Sol was three and a half when Sienna Vega came back.
She arrived unannounced on a Thursday in late September, the kind of dry heat that made the adobe sweat. Elara was in the courtyard photographing Sol chasing bubbles, her tiny curls wild in the breeze, cheeks smeared with mango from lunch. Nova was at the park site, overseeing the installation of the playground she had designed pro bono for the queer youth centre.
The doorbell rang. Flash and Shutter bolted from their sun spots like they sensed trouble.
Elara wiped her hands on her overalls, opened the gate, and froze.
Sienna stood there in a linen suit, the colour of old film, hair shorter than college, eyes harder. She held a leather portfolio and a smile that didn't reach anywhere important.
"Elara Quinn," she said, like tasting the name after years. "Or is it Reyes-Quinn now?"
Elara's stomach dropped. "Sienna."
Sol peeked from behind Elara's legs. "Mama, who's the pretty lady?"
Sienna's gaze softened a fraction on Sol, then sharpened again on Elara. "She has your mouth. And Nova's curls."
"What are you doing here?" Elara kept her voice level, hand on Sol's shoulder.
"Work." Sienna lifted the portfolio. "New York Times Magazine. Feature on queer families in rural America. Heard about the famous rooftop wives who settled in the middle of nowhere. Thought I'd start with the originals."
Elara's blood turned to ice. Sienna Vega, the ex who had transferred in sophomore year, who had started rumours, who had once tried to kiss Elara in the cafeteria bathroom while Nova watched from the doorway, was heartbroken.
"No," Elara said.
Sienna's smile thinned. "It's a compliment. You're legends."
Sol tugged Elara's hand. "Mama, bubbles."
Elara scooped her up. "We're not interested."
She shut the gate. Locked it. Leaned against it until her knees stopped shaking.
Nova came home an hour later, dirt-streaked and glowing from the site. Elara told her in the kitchen while Sol napped.
Nova went very still. "She's here?"
"In town. Wants to photograph us. Write about us."
Nova's jaw clenched. "She doesn't get to touch this."
They agreed. No interview. No photos. Door closed.
Sienna didn't take no for an answer.
She showed up at the park opening the next day, camera slung professional, notebook out. Snapped candids of Nova cutting the ribbon, Sol on her hip waving a tiny pride flag. Elara spotted her across the crowd, felt rage boil.
She marched over. "Leave."
Sienna lowered the camera. "Public event, Elara. First Amendment."
Nova appeared, Sol now with abuela, face thunder. "Get out."
Sienna smiled that old knife-smile. "Still protective. Cute."
The fight happened fast and publicly.
Elara shoved the camera strap from Sienna's shoulder. Sienna shoved back. Words flew: old wounds, Milan photos, the night Elara slept with Sienna out of spite and Nova cried in Kael's arms (wait, no, that was later, but the hurt was the same).
Town watched. Phones out. Someone live-streamed.
Nova stepped between them. "Enough."
Sienna laughed. "Still choosing her over everything, Reyes?"
Nova's voice cut clean. "I chose her the day I saw her photograph my soul without asking. I choose her every day since. You never understood that."
Sienna's face twisted. She lunged, not at Nova, but at Elara. Elara ducked, years of rooftop reflexes. Nova caught Sienna's wrist, twisted just enough.
Lupe the mechanic appeared with two deputies who happened to be at the park. "Ladies. Cool it."
Sienna yanked free, eyes wet with rage or tears, impossible to tell. "This isn't over."
She left. Camera intact. Pride shattered.
The video went viral in queer corners of the internet. #DesertWivesFightEx became a meme. Donations poured into the youth centre. The park got national coverage, but Sienna's byline was nowhere because her editor pulled her off the story for "conflict of interest."
Sienna tried once more. Showed up at the casita drunk at 2 a.m., banging on the gate, shouting old names, old hurts.
Nova met her in the courtyard, Sol asleep inside, Elara watching from the doorway with the phone ready to call Lupe.
"You don't get to come here," Nova said quietly. "You don't get to touch what we built."
Sienna cried then, ugly and real. "I was in love with her first."
Elara stepped forward. "You were in love with owning me. There's a difference."
Sienna left at dawn, drove out of town with a hangover and a broken rearview mirror (courtesy of Lupe's tow truck "accident").
The town closed ranks. Lupe put a boot on any car with New York plates that lingered too long. The barista started a "Protect the Desert Wives" tip jar. Miss Connie sent a fruit basket with a note: *Tell that bitch the mothers-in-law have spoons and know how to use them.*
They made love that night like survivors.
Nova tied Elara to the courtyard hammock, fairy lights wrapped around wrists and ankles, mouth and fingers merciless. Elara came screaming into the night, claiming space, claiming them.
Elara flipped her wife against the adobe wall, strap deep and punishing, biting marks into shoulders, Nova sobbing yes yes yes.
They collapsed on the mattress, Sol's monitor quiet, cats curled at their feet.
"We won," Nova whispered.
"We always did," Elara answered.
The catfight fed the town.
The town fed them back.
And the family stayed whole.