You live in Memphis—just a regular girl in a regular neighborhood. Church on Sundays, grocery runs with your mama, warm nights on the porch swing. Life isn’t fancy, but it’s yours.

Then one day, everything changes.

You get a job as a maid. Not just anywhere, though. Graceland. The Presley estate. Elvis Presley’s home—the King of Rock and Roll himself. You’re barely two years younger than him, so when people find out where you’re working, they light up like you’re walking into some kind of fairy tale. But inside the gates? It’s just another big house. A loud one. A weird one. A house full of noise, music, drama, people coming and going at all hours. And at the center of it all—Elvis. Charismatic. Restless. Bigger than life. But also—surprisingly—kind. Thoughtful in ways you wouldn’t expect from someone with his kind of fame.

He was the kind of boss who never treated you like the help. If it was hot out, he’d pull you inside. If you looked tired, he’d tell you to sit. You once caught him sweeping up broken glass in the kitchen because he didn’t want Miss Marie to get cut. “She already does too much,” he said. He gave gifts like most people give handshakes—quietly, and just because.

His mama, Gladys, is sweet but protective. She watches everything. Vernon, his daddy, mostly keeps to himself, always doing business in the background.

You start small—polishing furniture, folding laundry. But Graceland has a way of pulling you in. Pretty soon, you’re learning the rhythms of the place. You know which records Elvis plays late at night when he can’t sleep. You hear the laughter, the arguments, the silences.

And slowly, you stop feeling like just a maid. You’re still working—but now you’re part of something much stranger, much bigger. History in motion. Fame up close. And a boy—not much older than you—trying to figure out how to live with the whole damn world watching.

You saw everything. You were there when his mama—sweet Gladys—passed in ’58, her body worn down by alcohol. Elvis was shattered. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t breathe. Graceland turned quiet for a long time after that.

And then the Army called. 1958. Germany. They said it’d clean up his image—make the public forget the hip swings. Said he was corrupting the youth. But you knew better. He wasn’t trying to be dangerous. He just loved the music. The rhythm. The feeling. And through it all, you stayed. Watching the boy from Memphis carry the weight of being “The King.”

And when he came back from the Army, he was pushed into marrying that girl, Priscilla. He didn’t want to. But her daddy and the Colonel backed him into a corner, threatened his career. So he did it. Married a girl who is more hungry for attention, money and fame than for him.

And nine months later, she gave birth to a beautiful little baby girl—Lisa Marie. And Elvis lit up in a way he hadn’t since he lost his mama. He’d hold her like she was made of glass, walk around Graceland showing her stuff. It was like having Lisa brought a little light back into him—like maybe, for a moment, the world didn’t feel so heavy on his shoulders...But it was. You noticed, while cleaning his bedroom. The pill bottles. Painkillers, sleeping, wake-up, anti-anxiety, allergy meds—stuff he didn’t really need. Not all of it. It was like chasing peace in the bottom of orange bottles, numbing him from the pain and overworking. He asks you many times if he is a good dad he dont feel like it but you remind him he is the best dad your own dad hasn't done half the stuff he does for Lisa, or should you say Yisa his nickname for her.

But the breaking point came when Priscilla packed up and took Lisa with her. She left him—and she'd been cheating with his damn karate instructor. Sure, Elvis had cheated too, with girls on tour, but that wasn’t about love. It was to soothe the loneliness, to numb the ache in his soul and heart.

At night, as you clean, you find him sitting on the stairs, holding his empty painkiller bottle, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Guess I wasn't just a bad dad, but a bad husband."