunted and moved on.
Monica filed the hair ad away in her head, but she didn't just want memory.
She wanted a reference.
A visual anchor.
Something she could come back to later as proof that she hadn't imagined the shift.
That was the problem with future knowledge: if you didn't document it, it stayed in your head like a dream.
And dreams got dismissed.
So Monica reached, subtly, one hand extending toward the edge of the rack like a baby drawn to color.
Red noticed immediately.
His gaze snapped down, suspicious. "What."
Monica softened her face, mouth slightly open, a gentle baby fascination.
Red stared at her hand, then at the magazine rack.
Then, with a quiet sigh that sounded like defeat, he grabbed the cheapest-looking magazine and shoved it into the cart without even checking what it was.
"Fine," he muttered. "There."
Kitty glanced over, delighted. "Oh! Red!"
Red's face tightened. "She grabbed at it."
Kitty's smile softened. "Well… thank you anyway."
Red grunted and pushed the cart forward, like he hadn't just done something kind.
Monica watched Kitty's fingers smooth the cover like it mattered.
And it did.
Just not the way Kitty thought.
—
After groceries, Kitty insisted on the drugstore.
Red hated the drugstore because it had aisles and people and no exit strategy.
The bell chimed again as they entered. The air smelled like shampoo, candy, and disinfectant.
Kitty headed for diapers and toiletries.
Red lingered near the front, scanning the store like he was checking for threats.
Monica stared at the spinner rack of paperbacks.
Paperback books were cheap. Portable. Accessible.
More importantly: they were series bait.
Even at one year old, Monica understood that the best way to hook people wasn't one perfect story.
It was a story that promised more.
A cover caught her eye—bright illustration, bold lettering, a simple adventure vibe. Not her genre, not her future, but the packaging was important.
Simple hook. Clear promise. Familiar structure.
Monica's mind clicked into place:
Series writing wasn't just creative.
It was strategic.
A series built loyalty.
A series built money.
A series built leverage.
Monica didn't have hands for writing yet.
But she could start building the scaffolding now.
She let her gaze drift from the paperback cover to a poster near the counter:
U.S. Savings Bonds.
A smiling family. A promise of the future. The word "SECURITY" in block letters.
Monica's chest tightened with a familiar, old-life anger.
Security.
Adults loved that word because it let them pretend control was real.
But savings bonds, investments, property—those weren't just comfort.
They were freedom.
Monica didn't want comfort.
Monica wanted freedom.
She watched Red pay for the items, stiff and impatient. Kitty chatted with the clerk. Laurie fussed.
Monica quietly absorbed the poster, the language, the tone.
If she couldn't invest now, she could at least begin building the habit of thinking like someone who would.
And someday, when she had money coming in, she'd know exactly where to place it—quietly, carefully, without trusting anyone else with the power of her future.
—
Back home, the house felt cooler—shaded, familiar, safe.
Kitty put groceries away humming, mood improved by being seen in public and surviving it.
Red loosened his collar and muttered something about "never again."
Laurie passed out in a sweaty nap, worn out by being bored and furious.
Monica, placed on the living room rug with toys, watched Kitty set the magazine on the kitchen table.
Kitty flipped through it briefly, smiling at a recipe, then shaking her head at an ad. "Oh, look at this," she called lightly, amused. "They're selling lipstick sets for housewives like we're dolls."
Red grunted from the couch. "You're not a doll."
Kitty smiled, fond. "Thank you."
Red muttered, "I didn't mean it like that."
Kitty laughed softly. "Sure."
Then the phone rang.
Kitty brightened and hurried to answer, voice turning sweet. "Hello?"
Red's shoulders tightened immediately. "Who is it."
Kitty covered the receiver. "Your mother."
Red's face went flat. "Tell her I'm dead."
Kitty hissed, scandalized. "Red!"
Red stood and disappeared into the garage like fleeing the devil.
Kitty carried the phone into the hallway, voice warm and polite as she spoke.
Monica's opportunity opened like a door.
She crawled toward the kitchen table slowly—baby speed, baby wobble—pulled herself up using a chair leg, and stared at the magazine cover as if it was the most interesting thing she'd ever seen.
Then she flipped it open with clumsy baby hands.
Pages rustled.
The ad was there—hair, volume, lift, confidence.
Monica stared at it for a beat, committing every detail.
Then she did what she'd practiced last time:
She tore.
Not recklessly.
Not in big dramatic rips.
Small, messy, believable tears.
Paper gave way with soft ripping sounds.
Monica froze each time, listening for footsteps.
Kitty's voice stayed in the hallway, laughing politely, trapped in conversation.
No footsteps.
Monica finished tearing out the page.
Then, heart thudding softly, she crumpled it lightly—not destroying it, just making it look like baby damage—and tucked it into the folds of her blanket.
The next step mattered.
A stash wasn't a stash if it could be found.
Monica crawled toward the linen basket again—her first hiding place—and paused.
Too obvious.
If Kitty cleaned. If Kitty reorganized. If Red decided to "check" because he was suspicious.
Monica needed something that belonged to her.
Something no one else touched.
She crawled into the living room, toward the corner where Kitty kept the toy basket and baby supplies, and spotted the thing she needed: a small, lidded tin Kitty had been using to store extra safety pins and baby hair bows.
Kitty never used the bows.
They were gifts from relatives.
Kitty kept them out of guilt.
Red didn't even know the tin existed.
Perfect.
Monica nudged the tin with her hand until it shifted. She pushed again, grunting softly like it was effort, baby effort.
The lid scraped.
Monica wriggled her fingers under the edge and pried it up—barely. The lid lifted just enough.
Monica slid the torn page inside and pushed the lid back down.
A little scrape.
A little tin click.
Monica sat back on her diapered butt, breathing carefully.
Her first real stash.
Not just a hidden page.
A container.
A start.
A future box.
Kitty's footsteps returned a moment later, phone conversation ending. "Okay, yes, Mom, I'll tell him—yes—okay, bye!"
Kitty walked into the kitchen, cheerful again—until she saw the magazine torn open.
Her smile faltered. "Oh… Monica?"
Monica turned her head slowly, wide-eyed, innocent.
Kitty approached, saw the ripped page edges, and gasped softly. "Oh my gosh."
Red's voice came from the garage, muffled. "What."
Kitty called, half annoyed, half amused. "Monica tore up the magazine again!"
Red appeared in the doorway, brows lowered, already irritated. His gaze flicked from the torn page to Monica's face.
Monica kept her expression blank and baby-soft.
Red stared for a long beat.
Then he muttered, "She did that on purpose."
Kitty sighed, but she smiled too. "Red, she's one."
Red's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
Kitty shook her head. "I should've put it away."
Red didn't argue. He just stared at Monica like he was trying to decide whether to push.
Then he muttered, "Watch her."
Kitty laughed lightly, brushing it off. "I do."
Red's eyes stayed sharp. "Better."
Then he disappeared back into the garage like nothing mattered.
Kitty cleaned up the torn scraps with a sigh and kissed Monica's head. "You're going to give me gray hair."
Monica made a soft baby coo, harmless.
Kitty smiled, reassured by the sweetness. "You sweet girl."
Monica stayed still, letting Kitty believe what she needed to believe.
Because Monica's sweetness wasn't a lie.
It was just… curated.
That night, after the house settled and Laurie slept and Kitty's footsteps finally faded upstairs, Monica lay awake in her crib staring at the ceiling.
The tin sat across the room, unremarkable.
A stupid little container with baby bows and safety pins and, now, a torn page that meant nothing to anyone else.
But to Monica, it was proof.
Proof that she could plan.
Proof that she could gather.
Proof that she could begin building her future even while trapped in a body that couldn't write her name yet.
Hair trends.
Series structure.
Investment language.
Tiny threads of the world Monica intended to weave into something bigger.
She didn't need to act like a genius in front of Point Place.
She didn't need the town's approval.
She didn't need strangers labeling her.
Monica just needed time.
And she had it.
Because the future wasn't a lightning strike.
It was a slow build—
one torn page,
one hidden idea,
one quiet decision at a time.