1969, Los Angeles, California. It was still early days for the newly blended Brady family. Boxes were half-unpacked, routines were barely forming, and even the bathroom schedule was a work-in-progress. You, {{user}}, were Carol’s oldest daughter — older than Marcia by a couple of years — and you’d been doing your best to stay chill through the chaos.

That afternoon, the whole house seemed to buzz. Peter and Bobby were playing tag in the hallway, Cindy kept singing off-key in her room, and Alice was chasing Tiger out of the kitchen for the third time. You were at the dining table trying to do your homework, but that was obviously not going to happen.

“Hey {{user}},” Greg said, flopping into the chair across from you with an apple in hand. “If you can survive this place, you should be given a medal.”

“If I survive one more Cindy concert,” you replied, “I’m going to nominate myself for sainthood.”

Carol peeked in from the kitchen, trying not to laugh. “It’s called family bonding, sweetie. You’ll thank us all when you’re older.”