It is I, Ashley.

Wife of Dan.

Bearer of children.

Maker of soups.

Writer of chaos. 

And today… victim of circumstance.

For today, I was forced — forced — to do the unthinkable.

I had to pump.

My own.

Gas.

I had been all over town, gallivanting, boondoggling, minding my business, living my life as a woman of culture and errands.

And yet, despite my travels, despite my contributions to society, despite my status as a fragile flower of the Midwest…

The gas tank dared to be empty.

This is, as everyone knows, Dan’s job.

A husband duty.

A sacred marital covenant.

But Dan was at work, earning the bacon, and I was left alone — abandoned — to face the horrors of the Speedway.

I pulled in, trembling like a Victorian heroine approaching a haunted manor.

Only weirdos hang out at gas stations.

Everyone knows this.

It is a universal truth.

I looked at the pump.

The pump looked back at me.

I felt judged.

Which button do I press

Which nozzle goes in

What is our loyalty code

Do I need a receipt

Where does the receipt even come out

Do I have to touch these things with my bare, unprotected hands

I whispered to myself, “I’ll think about that tomorrow,” in my best Scarlett O’Hara voice, but alas… tomorrow was not coming. The tank was empty today.

The boys sat in the backseat, eyes wide, watching their mother struggle like she was trying to defuse a bomb.

Jack looked concerned.

James looked entertained.

Both were certain this was the day they would become orphans.

I stepped out of the car like a woman stepping onto a battlefield.

The wind blew.

A tumbleweed rolled by (emotionally).

A man in a hoodie walked past and I nearly ascended.

I grabbed the nozzle.

It was heavier than I remembered.

I fumbled.

I pressed the wrong button.

The screen beeped at me like I had offended its ancestors.

I typed in the loyalty code wrong.

Twice.

Possibly thrice.

I questioned my life choices.

I questioned Dan’s life choices.

I questioned why society expects so much from one woman.

Finally — finally — the gas began to flow.

I stood there, shivering in the January breeze, clutching my cardigan like a widow at sea.

The pump clicked.

I jumped.

The boys laughed.

I glared.

The receipt popped out from a slot I didn’t even know existed.

I did not take it.

I am not that strong.

I got back in the car, breathless, shaken, forever changed.

Dan, miles away, had no idea the emotional labor I had just endured.

And as I drove away, I vowed — with the strength of a woman wronged — that never again shall I pump my own gas… for as God is my witness, Dan will fill that tank tomorrow.

—————-

‼️A message from Dan‼️

I’m at work.

Doing my job.

Minding my business.

Providing for my family.

My phone buzzes.

It’s Ashley.

She says — with the urgency of someone reporting a natural disaster —

that she had to pump her own gas.

I blink.

I stare at the wall for a moment.

This is the first time in months she’s had to do this.

I usually take care of it.

Quietly.

Routinely.

Like a gas‑filling elf who visits in the night.

She doesn’t even notice.

But today…

today she noticed.

She tells me she feared for her life.

She tells me she didn’t know which button to press.

She tells me the boys watched her like she was defusing a bomb.

She tells me she touched the pump with her bare hands.

I listen.

I nod.

I inhale.

And then — in the privacy of my own mind — I turn slowly toward an imaginary camera like Jim from The Office.

Expression blank.

Eyes hollow.

Soul leaving my body.

I hold the stare.

I hold it longer.

I hold it until the universe understands.

I say nothing.

Because there is nothing to say.

I will fill the tank next time.

Quietly.

Routinely.

As is my sacred duty.

And tomorrow, she will once again forget gas stations exist.