There’s a lot of beautiful poetry in what Della wanted for her boys. The stars. She’d traveled the Earth all her life, adventuring, learning- but she wanted more. She wanted to give them more. She didn’t want them to have a dusty, used map- Della wanted them to carve a map for themselves. Something grand and new, in places even she didn’t know.
But the beauty of the idea aside, they were eggs. Babies. The fragilest things imaginable. Donald was right to be worried- they could have perfected the Spear of Selene, built it with every safety precaution in the universe, but there was still no way to ensure their survival, let alone the survival of her unhatched eggs.
And even if it all could’ve come out hunky dory, despite what Scrooge, Della, maybe even Beakley might’ve thought- the boys earned the right to have a normal childhood. They should be able to run and play and get scrapes and bruises. Make friends their age. Play on playgrounds and hear cricket song. Beakley didn’t give Webby that, and it’s clear that Della didn’t intend to either.
Della knew her boys deserved the stars. Donald knew they needed more than that.
