Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For Webby, the last few days had been a strange mix of denial and smothering pain.

She had never felt such a terrible, paralyzing panic as that morning when they split up to search for Louie. That day, as she ran through the mansion, her mind raced, searching for possible explanations for Louie's disappearance: a kidnapping, magic, a scheme, a prank—anything that would make sense. Because despite the bad feeling she'd had all week, she never thought Louie would run away from home or hurt himself. It wasn't even an option; Louie
would never leave them.

Then she had followed the screams, seen the body, and let herself be embraced. But the reality of what had happened never fully settled in her mind. She couldn't accept that Louie was dead.

But even if the situation didn't feel real to her, the pain certainly was. Burning, suffocating, and strange. Something she had never experienced and hoped never to feel again. It had prevented her from thinking or acting. Everything had felt wrong and unacceptable, and all she had been able to do was cry and let herself be comforted by those who had lost as much or more than she had.

The funeral had been the final straw. The grief had paralyzed her. She had tried, but it was impossible for her to approach Louie's body; her legs had trembled too much, her heart had pounded too fast, too loudly in her ears, preventing her from thinking or feeling anything beyond the pain. All she could do was cry, cry, and hope it was all a nightmare, a cruel joke, anything to tell her that her brother wasn't gone.

When the funeral had ended, her grandmother carried her back to her room and tucked her into bed. Lena and Violeta stayed with her for several hours, saying nothing, but holding her tightly and not leaving her alone. For a while, it was enough to calm her and allow her to sleep.

When she woke up, it was already night. Her friends had already left, but they had left a lamp on, and there were a sandwich and some cold tea on her nightstand. Webby couldn't remember if she had eaten during the day, much less the last time anything had tasted good, but anyway, almost out of habit, she picked up the tea and took a sip. The bitter taste almost made her recoil; she hated cold tea, but her sore throat was grateful. It hurt from crying so much, and she was probably a little dehydrated too. She didn't feel well and was hungry, but she felt uncapable to eat.

She stared at the teacup in her hands for a few moments. The coppery liquid reflected back a distorted and faint image of herself, which felt quite fitting for her current state. She didn't feel like herself; she felt weak, dull, colorless.

It was all too much for her. She couldn't believe Louie was gone, much less like this.

Louie had many dreams and hopes; he was loved and seemed happy. Perhaps his life was more complicated than most, but Louie was much tougher than he appeared, and when he wanted to be, he could be incredibly passionate and committed. He knew how to find hidden paths, exits no one else had seen. He knew how to speak his way out of anything; he was resilient and intelligent, and he had a family who loved him and whom, she was sure, he loved in return.

But perhaps none of that had anything to do with suicide. Perhaps being tough and being loved wasn't always enough.

Webby sighed, looking at her tea. The Webby in her reflection looked bad for many reasons, but what made her seem wrong was that she looked like she had already given up.

For days she'd felt out of her own skin, uncomfortable, like she was someone else, but not anymore. She'd hit rock bottom during the funeral; she had to start climbing back up, to be herself again.

And that began with getting up and acting, stopping complaining and doing something to change the situation. She couldn't just stand idly by.

Webby Vandercuak did not give up.

She slammed the mug back down almost furiously and got out of bed. She wasn't going to give up on Louie, she couldn't.

Louie was always lazy, greedy, and even inconsiderate at times, but she knew better —her whole family did. They knew Louie and could see all the good in him. More importantly, they knew that, regardless of his flaws, Louie was loving, caring, and loyal as hell. He wouldn't give up on them, so Webby wouldn't give up on him.

She walked to her desk and gathered her materials: notes, notebooks, and glitter pencils, and began to work. There had to be a way to bring her brother back and understand why he had left in the first place. Something inside her resisted the idea of suicide; it simply didn't make sense, if not for the reasons, in the way.

Walking through a forest in the middle of the night, climbing a tree, and tying complicated knots to hang himself? That didn't sound like Louie—that seemed like something Huey would have chosen, but she didn't want to think about it—her brother wouldn't have chosen a forest to die in, much less at night. Louie was easily scared and not very fond of dirt or insects; besides, he always hated physical labor. He would never have chosen to climb a tree of his own free will.

There were easier, quicker ways to die. Besides, why choose a place so remote, so hard to find? Huey and Dewey had found him almost by chance —good or bad, she didn't know— but it could have taken them weeks. Louie was many things, but cruel wasn't one of them, she was sure of that. Louie wouldn't have chosen to make his family suffer on purpose, struggling for days to find him only to see his decomposing body hanging by his neck. He would have chosen something less traumatic for them, something more peaceful, something that didn't stalk his dreams forever.

Webby shuddered; she couldn't believe she was analyzing someone's suicide methods, much less someone she considered her brother.

There had been no note, no previous attempts, no comments on the matter, nothing that would have warned them of what was going to happen other than his strange behavior the previous week, but it didn't seem to be enough.
Part of her knew that no explanation would be enough.

No, suicide made no sense, and that opened up an endless range of possibilities as to what might have happened. Perhaps someone had threatened or cast a spell on him; perhaps that wasn't his Louie but an imposter from another dimension; perhaps it was some kind of evil trick or plan, or perhaps it was all a dream. The possibilities were infinite.

And they didn't matter as much as getting Louie back.

Webby spent the next few hours studying her magic books and Scrooge's records. There had to be something that could bring Louie back—a spell, a machine, or a magical artifact. Nothing was impossible; there had to be a way. Louie couldn't have been gone forever. For example, there was the Ferryman's Flame, which lights the way to the land of the dead. She could ask Duckworth for help, who had been even more evasive and quiet than usual, or she could ask Violet for help. After all, it was thanks to her that she had managed to find Lena. There were ways to talk to someone who was gone; they could see Louie again; they could get him back.
She didn't realize it was morning until her grandmother came to bring her breakfast several hours later, looking tired and miserable when she saw her.

But she didn't notice. "Good morning, granny," She smiled at her and realized for the first time how little she had smiled in recent days.

“Webby… What are you doing?” The older one placed a tray on her desk and approached her carefully, as if she were afraid of scaring her. Webby smiled even more broadly.

“Studying!” She got up from her place on the floor and stood next to her blackboard, very proud. “I know there’s a way to bring Louie back!” She turned around excitedly, ignoring her grandmother’s sad look and resigned sigh.

“Webby…”

“There’s a lot of time-based magic, and there are artifacts and much more.”

“Webby…”

“Even Gyro made a time machine!”

“Webby…”

"Well, a bathtub, and we'd have to find a way to avoid the giant hurricane that almost destroyed the town."

“Webby…”

“But there must be a way! We can get him back! We just have to keep investigating and…”

“Webbygail!”

Her grandmother's scream abruptly interrupted her reverie, and only then did she see how hurt and devastated her grandmother looked. She stopped smiling.

“Webby, dear,” the older woman carefully approached her bed and gestured for her to sit beside her. Hesitantly, she obeyed. “Webby, you have to stop this.”

“But we can bring him back!” she said desperately. There were options, there was hope, they couldn't give up.

“No Webby, we can’t,” she said calmly, looking down.

“Yes, we can! It might be complicated, but we’re a family and we don’t give up.” Maybe she wasn’t a McDuck, but she knew that when Donald said they didn’t back down, he meant all of them, maybe not by blood, but they were family, a family that never gave up. “It’s not impossible.”

“I mean, we shouldn’t.” Webby felt her heart clench; her grandmother’s words felt like a betrayal.

“How can you say that? We can’t give up on Louie!” She frowned, suddenly mad. “I thought you loved him, that you considered him family too!”

“Of course I do!” Beakley raised her voice for a moment, then seemed to deflate. “Webby, dear,” her grandmother lovingly pulled her onto her lap, and she suppressed the urge to angrily pull away. “Listen, being part of this family… it changes things, in so many wonderful ways. It opens your mind and makes you learn about things you thought were impossible, but…”

“But?” she asked, almost fearfully. She didn’t like the direction the conversation was taking. It had taken her three days to shake off her numbness and pain, and now her grandmother was destroying her motivation and hopes with just a few words.

“But it also makes you lose perspective on how some things work. And it makes us think that everything can be fixed, that everything has another twist, and no truth is absolute. But that's not how it is; some things are the way they are, and we can't change them. You could have brought Lena back, but that was different. Louie chose to leave, and we have to respect that.”

“But he didn’t do it! We can’t be sure! There are so many things that don’t make sense!” Her voice trailed off, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I just… I don’t understand. Why?” she cried.

“My dear, you’ll drive yourself crazy trying to make sense of it all. Sometimes bad things happen, difficult things that hurt a lot, and we can’t understand them… but that’s life, you can’t explain everything. We can only be grateful for the good and let the bad make us stronger.” Her grandmother sighed and hugged her tighter. “Of course I love Louie, he’s part of my family and he always will be. It hurts that he’s gone. He was so young and had a bright future ahead of him, but now he’s dead, and no matter how much it hurts, we have to respect his decision.”

Webby sobbed. She didn't want to go back to the pain, to the unbearable agony of knowing that Louie, her friend, her brother, was gone forever. Some people found strength in anger or sadness, but she wasn't like that. She clung to hope and love; that's what kept her strong, helped her endure. Without it, she was helpless, defeated, broken. She didn't want to feel like that.

“He can’t be gone,” she cried. “There has to be a way to bring him back.”

“Webby, I’m sure Louie wouldn’t have wanted you to let his death consume you too. He would have wanted you to stay happy and optimistic, just like always. But being optimistic doesn’t mean being naive or denying reality; it means choosing to see the good within the bad. Having hope means staying true to yourself even in the darkest times, moving forward with the certainty that good things are waiting for you. Do you think you can do that for him?”

Webby sobbed. She couldn't accept that Louie was gone, not like this. But maybe it was because she didn't understand suicide itself, nor did she want to.

But she did want Louie to be happy, and if he had truly chosen to leave, she couldn't force him to come back. She couldn't be so selfish; Louie deserve better.

But it hurt a lot. Crying, she hugged her grandmother.

0o0o

Webby spent the next two days lying in bed, ignoring her friends' attempts to cheer her up.

On the third day, after a very staged fight between them about the truth behind some of Scrooge's adventures, Webby felt obliged to stand up, if only to defend the honor of one of her heroes.
And her friends, happy to see her acting a little like herself again, accepted the subsequent lecture —slides included— without complaint.

The rest of the days that week were hazy; Webby wasn't sure what she was supposed to do, or fell, how to keep moving forward.

If she eliminated adventures from her routine, she was left with a worrying amount of free time that she didn't know how to fill. All her previous activities now seemed empty for some reason. She had no desire to research the McDuck family or read about magic or exotic places; everything just felt…empty.

But they were better than the other option.

Adventures or not, she always spent her time with one of the boys, playing, exploring, fishing, watching tv, doing whatever they want, together. From the moment the triplets arrived at the mansion, they had a special connection. They became inseparable and unconditionally close friends without any trouble, and very soon after, they considered themselves family.

They were her brothers and she was their sister, her fourth triplet, part of the team.

But now she wasn't sure if she still fit in.

Being the fourth triplet meant there had been triplets, and one was gone. Now there were three again, but that wasn't her place; the third triplet was Louie, not her.

She could never replace him, nor want to.

No one could ever be like Louie or fill his shoes, and no one should ever try. Nor could they pretend he wasn't missing; his absence was simply too clear.

Without Louie, their entire equilibrium had shattered, their team had lost its balance, they family had lost a part of what made her unique, they life a little of its sparkle. His departure had altered everything she thought she knew; she just wasn't sure to what extent yet.

All she knew was that being with Huey and Dewey now felt wrong, like she was usurping Louie's place.

Furthermore, the boys had changed.

It was normal, considering the circumstances, but no less disconcerting. Huey had lost all his energy and joy. Nothing excited him anymore or made him smile; He was going into the darkness.

Dewey, on the other hand, was already in the dark.

Even with the little she'd seen of him in the last week, it was impossible not to notice how he'd changed. He'd become quiet, volatile, and, above all, unpredictable. For the first time, the Duck family's inherited anger was evident in him. He could be calm and normal one minute and the next one smashes something or screams at the slightest provocation. Being around him was confusing and dangerous; only Huey seemed to avoid his anger. Beside him, Dewey seemed a little calmer, more grounded. She supposed that was why they were almost always together. Dewey only seemed to wander around alone when Huey was asleep, and never for too long, just long enough to move his legs and get some fresh air.

Dewey's mood swings and Huey's sadness were an odd combination, and the truth was, Webby didn't know how to be around them anymore. The last thing she wanted was to hurt them further.
After a couple of days of feeling lost about what to do or how to act, it occurred to her that perhaps it would be good to think about what Louie would have wanted. She couldn't bring him back, but she could honor his memory, try to make him happy in death since she couldn't in life.

And the answer to her question was clear and simple: take care of them.

Maybe she didn't know Louie as well as she thought, but she was sure that Louie cared about his family with all his heart and that nothing was more important to him than Huey and Dewey.
And Louie would have wanted them to be okay, to be taken care of and made happy again.

Maybe Webby no longer felt as much a part of them as before, and her place in their family now seemed blurred, but one thing was clear: she still loved them as much as before and would do everything possible to make them smile again.

Louie would have known how to do it, but he was gone and she needed to find a way on her own; there had to be something.

She had to encourage them, help them move forward, make them stronger. She couldn't bear to lose them too, she couldn't fail again, she was going to be a better sister, a better person.
She owed it to Louie and to herself.

And a farewell was also due.

0o0o0o0o

Louie's grave was beautiful.

Back at the funeral Webby had done everything possible to avoid seeing it, that irrefutable proof of what they had lost, but now she approached it confidently and sat down on the moist grass.
Webby let the tranquility of the place wash over her. The rectangle of earth where Louie lay was surrounded by flowers; the green of the leaves blended softly with the violet and white petals of every kind of bloom. Some buds hadn't yet opened, and other plants seemed just beginning to grow, as if they had been chosen to flower later. The disturbed soil was damp, and the first shoots of grass were beginning to sprout, preparing the place to remain evergreen, in a perpetual spring of glistening grass and flowers dancing in the breeze.
The gravestone was polished and shiny and softly reflected the sunlight; the pale jade blended with the greenery around it, while the gold of the letters shone brighter among the purple flowers.

Louie Duck
2007-2019
Sharper than Sharpies
Forever Loved

Webby reached out and lovingly stroked the letters; that was the summary of Louie's life, a few words that tried to contain all that had been and all that could not be, all the love and longing that would remain forever in their hearts.

The little duck sighed, her eyes already moist with tears, and sat down more upright.

“Hi Louie,” she began, her voice soft. “I… uh, I didn’t really think this through.” She lowered her head and ran a hand through her hair, a little embarrassed. “I don’t know… I have absolutely no idea what the protocol is, what I can or can’t say.”

Webby rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You know, I’ve never been in front of a headstone like this before. I mean, I’ve been to a lot of cemeteries and I’ve seen and researched a lot of graves and mausoleums. There are all kinds, and some are really interesting with a lot of stories.” She opened her eyes wider and quickly waved her hands to correct herself. “I don’t mean to say yours isn’t interesting, I mean. You did a lot of things in your life, and it’s definitely the most expensive one I’ve ever seen. Well, maybe not. I mean, there are some really, really old ones that are considered priceless. I don’t even want to imagine how much a sarcophagus costs, if you can even buy one. But I’m sure this one is very valuable, and it will become even more so over time, and… and I’m rambling.” She buried her head in her hands and let out a bitter little laugh.

“I really don’t know how to do this, huh?” she sighed and fixed her gaze on the budding grass around her, she began to gently play with it between her fingers. “I never knew what to do outside the mansion, I thought that studying everything I could about all the cultures I came across would help prepare me for when I could go out into the world and meet people, but I definitely wasn’t ready to be normal.”

Webby continued playing with the grass, but managed to look again at the gravestone. “But you all taught me that it wasn’t necessary, that I could be myself, do things my way and that wouldn’t stop the right people from loving me. You showed me that I could be weird and energetic and ridiculous and still make friends and belong to a family.”

She smiled, feeling a little more confident. “The day we met was the best day of my life, because it completely expanded my world. I was able to see and do things I never even dared to dream of, not just adventures, those are easy. I'm talking about having a family, being a sister.”

“When you and your brothers arrived, the mansion became a real home, with chaos and laughter and fights and tears… with life.” She lowered her gaze slightly, wiping her tears with her sleeves. “You taught me how to live, how to try and fail, you showed me beautiful things and terrible things too. I… I didn’t know anything could hurt like this,” she confessed. “I didn’t know I could feel so much” she sobbed.
“I failed you, Louie. I’m not even sure what I did wrong, but I failed you, and I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry,” she cried, closing her eyes. “You gave me the chance to be your friend, your sister, and I let you down.” She clutched her skirt in her hands, afraid of damaging the fragile life of the grass that was just beginning to grow.

“I don’t know what I did wrong, Louie, and I know, somewhere in my heart, that this isn’t my fault, at least not completely. We all failed you in some way, and you failed us too… you, you left us, you left me,” she cried.
And she wept and let her tears water the earth and pressed her head against the gravestone, trying to stifle her sobs, struggling to breathe through the agony. She released all the pain, the sense of betrayal, and the confusion that weighed her down. She stopped trying to make sense of it all and allowed herself only to cry and feel and grieve.

And she wept until she felt her tears had run dry, then gently lay down beside the gravestone. “I think we both made mistakes,” she began softly, as she resumed playing with the sprouting grass. “But I think we also did some things right. We played and talked and learned so much together. There were days when you were unbearable and I was exasperating, and days when we just laughed and had adventures.” She smiled gently, fondly remembering, “We fought mummies, plants, and mermaids, and we went fishing and took naps together on the plane. It was never perfect like in the stories I liked to imagine when I was alone in the mansion.”

She sighed and sat back down. “It wasn’t perfect, but it was good, it was real, and you allowed me to live and learn by your side, and I will always remember the time I had the honor of having you by my side.” She stroked the bright gold letters again. “Thank you for sharing part of your life with me,” she sobbed. “Now it hurts terribly, you have no idea how much, but I know I will never regret a single second I spent with you.”

She wiped her tears again and smiled a little more lightly. “You know, I came here thinking I’d say goodbye, but I realized I never will. You’re part of my life, my family, and you always will be. Just because you’re not physically here anymore doesn’t mean you’ve stopped being my friend and my brother. You’ll always be with me in some way. I mean, you taught me so much, even how to get free soda.” She chuckled. “And you’ve always been a good listener. Sure, sometimes you’d fall asleep, but you never got mad at me for rambling. I guess Huey trained you for that.” She laughed softly again. “We can always keep talking. I can guess your answers, and well, if you ever want to talk for real, just give me a sign and I’ll bring you a Ouija board or I’ll find you with the Ferryman’s Flame. I even think Violet has a book on necromancy, but she says she doesn’t really trust that much in that kind of stuff, though I bet I can convince her, or I could check the bin…”

And so she stayed talking with him, hope in her heart, feeling that their relationship wasn't over, that it was just different, and that one day they could see each other again, when they were both ready.
Webby stayed talking with Louie for a while, their conversation drifting between memories, historical or magical tidbits, and the little they'd done those days. "...And Dewey smashed a TV with a lamp. I have no idea why, but it was really loud. At least it wasn't the cursed TV on the third floor, because that might have really annoyed Uncle Scrooge..." With time, she began to feel more comfortable, more like herself. The pain hadn't gone away, and she knew it could return at any moment, but for now, it was less intense and more bearable.

“I’m going to take care of them, Louie, for you and for me, but I’m going to need help. They’re going through a tough time right now, but I know we can get through this together and…”

“Webbygail!” Her grandmother’s voice almost made her jump, suddenly realizing that sunset had arrived.

“This way, Granny!” she called out and stood up, trying to brush some of the mud off her clothes, suddenly noticing how much time had passed; it was starting to get dark. “Sorry, Louie, I think I got a little carried away,” she said with a giggle. Then she looked around and marveled at what she saw.

Small, subtle sunlight began to flicker among the flowers, a soft yellow hue that slowly twinkled, giving the impression that the place was covered in tiny fireflies. "Wow, Uncle Scrooge really went all out. This place is beautiful. I really hope you like it, and if you don't, don't tell him, he'd have a fit," she said lightly, turning around as she felt Beakley approaching. "Hey, Granny," he greeted her.

Her grandmother stared at her for a moment, confused. “Webby, it’s very late and very humid. What are you doing out here?”

“I’m sorry, I came to talk to Louie and I think I lost track of time,” she shrugged, a little embarrassed.

But her grandmother just smiled at her, relieved and genuinely curious. "Oh really? How did that go?" she said, extending her hand to guide her back to the mansion.

“Actually? I think pretty well,” she said, taking her grandmother’s hand as she turned slightly toward the grave and waved goodbye. “Bye Louie, talk to you soon, love you.”

Webby walked happily back to the mansion with her grandmother, and when she saw that Dewey and Huey didn't want to come down for dinner, she promised herself that she would go out with them for a while the next day.

Donald had briefly told them about his attempt to go shopping together and how badly it had gone, but he also told them that this shouldn't stop them, that they should keep trying.
She would take them to the village, she decided, a short outing with no particular purpose, just a quiet and harmless little walk to begin, little by little, to heal, to live again, together.

0o0o0o

The days after the funeral were as terrible as Huey had expected.

But not in the way he expected. Those weren't days of chaos or darkness. The world kept functioning as usual, his family kept living, things had smoothly slipped into a new kind of normalcy without asking anyone.
They were quiet, pacific days, slowly returning to normal.

And Huey hated it.

It wasn't fair that the earth keeps spinning, that nothing had changed when their family's hearts had been shattered. It wasn't right that the rest of the world carried on with their lives as if nothing had happened, oblivious to the terrible tragedy that had occurred, feeling no pain, when a part of their soul had been ripped away.

Did the rest of the world even know what had happened? Even he wasn't sure he fully grasped everything that had changed, but with the lack of news and Scrooge's popularity, Louie's death would likely have made the news, accompanied by some sad music and a couple of baseless theories to fill the morning shows. Huey wasn't sure if everyone knew, and he preferred not to find out. He didn't want the world meddling in his affairs; Louie wouldn't have liked that kind of attention.

And even if it had been on the news, if the whole city knew, would anything change? Or would it just be another sad story among many, destined to elicit pity from a few and then be forgotten?
Huey preferred not to know. As far as he was concerned, no one should ever find out.

He was ashamed, not of Louie, but of himself. He didn't want everyone to know how deeply he had failed as a brother, how blind he had been, how useless he had been at changing things.

But perhaps, if everyone knew, someone else might remember to be a better sibling, or might try to be more observant to prevent such a tragedy from happening again. Perhaps, if everyone knew what happened, people would be a little kinder, more aware of their surroundings, or more careful with their words, and perhaps their family wouldn't be forced to resume functioning as if nothing had happened. They might have more time alone to grieve and suffer without having to confront reality.

But the adults had responsibilities, deeper and more complex than any child could ever understand. Huey knew that his parents and Beakley had children to care for, including himself, that Scrooge had a company to run, that the world couldn't wait for them while they dealt with their grief.

There was something bitter and so, so wrong about it being this way, about everyone being expected to go back to normal as if nothing had changed. That he was part of the reason his parents couldn't just let go and allow themselves to be vulnerable.

They couldn't, and they were struggling to do so, trying to move forward, even though none of them seemed to be succeeding, not really. They moved, they ate, and they talked, but they weren't living , as if everyone's energy had gone with Louie.

Scrooge and Beakley were probably the most successful in their foolish attempt at normality. He spent a lot of time at the trash heap, joining to all the business he'd neglected on his adventures, reviewing reports, and attending meetings whenever his board deigned to show up. She kept busy cleaning and tidying the mansion's endless rooms.

His parents were having an even harder time. His uncle used to spend his time on the houseboat or working, but it seemed he was unemployed and had no intention of going back to the houseboat. No one could blame him; that place held too many memories.

So now Donald spends his time wandering around the mansion, checking on them regularly and fixing random things to keep his mind occupied, including what would be their new rooms. Apparently, his uncle had finally given in and chosen a room for himself in the mansion, though it was hardly noticeable; every night he ended up sleeping with them.

Huey hadn't said anything; words often eluded him these days. But he hoped his uncle knew how much he appreciated his devotion. His presence at night was the only thing that allowed him to sleep peacefully, without the constant fear that something would try to take away the only brother he had left.

Meanwhile, his mother was acting strangely, more so than usual. Sometimes she seemed anxious to have them close and wouldn't leave their side; she'd even stayed overnight with them and Donald once. Other times she kept her distance, only glancing at them quickly, as if she were afraid to stay too long. Huey wasn't trying to understand her or anyone else, everyone was dealing with things as best they could. He himself didn't know what to do with himself most of the time.

He didn't want to try to join in the charade of normalcy the adults were so determined to create, and any attempt to distract his mind seemed like just another way to start forgetting Louie. But he couldn't keep doing nothing much longer either.

The pain was consuming him, leaving him more and more empty. Every thought, memory, or action was flooded with the absence of his younger brother.

Not only was Louie gone, but everything he brought with him was gone too. His absence was felt everywhere; it was as if the world had lost its color, as if his own soul had remained buried in that coffin with his brother to watch over him forever, as it should be.

But no, he was still there, forced to remain in a life that had lost its glint.

His energy had left him too. Nothing could excite him anymore or give him a good enough reason to get out of bed. He was always tired and fed up with everything. He just wanted to rest, even if no amount of sleep could bring back the zest for life and dreams he had lost.

The only thing he was sure of was that he had to keep Dewey by his side. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he was afraid of losing him too, of being left without the last thing that kept him anchored to the world. If anything happened to Dewey, he would never get over it.

And Dewey, bless his heart, seemed to understand. His younger brother hadn't left his side for a moment; the few times they got up, they did so together. Nothing was going to separate them.

And besides going to the bathroom or eating, they hadn't really gotten out of bed much anyway; neither of them seemed to have the energy or the reason to go out and do anything. Sometimes, someone would come to keep them company, usually Della or Donald. At those times, they would snuggle up with that person until they fell asleep again. That's what their lives had become: just waiting until unconsciousness claimed them.

Sometimes Huey wondered if having a routine would have helped him know what to do. But aside from the woodchuck meetings he wasn't planning on attending anytime soon, his life hadn't been very structured since they arrived at the mansion. Their routine used to be adventure, but now neither of them felt up to that, not anytime soon at least. That left them with a lot of free time and no ideas for how to fill it, nor any interest in doing so.

But they had to do something; they couldn't just sit around doing nothing forever. Dewey wouldn't be able to stand it, and Huey knew that, as much as he might want to, neither would he. They had to find something that would make them function again; that's how it was supposed to be.

But it was difficult, and all their attempts had failed. Huey didn't know why he should keep trying, why continue to function when he felt so broken, so flawed.

Their first and only attempt to go to the dining room for breakfast with everyone was a disaster. The moment he sat down, he noticed the empty chair next to him and started crying hysterically. Della intervened and tried to pick him up and carry him away from the room, but Dewey got between them with a cry and a slap at their mother's hand, as if he thought she was going to hurt him. When Dewey realized what he'd done, he started crying too, trying to explain himself and failing miserably. In the end, it was Beakly who managed to carry them both back to their temporary room.

The next day, Dewey and he tried watching television (not in the study, never in the study; that was his favorite place). They went to a secluded room with a small, old television, but neither was quite sure what to do. It was strange not fighting with anyone over the remote, not hearing critiques of the programs or the rustling of candy bags. After about half an hour of just switch channels, an Ottoman empire commercial came on, and he started crying. Dewey ended up throwing a lamp at the television. Both things shattered, and they silently decided they shouldn't try it again anytime soon. At least Scrooge hadn't been angry with them.

The list of incidents continued, and each one made Huey a little more miserable. Actions as simply going to eat, taking a bath, and even brushing his teeth have become impossible tasks. Almost everything made him cry, everything tired him out, and left him a little more hopeless.

He didn't even know how to talk to Webby again. Every time he'd crossed paths with her, he'd felt panicked, his voice catching in his throat, his eyes burning with tears. He loved Webby, like a wonderful extension of his family. A fourth member of a trio that seemed complete and perfect, but she had managed to improve upon it. Webby was his sister, but he no longer felt worthy of being her brother. He didn't want to hurt or disappoint her anymore. He hadn't known how to take care of Louie, whom he'd known his whole life. He was terrified to think of the damage he could do to a heart as tender and joyful as Webby's.

None of his relationships were the same as before; nothing felt natural, and he didn't feel like himself. He just wanted to curl up in bed and never go out again, pretending he could pause the world while he tried to rebuild his heart. He didn't want to go out or talk to anyone; he just wanted to rest.

But, apparently, he had to keep trying, if not for himself, then for Dewey.

Since all their attempts at the mansion had failed, it was apparently time to try to go outside. Perhaps a place less burdened with loss and pain would do them good, or at least that's what he tried to tell himself. Donand had asked them to accompany him to do the groceries. Huey didn't see the point and didn't want to go, but he did notice the faint glimmer of excitement in Dewey's eyes at the prospect of getting out, a spark he hadn't seen in far too long. With how dark and quiet the last few days had felt, Huey had almost forgotten what Dewey was supposed to be like: his brother was pure vibrant energy, wild, uncontrollable, and joyful. He knew Dewey was very sad about losing Louie, but that energy was a beautifully chaotic part of him, one that couldn't simply disappear, even with all the pain. He knew that Dewey was holding back for him and that was hurting him. With him, he was patient and calm, but almost any other person or thing made him snap, letting his energy out in the worst possible way, with his emotions afloat as always, but with an anger that didn't suit him at all.

Huey appreciated the patience and affection Dewey was showing him, but he didn't want to push it too far; he couldn't bear it if Dewey decided to distance himself from him as well.

So, with a weak, hesitant smile, he agreed. The discomfort of the subsequent ride was a small price to pay for the tiny smile that appeared on Dewey's face, even though all Huey could think about in the car was how much he missed Louie sitting between them. That was their arrangement, a way to prevent him and Dewey from fighting when they were younger and to allow Louie to choose whose shoulder to sleep against.
Being in the supermarket itself almost made Huey regret his decision; it was almost physically painful to watch his uncle keep making mistakes. They didn't need four different cereals, they shouldn't get mint chocolate chip cookies because the only one who liked them was gone, they didn't need so much Pep, or grape candy, or popcorn. His uncle kept putting things in and out of the shopping cart, looking more miserable with each passing moment.

Huey couldn't understand how things had changed so much. Everything, even the smallest moments, was tainted by his younger brother's absence. He was missing in every detail, in every action, no matter how mundane or boring. Louie wasn't there, and with him, a part of their reality had been taken from them forever, destabilizing their world, leaving it broken.

The little energy he had mustered was quickly depleted. He kept following her uncle through the supermarket aisles like a lost duckling, answering distractedly when he asked him something and pretending to look at the supermarket shelves.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice when Dewey left his side. In a second, he felt fear consume him completely, and the air left his body. Without Dewey, the world would crumble, forever, beyond repair.
Without stopping to think or even to warn their uncle, he started running, desperately searching for him. Dewey had to be around here somewhere; they couldn't have taken him. He had to find him. He was about to start shouting for his brother when he saw him at the end of a hallway, just a few meters away.

He felt the air return to his body, along with a sudden loss of energy and an overwhelming sense of shame. What was happening to him? They were in a supermarket, for heaven's sake, a supermarket full of families, well-lit and with security guards; they were safe, nothing could have happened to Dewey.

He couldn't be scared of something so common and quotidian.

But the fear he had felt was real. For a second, he had thought he was going to lose him, even if it didn't make any sense, even knowing the place was safe and with Dewey's promise that he wouldn't abandon him.
Something was definitely wrong with him.

He couldn't tie Dewey down to him; his brother was active, energetic, and easily distracted. He couldn't force him to be close by all the time, dimming his light so he would wander around with him. He would end up suffocating Dewey, forcing him to abandon him.

But he didn't know how to stop being afraid, how to prevent that every second away from his brother ending up filling him with panic, or how to be happy again and function like he used to. He didn't know how to fix himself; he was probably beyond repair.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly approached his brother, determined to make his latest outburst less obvious, to hide his madness even if it was plain to see. When he reached him, he suddenly noticed someone beside him—a small boy wearing a band t-shirt, talking a mile a minute, while Dewey tried to politely back away, concealing his obvious annoyance and failing miserably.

“Dewey, we should go,” he said quietly, his throat raspy from lack of use and the crying of the last few days. Dewey turned to him, looking absolutely relieved to see him and ready to follow, however, the little boy let out a squeal as if he had just seen the strangest thing in the world.

“Wow, are you twins!?” he exclaimed excitedly.

Neither of them knew what to say. The panic he'd felt before was nothing compared to what he was feeling now; he was so confused and scared , he couldn't think straight. Finally, he dragged his brother back to his uncle, not caring about the confused child they'd left behind.

He didn't care about the shopping either; his breathing was heavy, his mind was racing, and he felt an overwhelming urge to tear something out or destroy it, even if it was just his own feathers. The moment he saw Donald, he begged him to take them home.

The eldest did not hesitate and, leaving the groceries behind, they returned to the mansion.

The road had never felt so long. Huey practically bounced in his seat the whole way, nervous and eager to get back to a safer place, to his home.

But he didn't have one anymore; it had gone with Louie.

Even so, the mansion was better than being outside, exposed to everyone. The second the car stopped in the driveway, Huey had already jumped out of his seat, dragging Dewey back to his temporary room and throwing himself onto the bed, wishing the sheets would swallow him up so he could stop thinking about that stupid question and his inability to answer.

Donald entered the room looking lost and sat on the bed with them. Dewey quickly climbed onto his lap and let himself be hugged, but Huey couldn't move, only curling deeper into the sheets as he looked to his uncle for help.
But Donald didn't know what had happened; it had taken them several minutes to calm down enough to speak. His uncle was patient, stroking his feathers and humming soft songs. After what seemed like hours, Dewey was the one who finally found the strength to speak.

“I was… I was looking at some cookies when a kid came up to me… he… saw my hair and recognized the band and started talking to me about it,” his brother sobbed, his voice breaking and frustrated. “Then Huey came looking for me… and the kid saw us and asked… asked if we were twins,” he finished and hugged Donald again. His uncle sighed, looking older than ever before.

“We didn’t know what to say,” Huey added.

“I asked myself that question many times.” Donald sighed again and extended his arm to invite him closer. He finally did. “While Della was gone, I was often asked if I had any siblings. When someone asked me directly, I could say I had one, and most people understood. But on some documents, job applications, and records, there was just the question and some damn yes/no boxes that seemed to be mocking me.”

“What did you do then?” Huey asked his uncle quietly, almost afraid to know the answer.

“I won’t lie to you, at first I tore up a lot of those papers.” He smiled bitterly. “Then I started changing the answers. Sometimes I put no, sometimes yes, sometimes I marked both, or left them blank, or even wrote next to them that I had had one.” His uncle sighed and pulled them closer to him. “But then I understood that there wasn’t a right answer, not really. There wasn’t a name that described what I had lost, so it was up to me to define it.”
“What did you decide?” Dewey asked in a soft, trembling voice, pressing himself closer to them.

Donald sighed as he hugged them both closer. “I finally decided to always say yes, no matter that she was gone and I thought she was dead. Della always was and always will be my sister. Neither death nor distance can change that. I was still a brother, a twin.”

Donald continued, cupping their cheeks in his hands, “Boys, each of you has to decide how you want to answer that question, and no answer will be wrong. You can take all the time you need to decide and change your decision as many times as you need, looking for what makes you feel better. There are no guidelines to follow; you can just keep trying.”

Huey hugged Donald. He hated uncertainty; unlike his brother, he couldn't stand not having a clear and single answer to a question. He needed certainty.

But perhaps the option his uncle gave him wasn't so bad; it was better that the answer depended on him than someone telling him that he was no longer a triplet, that Louie was no longer his brother.

The rest of the day was similar to the previous ones. Donald left when the doorbell rang, Della arrived a couple of hours later and cuddled with them for a while. When lunchtime came, he didn't want to move, and finally Beakley brought them their food, even though they all knew he wasn't going to eat.

Dewey sat on the bed and began to eat slowly, looking lethargic and thoughtful, perhaps reliving the conversations they and their parents had had that day. Huey didn't get up, just rested his head in his brother's lap.
Finally, Dewey broke the silence: “Huey, you should eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. He was hungry, but he was unable to eat; the mere thought of it made him nauseous.

“You haven’t eaten in a long time”

"I know"

“Just… try it, please.” Dewey sounded broken and tired, and he found himself unable to deny anything to his only remaining brother, so he sat down next to him and took a few bites of his food. He closed his eyes as the nausea intensified and hugged himself, trying to calm his stomach, trembling.

Dewey quickly put the plates aside. “Okay, Huey, don't overexert yourself. Come on, lie down.” Slowly, Huey did and pulled Dewey down with him. His younger brother hugged him and affectionately stroked his back.
Huey melted at the touch. Dewey was the only thing keeping him there. He loved his whole family and appreciated all their support, but he was sure that if Dewey weren't there, he would have already followed Louie.
A terrifying idea, yet also slightly tempting. Part of him longed to be reunited with his younger brother and simply end all the pain that consumed him. He was exhausted; he just wanted to rest, to have a moment where the pain didn't pierce his chest and the anguish didn't fill his mind. He wanted to be happy again, to smile, and he saw no way that could happen if he remained alive.

But he had Dewey, and he couldn't leave him alone. That's why he clung to him whenever the thought seemed too tempting; it was the only thing he could do to stay there.

He suspected that Dewey understood his thoughts, and that's why he didn't leave him alone either. He knew that Dewey had a hard time staying still, but even so, his brother hadn't moved from his side, perhaps afraid of losing him too.

He assumed his whole family shared the same fear. Even in his dazed state, he could tell they were always watching them and had kept dangerous things away from them; in fact, their food was always chopped up so they wouldn't have to use a knife.

He couldn't help but feel ashamed. He was the oldest brother, the one who should take care of others. He'd promised Louie he'd look after Dewey, but he was failing. He couldn't even take care of himself. His whole family had to care for him just to keep him alive. Louie would be so disappointed in him.

It was incredible how things had gone so wrong so quickly. Just a few weeks ago, he had felt full of life, eager to explore and continue learning alongside his family. But in a second, all of that had vanished. It was unbelievable to think he was still the same person; he definitely didn't feel that way.

Not for the first time, he didn't realize he was crying until gentle hands wiped his tears away. Dewey was looking at him, his own eyes filled with pain.

He pressed his forehead to his brother's and clenched his teeth to try to hold back his sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed, unsure of what of everything he was apologizing for, maybe for everything. Dewey squeezed him tighter.

“It’s not your fault”

“It feels like it is” Everything: Louie’s death, his endless tears, his incapacity to live.

"I know"

“I want him back!” he cried, like a little boy, begging for the impossible.

“Me too, but…”

“But?” he asked, almost fearfully, he couldn’t think of a reason not to want Louie back or at least to allow himself to dream about it.

Dewey lifted his head to look him directly in the eyes and let out a sigh filled with guilt, but also with determination. There wasn't a trace of doubt in his blue eyes when he spoke, only a protective and dangerous fury.
“I’d give anything to get Louie back, but not if it means losing you,” he said confidently, holding him closer.

Huey cried harder. He felt just like Dewey. He desperately wanted to leave everything behind and just be with Louie, but that would mean leaving Dewey, and he didn't think he could bear that.
He simply couldn't choose between his brothers. He needed them both; he couldn't leave one to go back to the other.

But the difference was that Dewey did want him by his side, and he suspected that Louie wouldn't want him to follow him, and he had already hurt him too much; he couldn't follow him just to cause him more pain.
He hugged Dewey tighter and whimpered. He didn't want to go on like this, he could n't go on like this, he just wanted to give up and turn off the pain once and for all. He was exhausted, tired, and defeated, and he couldn't take it anymore.

But he had to endure, for Dewey, he was all that mattered now, all he could hold on to, it was the only thing he could do for Louie, take care of the brother he had left behind.

Finally, he rested his head against Dewey's chest and closed his eyes, thinking that he had to hold on, that even if he didn't want to, it was his responsibility to stay alive.

He fell asleep to the comforting sound of Dewey's heartbeat, warm and alive, ringing in his ears.

0o0o0o

The next time someone asked Della about her time on the moon, she would say it was fucking paradise.

The absolute loneliness, the pain, the constant fear, the guilt and the shame of that experience could not compare to everything she was feeling now, with the sadness, the guilt, the emptiness and the fear that tore at her heart every moment.

Louie, her baby, had taken his own life a week ago.

On the moon, she knew what to do. She had a mission: to return to her family, to her children, and nothing would stop her until she achieved it. She knew her only chance was to fix the rocket, and she used all her energy on that, on learning, gathering, building, and surviving. She had a purpose, a goal, that was clear and helped her get up every day.
Of course there were hard days, full of mistakes and frustration, days when she felt that everything was useless, that she was useless, but she could always console herself with the prize that awaited her: returning to her children, to her family, to her life.

And as she worked on the repairs, she always held two absolute certainties: that her family was waiting for her and that while she was gone, her ducklings would be safe with their uncles. With those certainties in her heart, she allowed herself to dream about what everything would be like when she returned, about what her children would be like, how they could have adventures together, how her life could be as it once was, and even better.
But reality hit her the day she returned. Things could never be the same again; her Uncle Scrooge had changed, Donald had changed, and the ducklings she had imagined so many times were not what she thought they would be.
She also failed to live up to her own fantasies.

She had imagined that, upon returning, she would fit seamlessly into her family, proudly embracing her newfound title of mother, guiding her family through heroic journeys and endless mysteries in a world that always had something new to offer.

But she had returned to a home where she still didn't know how to fit in, where Scrooge was more cautious, where she was no longer Donald's only priority, and where her role as a mother was far more complex than she could ever have imagined.

She had never given much thought to the role of a mother. Her parents died when she was very young, and she didn't remember them as much as she should have. She had pushed her thoughts away from them as much as possible because she knew that clinging to the past would only prevent her from moving forward toward a future that promised wonderful things. But now she wished she could remember them more, especially her mother.
Only now could she begin to understand what her mother had been to her during her childhood: a strong, determined, and courageous woman who was also loving and considerate. Her mother had been able to give them discipline and love, had let them have fun and be children while preparing them for the future, had dealt with Donald and her at every moment, during every birthday, holiday, and trip, but also in every moment of illness, conflict, anger or sadness. She had handled with admirable skill two very different ducklings, full of energy and eager to explore the world. She had cared for them, bathed them, combed their fur, comforted them, disciplined them, and hugged them with love at every precise moment, with the grace and strength of a McDuck.

Della couldn't do the same. She was nothing like her.

Since returning to the mansion, Della found herself thinking more and more about her mother, wishing she could talk to her, even for just a moment, to ask how she had done, how she had dealt with everything a mother had to be and more. She wanted to go to McDuck Castle —something Scrooge had never allowed her or Donald to do— and look for her ghost. She wanted to ask her if she had ever felt as lost and scared as she was.
Probably not.

The fear she had felt on the moon paled in comparison to the fear she felt when she realized that her children's lives were in her hands, that she had to protect them while letting them live and explore, that they were counting on her to be a mother, a guide. The loneliness she had felt on the moon paled in comparison to the loneliness she felt when she realized she had arrived at a house where she was a stranger.
On the moon he had no responsibilities, only a mission and his own determination to carry it out.

On Earth, she had no manual, no guide, not even a clear mission beyond loving and caring for her children. A mission that encompassed far more than anyone could hold, where each duckling had their own needs, quirks, fears and hopes, where every decision she made would affect each one differently. It was like being on three adventures at once, fighting in the sky, the sea, and the land, with pirates, monsters, and witches, struggling to know what to do at every moment, desperate to move forward on a journey that had no end.

Except that Louie's had it.

And the pain of losing her little duckling was something she could never wish on to anyone; it was as if a piece of herself had been torn away, leaving a pain that disallowed her from breathing or thinking.
She had failed Louie in everything. From the moment Louie was born without her by his side to the moment he took his last breath alone in a forest.

She hadn't really got to know Louie; they never connected or found common ground, and she'd let it go. She'd focused on the other two ducklings, who were much more receptive and enthusiastic, and had relegated Louie to a secondary mission, something complex she could deal with later, when she had more experience. She'd put her relationship with her youngest son on hold and taken him for granted, as if having him waiting for her for over ten years meant he could wait a little longer.

But someone's life, their relationships, weren't something you could put on pause. Every time she did or didn't do something, every time she spoke or remained silent, it had an impact on him. And she kept failing Louie until she lost him.

It was incredible how much it could hurt to lose someone, even if they were never yours in the first place, even if you didn't know them. She hadn't been Louie's mother and had no right to call him hers. Not Huey or Dewey either.
Ever since she met the ducklings, she had been amazed by every part of them she discovered; she hadn't been able to believe that such incredible creatures belonged to her. Only now did she realize that they didn't, and perhaps never would.

She had failed Louie and she continued failing Huey and Dewey.

She didn't know how to approach them, how to help them cope with everything that was happening, she didn't even know what to do with herself. Thinking was difficult, and she had no idea how to act. She wanted the world to stop around her until she learns how to breathe again.

Each member of her family was dealing with grief in their own way, trying to navigate through the pain, doubt, and guilt. Moving forward, doing useful things, being adults.

Scrooge had decided to dedicate himself to work, finding solace in the daily tasks and frustrations of managing several businesses, in mundane and easily manageable problems. He was rarely seen at the mansion during the day, though he never missed dinner, aware that he needed to see and be with his family, even if no one seemed ready to talk.

Beakley had fully returned to her housekeeping duties, cleaning and tidying throughout the mansion's countless rooms while trying to make room for the children while still keeping an eye on them, especially Webby. She was also very kind to the two girls who had visited the mansion almost every day, with a gentleness and concern evident in her usually calm features.

Duckworth and Launchpack… Della had no idea, really. They butler kept appearing and disappearing like the ghost he was, silent and evasive, perhaps avoiding questions about death he didn't want to answer. Launchpack acted as his uncle's chauffeur and spent the rest of his time in the garage, she supposed.

On the other hand, Donald remained particularly active and present at the mansion. He cooked for them all, prepared a new room for the boys, and fixed random things around the house while looking after the boys, encouraging them to move around, bringing them food, and watching over them at night, trying by every means to use his pain as energy for something useful.

She wished she could do the same, find things to keep her mind occupied and away from the pain, but she couldn't think of anything. Her usual activities were adventures, but that was out of the question, at least for now. Aside from that, she didn't work or have any other hobbies or future plans; she felt lost.

She had thought she could spend her time with Donald; she always felt a little less lost with her twin by her side, even after so much time apart. But she quickly dismissed the idea. Her brother was usually accompanied by at least one of his friends, and she preferred not to interfere. Besides, most of them had never really liked her.

She also felt lonely.

She hadn't realized how alone she was until her son's funeral, when Penny was the only one who stayed by her side. In the past, she had always been more popular than Donald; she was the fun, quirky, and adventurous Duck sister who loved meeting people and chatting. She used to be surrounded by people, but not friends—those people who truly know you and support you. She never managed to connect with anyone like that.

Donald was surly and bad-tempered, but he made friends easily and they were friends for life, as they had demonstrated this week.

Every day at least one of Donald's friends came to check on his brother, usually helping him with things around the house. They paid her no attention beyond a brief greeting, and she thought that was fine; they weren't her friends , she didn't even remember some of them, after all, and Donald needed the distraction. Her brother was determined to keep himself busy at all times, not allowing himself a single second to feel pain.
But the day Goofy went to visit them, reality had finally sunk in on her.

Her futile attempt to keep busy had led her to help Beakley and Duckworth with the housework. Something she hated ; she didn't understand the point of dusting things that only accumulated dust, or tidying things that were just going to get messed up again—it was pointless.

But it was better than staying alone in her room, thinking about her pain, drowning in questions that would have no answer.

So she resigned herself to the cleaning.

She was cursing the ridiculously large hallway rug when the doorbell rang. She practically ran to the door, thrilled by the distraction. When she saw who was there, she couldn't help but get even more excited and even smile a little. Goofy was a great guy and a good friend of Donald's. She didn't know him very well, but he was funny, loyal, and very kind, and, oddly enough, he made a great team with Donald —though probably putting the two of them together to work on repairs was more material for an old cartoon than a real asset to the mansion—. She hurried to say hello before her brother came downstairs, desperate for some company. But things didn't go quite as smoothly as she'd hoped.

“Hi, Goofy,” she greeted, perhaps a little too animated for the situation, but god, she felt lonely .

But the usually affable and friendly dog didn't even smile at her; Della didn't remember ever seeing him frown before.

“Hi, Della,” her response was curt and awkward. In an instant, all the lightness she had felt vanished, and the atmosphere became tense.

“Uh… um, it’s so nice that you’re all coming to visit Donald, I know he really appreciates it.” It was a vague attempt at conversation, but she meant it; she was very grateful that they weren’t leaving her brother alone after what had happened.

But his comment seemed to be incorrect; Goofy muttered, almost growling, "We have to do it."

“Why?” she asked, surprised. The answer felt like a knife in her chest.

“because we already saw him sink under the weight of the pain before”

She felt like she couldn't breathe, suddenly acutely aware of the image people had of her. To Donald's friends, she wasn't Della; she was the sister who had left her twin brother to care for three babies. She had left them to pick up the broken pieces of Donald's heart. She had never spoken to Donald about how she had coped with his loss and the responsibility of raising children, and she didn't know if she wanted to. She didn't need to be a genius or his twin to know that the situation couldn't have been easy for him.

She remained speechless, trying to find words to excuse herself or apologize. But, for better or worse, they were interrupted by loud knocks on the door.

“Hey dad, you and Donald were supposed to help us with the boards.” There were three young men she didn’t recognize, carrying wood, tools, and tiles, probably to fix the roof or something like that.
It wasn't like the roof actually needed repair or anything, but it seemed like Donald was running out of ideas.

“Sorry, Maxi, Donald still hasn’t come down,” Goofy’s tone returned to its friendly tone, but she almost choked. That couldn’t be Max. The last time she saw him, he was just a playful little boy; now he could easily be in college.
But of course, more than 12 years had passed since then.

“Nah, it’s fine,” the boy shrugged. “Uh, hi,” he greeted her. Della just waved, still dazed.

Thank goodness Donald chose that moment to come downstairs. “Hey Goofy, sorry, I was a little busy with the boys.” Donald came running, slightly out of breath, with that forced, tired smile he used to wear these days. “Hi kids.”
“Hello, Uncle Donald,” they greeted, with an air of sadness.

“Thank you for coming.” Somehow, her brother had managed to look even worse than her. Disheveled, with dark circles under his eyes, and listless, but he seemed genuinely happy to see those kids.

"no problem"

“Yeah, we are happy to help.”

"And if possible, we'd like to see the minis, try to cheer them up a bit."

“We brought them chocolate, they say it helps.”

“I’m sure the boys will be happy for the company… and the sugar.” Donald smiled at them, a little more genuine this time; Della felt lost.

“Do you know the boys?” It was a silly question, whispered in a low voice, but it made everyone look at her. Goofy frowned again; she shrank.

God, she wasn't usually that bad with people.

At least Max took pity on her. “Uh, yeah, we babysat for them a couple of times,” he said lightly, with an easy smile just like his father usually have.

“And once we figured out how to untie Huey’s woodchuck knots, everything became easier,” the bigger one added.

“and that we learned not to carry much money with us”

“And to hide the sugar,” the boys said playfully, with a hint of affection in their voices.

Della could imagine it: three young teenagers trying to earn a little money and encountering three hyperactive and intelligent ducklings. It must have been fun to watch.
“The boys never made it easy, did they?” he said with a wistful smile. The boys laughed.

Goofy looked at her. “Impossible for one person.” Della shrank under his gaze and the atmosphere became tense again, but Donald didn’t let it last.

“Come on, guys, let’s carry those things upstairs.” His brother took some of the planks Max was carrying and started up the stairs. “And if you behave, I’ll bake you some cookies later,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

"With chocolate chips?"

“And peanuts!” the boys cheered like children and quickly began to follow him.

“Uncle D’s cookies are the best,” they continued chatting along the way, lightening the atmosphere of the entire mansion a little. Goofy followed them, without looking at her again.

Della was left alone in the hall, suddenly very aware of everything that had been missed in her absence.

Not only had she missed her own children's childhood, she'd left a whole world behind. She knew nothing about Donald's life during her absence, nothing about what had happened to everyone else she knew. In fact, she was beginning to notice that, aside from her immediate family, no one had been excited about her return or even come to greet her.

She had no friends or life outside the mansion. She knew many people, but she had never had deep relationships before. She had never been good at them and convinced herself that she didn't need them. She never wanted ties, and every relationship, even friendships, requires commitment, something she seemed quite incapable of giving.

She was born to fly, to be free.

It was always just Scrooge, Donald, and her against the world. Before, that had been enough, but after ten years alone on the moon, she realized how lonely she had been even when she was back on Earth.
It was a sad thought that, apart from her family, no one else had missed her, how Scrooge seemed to be the only one who had looked for her, how she fit in better on the moon than in her own home.

She no longer knew them. She arrived at a house full of strangers and tried to make everything seem normal, like when she was a teenager and could move freely through life without thinking about the consequences. Now she was an adult, worse yet, a mother, and more was expected of her. She was responsible for the lives of her ducklings, for their stability and health. She was supposed to have the answers and be able to do everything better.
And she was terrible at that.

Despite her best efforts to avoid it, her mind wandered to the two ducklings she had left, alone and miserable in an old, dark room. They needed their parents, people who loved them and knew how to comfort them, something she knew she was incapable of doing.

They deserved better, someone better, and she wanted to be that person, but for the first time, she genuinely doubted whether she could achieve anything. She didn't want to keep messing things up.

She had tried to be with Huey and Dewey, but she felt she knew them even less now than before. Since Louie's death, Huey had faded away, like a shadow; he barely ate or spoke, and his movements were few and slow. Her attempts to reach him had been reduced to simply being by his side in bed, comforting him with her presence. It wasn't much, but it was something, a faint attempt to ease her baby's pain.

Dewey didn't make it easy.

Huey didn't react much to her, but at least her presence didn't seem to bother him, unlike Dewey. His middle son (or youngest, he couldn't tell anymore) seemed genuinely uncomfortable seeing her, even angry. Her presence didn't calm him down, it only made things worse.

Like Louie, the little duckling who she didn't know how to truly love, how to show him that she cared.

She wanted to be with them, take care of them, comfort them, but she didn't even know what to do for herself.

It took her perhaps another two hours of carpet cleaning before she decided to go up to the temporary room her children were using. It was dark and gloomy, the curtains were drawn, and the walls were faded. The two depressed ducklings and the remains of a barely touched lunch did nothing to improve the atmosphere.

“Hey, boys” she said in the softest, calmest voice she could muster. Her little ducklings looked so alone and sad in that enormous bed, so defenseless, that her heart ached. Even so, she approached them, carefully, giving them time to push her away if they wanted. Dewey was lying on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling, showing no sign of having felt her come in. Huey, whose head was resting on the younger duckling's chest, opened his tired eyes slightly. “I just came to spend some time with you.”

They didn't respond, but she didn't expect them to, so, gathering her courage, she lay down on the bed next to Dewey and reached out to hug both boys. Dewey tensed at her touch and turned his back to her, but he didn't pull away. Huey, instead, pressed himself against them, hugging Dewey to his chest, resting his head in the tangled feathers of the younger boy's hair.

Della stifled a sigh and gently stroked the back of Huey's neck, pulling him closer to her chest. She'd heard the boys had gone out with Donald for a while and that things hadn't ended well, but she didn't know the details. She only knew that her ducklings looked weak and defeated, that Huey's eyes seemed unable to stop crying, and that Dewey's easy smile seemed gone forever.

She stayed still with her ducklings, listening to their breathing and comforting herself in their warmth, trying to focus on the sensation of their feathers against her fingers. At least an hour had passed when a muffled voice startled her.

“Do you think Louie still considers me his brother?” To his utter surprise, it was Dewey’s voice, hoarse and weak, that broke the silence. He looked up and saw Huey’s eyes wide with surprise and pain as he stared at the duckling hiding its face in his shirt.

Della tried to stay calm; it was the first time one of her ducklings had spoken to her in days, and she honestly hadn't expected that question. She breathed slowly and thought, it was true she didn't know the boys very well, especially Louie, but some things seemed clear to her.

“Of course, honey” she replied softly and shifted, trying to look Dewey in the eyes to reassure him, but the younger boy tightened his grip on Huey, refusing to look at her. “Why are you asking that?”
Dewey didn't answer, and a quick glance into Huey's pained eyes told her it was best not to press the issue. "I didn't know Louie well enough” She began, fighting the knot in her chest. "And I'll always regret not trying harder with him," she confessed, taking a deep breath. "But I know Louie loved you. You were triplets..."

“We are” Huey’s raspy, uncharacteristically harsh voice interrupted her. She fixed her gaze on his, which stared intensely at her. Beneath the weariness and tears, there was a spark of fire, determined and protective, the same kind she had seen in Donald’s far too many times. Terrifying eyes that promised retribution to anyone who dared challenge them. “We are triplets,” he repeated.

Della lowered her gaze, embarrassed that she had already said something wrong, but she did her best to compose herself and looked back at her eldest son. “You’re right, I’m sorry,” she said, with all the confidence she could muster. “You’re triplets,” she corrected, and waited. Huey’s eyes remained fixed on hers for a few seconds, as if trying to test the sincerity of her words, then he lowered his gaze and leaned back against Dewey, his energy gone once more.

Della sighed, relieved as if she had just narrowly passed a pop quiz. “You’re triplets, Dewey,” she said softly again, placing her hand on the youngest’s arm in an attempt to comfort him. “And I’m talking about something much deeper than blood. You were raised together, like a team, you grew up, played, fought, and learned together; your bond goes beyond distance or time.”

She sighed again, choosing her words carefully, trying not to make the same mistake again. “I didn’t know Louie well enough,” she repeated, fighting the sudden urge to cry, “but I have no doubt about this: Louie loved you, loves you, and will always love you, no matter what happens, and you’ll always be his brother.” She said it with as much certainty as she could muster, then placed her hand back on Huey’s head. The duckling didn’t look at her. “And that goes for you too, Huey. I’m sure that wherever he is, no matter what he’s been through, he still loves you both.”

The two ducklings seemed to relax a little, and she waited, tense and scared, afraid that she had said something wrong.

But the children didn't say anything more, and silence filled the room until their soft snores broke the silence. Della slowly got out of bed, tucked the ducklings in, and tiptoed out of the room, closing the door as quietly as possible.

Once in the hallway, she released the breath she hadn't known she was holding and closed her eyes, throwing her head back and leaning against the wall, trying to calm herself down.

Della spent a few more minutes there and then quickly went to her own room, afraid of running into anyone else.

When she arrived, she closed the door and lay down on her bed and, stifling a sob, hugged herself. She felt so scared and alone, so tired, she felt that anything she did or said became a test she was destined to fail, she didn't know how to be a niece, or a twin, much less a mother, she didn't even know how to be Della anymore.

0o0o0o0

When Della left the room, the brothers remained silent for a few minutes, then Huey spoke, still without moving.

“I agree with her”

"Huh?"

“About Louie, he loved you very much.” Dewey didn’t look at him, he just pressed his head closer to his chest, hugging his older brother tightly to avoid crying again, even though he knew it was useless.

“So why leave?” he cried. Huey could feel the weight of that question, understanding that his brother, consciously or unconsciously, was having doubts because of the actions of more than one person. Huey had his own questions, but he didn't have the energy to think about anything other than his siblings.

The older brother fought back his own tears; he had already cried too much. “I don’t know, and maybe we’ll never find out, but I know that he loved you and that we will always love him,” he said, his voice breaking and his body weak, trembling slightly despite the warmth of his brother’s embrace.

Dewey choked back a sob. “He loved you too, you know that, right?” Huey didn’t answer, he just held the younger boy’s hand tightly.
.
.
.
.
.
Hours later, after a comforting visit from Max and his friends, and with a little chocolate still covering his fingers, Huey turned to Dewey and spoke in a hoarse voice.

“I know he loved me”

“Huh?” Dewey jumped, still struggling with the wrapper of a chocolate bar. He looked more relaxed than before, a little less on edge after the nostalgic visit from some good friends and a good amount of cookies, milk, and chocolate. Huey had also managed to eat some, unable to resist the sugar and the familiarity of the cookies, and that had also helped to lift Dewey's spirit.

“Louie,” he said and swallowed; even saying his name hurt. “I know Louie loved me,” he said, and lay back down on the bed, turning his back to Dewey.

“Okay…” Dewey was noticeably confused by the sudden declaration, but he understood the seriousness of the moment, the absolute fragility that Huey’s heart had become. “That’s good,” he said and lay down beside him, gently hugging him from behind.

“What scares me…” Huey sighed and fought back tears, surprised he was still able to cry. “What scares me is that he didn’t know how much I love him.”

Dewey tensed up behind him and rested his forehead on his shoulder, hugging him tightly. They stayed like that for a long time.

Night was falling over the room and Huey was about to fall asleep when Dewey spoke, in a small voice.

“Yes, that’s what scares me too.”