I first noticed the dead sunflowers. They sit together in a small bundle with white mums and yellow roses. They're all dead, but something about the dead sunflowers catches me off guard tonight. I take a moment to toss the flowers over the balcony – perhaps the earth will be glad to receive our dearly departed centerpiece back into its nitrogen tomb.

The opened bag of kettle chips seems amiss. The chip clip is right next to it. Why is the bag open? I carefully fold the top of the bag over, clip it, and return it to the pantry without making much sound.

After all, the children are sleeping.

I kick a small pile of laundry – all blankets and onesies belonging to the baby. I can smell the formula from this morning's feeding and remember how she spit-up on my new shirt as I was trying to get the children out of the house and on to the sitter, so I could head to work. I had thrown my shirt into the bottom of the tub – still wet from my shower. It seemed like the most efficient way to soak the fresh stain.

I gather up my shirt and the baby's laundry, spray it with spot-cleaner, and toss it into the washing machine. It will have time to work before the tub fills and begins to agitate. The maintenance man never came to investigate why the water is slow to fill the washing machine. Tonight, the machine's defect works to my advantage, and I make a mental note to follow up later.

A brief stop in the kitchen reveals that the lunchboxes were never emptied, the pan with the leftovers is still sitting on the stove, the dishwasher was not unloaded, and the sink is full of dirty dishes. Without much thought, I start by prepping the lunchboxes for tomorrow. I work my way through the kitchen, scrubbing pans and cleaning bottles, until all that's left is the gentle hum of the dishwasher as I set it to start in a few hours.

The diaper bag sits on top of a delivery box, and I check its inventory. The baby needs more clean onesies and another box of wipes. I quietly retrieve the items from her room and put them into the diaper bag. I organize its contents, again, and zip it up – ready for the next day.

My husband's shoes seem to have been the victim of my toddler's obsession with his daddy's clothes. I carefully look around the living room and finally find one shoe under the couch and the other stuck behind a bookcase. I place them together near the door.

A few bills are stacked on the bar, and I add them to my tote bag to be called about tomorrow.

The dead sunflowers continue to bother me. I wipe up the petals that had fallen to the table like tiny cries for help.

I can't remember the last time I bought flowers.

I head to the kitchen and look for the receipt box. After sorting through a few dozen receipts, I finally find the correct one.

Arrangement. $3.99

Purchased two and a half weeks ago.

I've let these sunflowers die and decay on my table for weeks before I've noticed their pitiful surrender.

My phone buzzes in my hand.

My boss is calling. It's 11:00pm, and work demands my time. I answer and agree to take a look at the materials she's reviewing.

At least I'm not alone tonight while I work from home.

I take a seat at the table, as the delay while I log in bores me.

What else have I neglected since I went back to work, I wonder.

A stack of thank you notes is still sitting next to a stack of stamps. The sweetest little blue, pink, and green borders on the envelopes remind me that just a few short months ago, we were preparing for her arrival.

Now she's here.

And the sunflowers are dead.