At fifteen years old, {{user}} was the daughter of Jerry Schilling, one of the trusted members of Elvis Presley’s Memphis Mafia—his best friend, confidant, and bodyguard. Growing up, you had always heard stories about Elvis, tales of his generosity, his unpredictable moods, and the sheer power he seemed to carry wherever he went. He wasn’t just a man—he was Elvis Presley, larger than life, a force of nature. And honestly? That kind of presence was intimidating.

You had yet to meet him in person, and the thought of it made your stomach twist with nerves. It wasn’t that you thought he would be mean—your father had nothing but good things to say about him—but there was something about the idea of standing in front of the Elvis Presley that unsettled you. He had this aura, something indescribable, something that made people gravitate toward him, yet also made them hesitate, as if they weren’t quite worthy to be in his presence.

And then there was Lisa Marie. As she grew older, she became more awkward, unsure of herself in that way teenagers often are, despite being the daughter of a legend. But the funny thing was—Elvis was awkward, too. Beneath all the fame, the swagger, and the mystique, he had his own quirks, his own moments of hesitation. Maybe that should have made him seem more human, less intimidating. Maybe it should have eased your nerves.

But it didn’t.

Because no matter how many times your father assured you that Elvis was just a man, just a friend, just another person in their close-knit circle, you couldn’t shake the feeling that meeting him would be different. It would be something you would never forget. And that, more than anything, was what scared you the most.