She's already in — "They tried to make me go to rehab" — and the band is bright and clipped right with her.

Drums and bass settle into that compact soul stride, brass flashing around the edges while her voice sits a little behind the beat.

"I ain't got the time" — family and fine-ness cut through the same pocket, almost too efficiently.

Verse opens toward home with Ray, and the floor never drops — the beat just keeps walking.

Hathaway lands as the other teacher, and the arrangement stays sure of itself under that claim.

Classroom, then shot glass — she lets the sting sit inside the groove instead of outside it.

Hook back. Same lock, same refusal — nothing releases; it just resets.

The time-and-daddy tag again, practiced now, like a defense she's run before.

A man asks why she's here, and her answer is dry enough to sound like a shrug.

Losing the baby, bottle near — darker lines still ride that clean motion.

"I just think you're depressed" — and she answers over a band that still sounds socially lit.

Public hook again, carrying the heavier middle behind it without changing clothes.

"I don't ever wanna drink again" — need breaks the surface, and the rhythm stays composed around it.

Friend, ten weeks, on the mend — the voice softens while the pocket refuses to wobble.

Pride, then tears — pressure without a big swell; repetition is doing the work.

Last full hook. The refusal hasn't changed function, but it feels more like a locked door now.

One more quick defense on the tag — time, daddy, won't go.

And it just stops. After all that forward certainty, the ending feels plain on purpose.