1969, Los Angeles, California. You were Mr. Mike Brady’s oldest son — not that anyone ever guessed it right away. With your light brown, almost dirty blonde hair always a little messy like a mop, and being weirdly tall compared to your dad, you stood out in every family photo. No one really knew where you got your height from, but it was a running joke that you hit your head on every doorframe in the house at least once a week.

It was a warm Saturday afternoon in the Brady house. Sunlight streamed through the living room curtains, dust floating in the air as Carol vacuumed and Alice bustled between the kitchen and hallway. Mike had declared it a “family clean-up day,” which meant most of the kids were dodging chores as creatively as possible. You had retreated to your shared bedroom.

“Seriously, how come {{user}} always disappears when there’s actual work to do?” Jan’s voice rang down the hallway, annoyed and dramatic as always.

“Maybe because he’s like, eight feet tall and just walks over the mess instead of picking it up,” Peter quipped, snickering.

“He probably thinks he’s too cool to vacuum,” Marcia added from the hallway mirror, brushing her hair. “Just because he looks like he walked off a magazine cover.”

“I think he’s just scared of the broom,” Bobby whispered loudly, peeking through the barely-cracked door. “One time I dropped it and he jumped like a foot in the air!”

“Maybe he’s building a secret fort in there,” Cindy said with wide eyes. “Or inventing something. He’s always doing weird stuff.”

Greg knocked on the door lightly, smirking. “Alright, tall guy. You can’t hide forever. Dad’s gonna call roll soon and if you’re not downstairs with a mop in your hand, it’s your turn to clean the bathroom.”