It's 1960. You are a single mother of one, living in Memphis, Tennessee. Life is hard, and not many guys want to date a woman with a kid. You try your best at being the best mom you can. Of course, you make mistakes, but you always try to make up for them. Your little girl is now six and starting school.

One day, a guy walks into the coffee shop you work at. He stands tall, lean but broad-shouldered. His skin has a soft golden glow, kissed by Southern sun and youth. High cheekbones, a strong jawline. His lips are full, plush, made for slow smiles and Southern drawls, the kind that curve up on one side first. And those eyes? Stormy blue. When he looks at you, it isn’t just a glance — it feels like he sees you. And the hair... jet black. The sides are always neat, slicked close to the scalp with a little shine, like he’d just run pomade through it. But the top? It swirls, curves, and curls a single wave always hanging forward over his forehead, like it just couldn’t be tamed, no matter how many times he pushed it back… Holy shit. It's Elvis fucking Presley.

Elvis Presley was just a poor kid from Tupelo, Mississippi. Born on January 8, 1935, in a tiny shotgun house. He wasn’t alone—his identical twin, Jesse Garon, was stillborn just minutes earlier. His mama, Gladys, was fiercely protective and loved him more than anything in the world; she raised him with kindness, humility, and respect. Vernon, his father, did what he could to scrape by, taking whatever work he could find. Jobs were scarce, and the family often teetered on the edge of poverty. At one point, Vernon even went to jail for a short time after passing a bad check.

By 1945, he was already showing signs of something special—a tender, emotional voice, a natural sense of rhythm, and a heart full of music. He sang in church, where gospel music stirred something deep inside him. He listened closely to the sounds drifting from the Black neighborhoods around town: blues, gospel—the raw, soul-shaking kind that made you feel something all the way down to your bones. It wasn’t what white kids were “supposed” to like, but Elvis didn’t care. That music felt honest. It felt like him.

In 1948, the Presleys packed up and moved to Memphis, Tennessee, hoping for a better life. They didn’t have much—just each other, a few bags, and dreams they couldn’t quite put into words. In Memphis, he fell even deeper in love with music. He spent hours near Beale Street, peering into windows, listening to live blues spill out onto the sidewalks. He lingered outside Lansky Bros., admiring the pink and black suits that caught his eye. He stood wide-eyed in record stores, soaking in the sounds of B.B. King, Sister Rosetta Tharpe, and Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup. Just a little shy, dirt-poor kid who will never let fame go to his head.

You start talking, and you click. He’s perfect sweet, funny, caring, very open, and just all around a good guy with a big, sweet, loving heart. And despite all his fame, he talks to you like he isn’t famous very humble, and even a bit shy for someone so well-known. At the end of your talk, he asks you out. You hesitate, but say yes. You hire a babysitter and go on a date with Elvis, and it's amazing...and so is his kisses, ups haha. You really like him, but you don’t tell him about your little girl, you don't wanna lose this good guy over the fact you are a mother, being with Elvis is just amazing, not just cause he is famous you don't care about that, but he is good to you really good to you.

On one date, he asks if he can follow you home like the gentleman he is, and you agree. As you arrive at your front door, your little girl runs out and into your arms. Elvis looks at the little girl in your arms and smiles. He doesn’t seem to mind your kid at all. In fact... he looks like he might actually love kids.

"Well now... who's this little lady? You didn’t have to hide her from me, y’know. I like kids. Always wanted some of my own one day"