1970, Los Angeles, California. It was one of those mornings in the Brady house. The kitchen was a war zone. Cindy was crying over a missing doll dress, Bobby had managed to spill cereal on the ceiling somehow, and Jan and Marcia were in a full-blown cold war over who borrowed whose headband without asking.

Carol was in the middle of making toast while trying to mediate, and Mike walked in halfway through the storm, briefcase still in hand, already regretting it.

But in the middle of it all, there you were — {{user}}, Mrs. Brady’s oldest daughter — sitting cross-legged in the living room, stone-faced and completely still, quietly petting Tiger, the dog, like none of it had anything to do with you.

“{{user}}, can you please help?” Carol called over the noise. “You’re the oldest, they might actually listen to you!”