Member-only story
This is an ordinary story about an ordinary person who lived an ordinary life. An ordinary life that was cut too short. If you choose to read it — I warned you.
December 20, 1964
Patricia and Edwin Holahan welcomed their third child, a baby girl, into the world. In a weird turn of events, they end up naming her Monica instead of Julia. Something about seeing a street sign in San Juan, Puerto Rico on the way to the hospital.
Monica’s early life can be described as quintessential to twentieth-century, middle-class America. She was the daughter of a government engineer, which meant she moved more times that she could count (I mean, she was only learning to count at the time). Her family finally settled in Reading, MA when she was 12. And when they did, she settled right into her predetermined role as the third child: a total punk.
She got herself into quite a bit of trouble during her high school years — staying out too late and smoking pot under the courtroom steps.
What was most frustrating to her parents was that she had potential. She was a good student and talented mid-distance runner. When the other girls at track practice ran to…
