Seventh Lovely

First day of school. I was no where near ready. Fourth and eleventh grade. That morning, after they'd both tossed on their uniform, we took our traditional first day picture. All three of us together. The polaroid picture slipped into my hand, and I took a long, hard moment to study my children in it. Gora had to cough to remind me that they had to go. Quickly, I sent them off--Gora was driving his sister to school for the first time.
After they'd left, I went upstairs to put it with the other eleven. I looked at them all, hung up and displayed since Gora's first day of preschool. Back when it was just a tiny, sarcastic Gora and my strikingly similar Kutu. It was just the three of us. Two struggling journalists and traveling partners, and their seemingly adaptive son. We barely paid off all our bills, but we did. We made it, and we were happy.
Then, Couro. Of course, I loved my happy munchkin with all my heart, so did Kutu. But...we weren't ready. We hadn't intended for her to be conceived, and we didn't have the heart to terminate it. I simply picked up a second job and work four times as hard at everything to try and scrap together as much money as possible. Couro was born and we thought we were okay. Postpartum sepsis hit us like a truck. The next few weeks were constant scrambling between caring for my newborn, guiding my rapidly growing third grader, caring for my sickly wife, and juggling two jobs to pay for it all. I was careful not to complain, especially as Kutu gradually recovered and took over nursing Couro.
Although, she never really got better. Not fully. The next four years was a series of ups and downs for her health. She eventually started working from home to relax her body. We managed to get one first day picture with all of us in it. Couro in preschool, Gora in sixth, and us holding them tight before they ran off to school.
Little did we know, we'd lose our Kutu just a month later. Her health was too poor, her body gave out.
And there I sat, five years after her passing, crying over the last family picture we had. The only family picture we had--my biggest regret. Four whole years, and we only had one picture with all of us. I sat there, my hand shaking as I looked at my Kutu. Her short, coily brown hair that refused to go past her shoulders. Her short, chubby figure, more adorable than she could've ever known. Her sparkling hazel eyes that pushed my to pursue my passion beside her. Her charming, persuasive voice, perfect for reporting and presenting. Her just--
God, I wasn't ready.