My Nephew Wanted To Turn My Lakefront Cottage Into His Airbnb, So I Prepared A “Surprise.”

I bought a lakefront cottage on Vancouver Island so I could finally watch the sunrise over the water every morning without anyone bothering me. Then my nephew called and said, “I’m turning your place into an Airbnb. You can stay in the back room when there aren’t guests. Be grateful I’m including you.”

I didn’t argue with him, but when he showed up with his first paying customers, they found the surprise I’d been preparing for weeks.

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The real estate agent’s pen made a scratching sound as she signed the final page. I sat in her office in Sydney, watching October rain streak the windows, holding the keys to something I dreamed about since my wife passed three years ago. The cottage cost me $412,000.

Thirty-seven years dispensing medications at the pharmacy in Victoria. Every overtime shift, every holiday worked, every vacation I’d postponed. All of it converted into 800 square feet of weathered cedar on half an acre of waterfront property.

“Congratulations, Mr. Cartwright,” Jennifer said, sliding the deed across her desk. “You picked a beautiful spot. Saanich Inlet is gorgeous year round.”

“Thank you.” I pocketed the keys and shook her hand. My fingers were steadier than I expected.

The drive from her office took forty minutes, winding through coastal forest until the road opened up to water views. When I pulled into the gravel driveway, I cut the engine and just sat there.

The cottage sat fifty feet from the water, surrounded by arbutus trees with their distinctive peeling bark. A great blue heron stood in the shallows, perfectly still, hunting. No traffic noise, no sirens, no voices from neighboring apartments bleeding through walls.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The previous owners had left it clean but empty. One main room with a kitchenette and wood stove. A bedroom barely large enough for a queen bed. A bathroom with a shower I’d need to enter carefully. The windows faced the water, and through them I could see ferries crossing in the distance, white against the gray water.

Perfect.

I spent that first week moving in slowly, methodically. My furniture from the Victoria apartment fit exactly. The leather armchair positioned where morning light would hit it. Books on the built-in shelves organized by subject. Pharmacy journals I’d never had time to read thoroughly. History books, three novels my wife had loved. Tools hung on the pegboard in the tiny shed out back. Fishing rod mounted above the door. Everything in its place, creating order from the chaos of transition.

By the following Saturday, I had a routine. Wake at dawn, make coffee, carry it to the deck, and watch the sun come up over the inlet. The heron visited most mornings, seals surfaced near the shore. Once, a pod of orcas passed by, their dorsal fins cutting through the water like black sails.

I called my sister Carol that evening.

“I’m here,” I said. “Finally moved in.”

“Thomas, I’m so happy for you.” Her voice was warm. “You’ve earned this. After everything with Margaret’s illness, all those years of work, you deserve peace.”

“It’s quiet,” I said. “Exactly what I needed.”

“Marcus has been asking about your place. He’s very interested in real estate now, did I tell you?”

Something in her tone made me pause. “No, you didn’t mention that.”

“Oh, yes. He’s been researching investment properties. He and Vanessa are quite ambitious.” She laughed, but it sounded thin. “I think he might want to visit soon. See what you’ve done with the cottage.”

“He’s welcome anytime,” I said, though a small warning bell rang in my mind. “Just have him call first.”

We talked for another ten minutes before hanging up. I sat on the deck afterward, watching darkness settle over the water. The warning bell kept ringing quietly, but I told myself I was being paranoid. Marcus was my nephew, Carol’s only son. Family.

The call came two weeks later. I was splitting firewood behind the cottage when my phone rang. “Marcus,” the screen said.

“Uncle Thomas, finally got through to you.” His voice had that smooth quality he’d developed working in sales. “Mom said you’re all settled in the new place.”

“That’s right.” I set down the axe and walked to the deck. “How are you and Vanessa?”

“We’re excellent. Listen, I’ve been looking at your property on Google Maps. That’s prime waterfront you’ve got there. Do you know what the rental potential is on a place like that?”

My hand tightened on the phone. Rental potential. “Airbnb? Short-term vacation rentals?”

“Your cottage could easily pull in four, maybe five thousand a month during peak season. More if we renovate a bit. I’ve been running the numbers and the ROI is incredible.”

“Marcus, I bought this place to live in. It’s not a rental property.”

“I understand that, but hear me out. You’re sitting on a gold mine here. We could partner up, you and me. I’d handle all the management, booking, cleaning, everything. You just collect your share of the profits, and when it’s not rented, you can stay here. Back bedroom would work fine for you.”

The audacity of it took my breath away—the back bedroom of my own cottage.

“Think of it as an investment property that you also get to use. Best of both worlds. I’m offering to do all the work, Uncle Thomas. All you have to do is say yes.”

“I’m saying no, Marcus. This is my home, not a business opportunity.”

His tone changed, cooled. “That’s shortsighted. You’re retired. You’re alone out there. What if something happens? What if you need money for medical expenses? At least think about it.”

“There’s nothing to think about. I appreciate the call, but my answer is no.”

“We’ll talk again soon,” he said, and hung up before I could respond.

I stood there holding the phone, staring at the water. The heron was hunting in the shallows again, patient and still. I envied its simplicity.

That night, I couldn’t sleep well. I kept thinking about Marcus’s phrase—”Back bedroom would work fine for you”—as if my own cottage had become his property in his mind and he was graciously allowing me space in it.

Three days later, Carol called.

“Thomas, Marcus is really upset. He says you rejected his business proposal without even considering it.”

“Carol, he wanted to turn my cottage into an Airbnb and have me stay in the back room when it’s not rented. How is that even a proposal? It’s my home.”

“He’s just trying to help. You know how enthusiastic he gets about opportunities. Vanessa’s been encouraging him to build a property portfolio.”

“He can build it with properties he buys himself, not mine.”

A pause. “You’ve changed since you moved out there. You sound different, harder.”

“I sound like someone protecting what took me thirty-seven years to earn.”

After we hung up, I sat at my kitchen table and pulled out a notepad—old habit from my pharmacy days. Document everything. I wrote down the date of Marcus’s call. His exact words as I remembered them. Carol’s follow-up call. Not because I expected to need it, just because precision prevented misunderstandings.

The next two weeks passed quietly. I fell back into my routine—morning coffee, reading, afternoon walks along the shore, evening fires in the wood stove. I was starting to believe Marcus had accepted my refusal.

Then, on a Tuesday morning in early November, I was replacing a rotted board on the deck when a sedan pulled into my driveway. Marcus and Vanessa emerged. They hadn’t called ahead.

“Uncle Thomas.” Marcus waved like we were old friends meeting by chance. “We were in the area. Thought we’d stop by.”

Vanessa, tall and polished in clothes too expensive for a casual visit, surveyed the property with appraising eyes. “It’s smaller than I expected from the listing photos,” she said.

“What listing photos?” I set down my hammer slowly.

“Oh, just the real estate photos from when you bought it. We’ve been studying the property.”

Marcus climbed the deck stairs without invitation. “Can we come in? We’d like to discuss something important.”

I considered saying no, but Carol would hear about it and I’d be painted as the difficult one. “Five minutes. I have errands in town.”

Inside, they sat at my kitchen table like they were conducting a business meeting. Marcus pulled out his phone and opened a spreadsheet.

“I’ve done comprehensive research since we last spoke. Your cottage, properly marketed, could generate $60,000 annually in gross rental income. After expenses, that’s probably thirty-five to forty thousand in profit. Split fifty–fifty between us, you’d be making seventeen to twenty thousand passive income.”

“I don’t want passive income. I want to live in my home.”

Vanessa leaned forward, her voice gentle, calculated. “Thomas, may I be frank? You’re sixty-four years old, living alone in a fairly isolated location. What’s your five-year plan? What if you need assisted living eventually? Properties like this, they lose value if they’re not maintained and utilized properly.”

“I’m maintaining it fine for now,” I said.

“But realistically, how much longer can you manage this place by yourself? We’re offering you a solution that benefits everyone. You get steady income. We handle all the work. The property gets professionally managed.”

“My answer hasn’t changed. This is not for rent.”

Marcus’s expression hardened. “You’re being selfish, Uncle Thomas. Mom said you’d be difficult about this.”

“Carol said that?”

“She’s worried about you. We all are. You’ve isolated yourself out here. You’re not thinking clearly about your future, and you’re refusing help from family who care about you.”

Vanessa stood. “We should go, Marcus. He’s not ready to see reason yet.”

At the door, Marcus turned back. “Think carefully about this, Uncle Thomas. You might not get another offer this good, and if you change your mind later, the terms might be less favorable.”

They left. I watched their car disappear down the driveway, then immediately called Carol.

“Did you tell Marcus I’d be difficult about his rental scheme?”

“Thomas, I just said you were very attached to the cottage. He’s worried about you being alone out there. We both are.”

“I’m not alone. I’m solitary. There’s a difference.”

“Is there? Margaret’s been gone three years. You’ve cut yourself off from everyone. Moved to the middle of nowhere. And now you’re fighting with family who’s trying to help.”

The words stung because they contained a grain of truth. I had withdrawn after Margaret died. The pharmacy had felt meaningless without her to come home to. But withdrawal wasn’t the same as instability.

“Carol, I’m fine. I’m happy here. Please tell Marcus to stop pushing this.”

“I’ll talk to him, but you should consider compromising. Maybe let him rent it out just during the summer months. You could stay with me in Vancouver when there are guests.”

“Goodbye, Carol.”

I hung up before she could continue. I spent that evening on my laptop researching property law in British Columbia—rights of property owners, what constituted harassment. I took notes in my pharmacy-trained handwriting, organized and cross-referenced.

Two weeks later, I was in town buying supplies when I saw a poster in the window of a coffee shop.

Stunning waterfront cottage. Perfect getaway.

The photo showed my deck, my view, my arbutus trees. I went inside and asked the barista about it.

“Oh, someone’s been putting those up around town. Paid me twenty bucks to post it for a month.”

The poster had a website URL. I pulled out my phone and navigated to it.

The site was professionally designed. Saanich Inlet Retreat. Book your dream vacation. Multiple photos of my cottage taken from different angles. Interior shots through the windows. Booking calendar. Rates: $300 per night. Two-night minimum.

My cottage, listed for rent without my knowledge or permission. The contact information showed an email address: saanichinletrentals@gmail.com. No phone number. I scrolled through the booking calendar. Three reservations were already marked—one in two weeks, two in December.

I drove home carefully, forcing myself not to speed despite the rage building in my chest. At the cottage, I checked every window and door. No signs of forced entry, but Marcus had been inside. He could have taken photos then or through the windows during other visits I hadn’t known about.

I called Jennifer, my real estate agent. “I need a lawyer recommendation—property law specialist.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Someone’s trying to rent my cottage without my permission.”

“That’s illegal. Let me give you Richard Morrison’s number. He’s excellent with property disputes.”

Morrison’s office was in Victoria. I drove in the next morning and met with him, bringing my laptop with the rental website pulled up and printed screenshots for documentation. He reviewed everything carefully.

“This is fraud, Mr. Cartwright. Clear-cut. Your nephew is collecting money for rental of property he doesn’t own or have authority to rent. We can pursue both civil and criminal charges.”

“I want to understand all my options before deciding. What would criminal charges involve?”

“Fraud investigation by the RCMP. If they find sufficient evidence—and they would—your nephew could face criminal charges. Fraud over $5,000 is a serious indictable offense in Canada.”

“And civil?”

“We sue for damages, get an injunction ordering him to cease operations immediately, potentially pursue recovery of any money he’s collected from fraudulent bookings. Less dramatic than criminal charges, but still effective.”

“How quickly can we act?”

“I can have a cease-and-desist letter drafted by tomorrow. The injunction filing would take a few days.”

“Do it. All of it. And I want security cameras installed at my property.”

I spent $800 on a security system that afternoon—two cameras covering the driveway and deck, one covering the back of the cottage. Motion-activated. Cellular connection, recording to cloud storage. The installer had them operational by evening.

Morrison’s cease-and-desist letter went out the next day via registered mail to Marcus’s address in Vancouver. It was comprehensive, threatening both civil and criminal action if the rental website wasn’t taken down within twenty-four hours and all bookings refunded.

Marcus called at seven that evening. “You had your lawyer send me legal threats over a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding? You listed my property for rent without permission. You’re collecting money for something you have no right to offer.”

“I was moving forward with the business plan we discussed. I thought you’d come around once you saw I was serious about this.”

“We didn’t discuss anything. I refused your proposal multiple times.”

“This is ridiculous, Uncle Thomas. I’m family. We should be working together, not fighting through lawyers.”

“Take down the website. Refund anyone who paid you. If you don’t, I’m filing criminal fraud charges with the RCMP.”

“You wouldn’t do that to your own nephew.”

“Try me.”

He hung up. I checked the rental website. Still active. I called Morrison.

“He’s refusing to comply. Move forward with everything.”

“Understood. I’ll file for the injunction tomorrow and contact the RCMP fraud division.”

That night, my security cameras caught Marcus arriving at 9:30. He walked around the cottage trying doors and windows—all locked. He stood on the deck for several minutes, hands in his pockets, staring at the dark windows. Then he left.

I reviewed the footage the next morning over coffee, watching my nephew’s face on the small screen. He looked angry, entitled, disbelieving that I was actually fighting back.

The RCMP constable came to my cottage three days later. Constable Jennifer Shu, professional and thorough. I walked her through everything—the initial proposal, my refusals, the website, the bookings, the cease-and-desist letter that was ignored.

“Do you know if he’s actually collected any money from these bookings?”

“I can’t prove it, but there are confirmed reservations on his website. The first one is supposed to arrive tomorrow.”

“Has he attempted to enter the property without permission?”

I showed her the security footage of Marcus’s late-night visit.

“Mr. Cartwright, I’ll be frank with you. This is fraud. Your nephew is operating a rental business using property he doesn’t own. That’s a criminal offense. But I need to ask—Is this something you want to pursue criminally? These cases can be complicated when family’s involved.”

“I want him stopped. Whatever it takes.”

She made notes in her notebook. “I’ll open an investigation. If he shows up with paying guests tomorrow, call me immediately. Don’t confront him yourself.”

The next evening at six, headlights came up my driveway. I recognized Marcus’s car, followed by a second vehicle—a couple probably in their thirties. I called Constable Shu.

“They’re here.”

“Don’t answer the door. I’m twenty minutes away.”

I watched through the window as Marcus and the couple approached my deck. Marcus tried the door, found it locked, knocked.

“Uncle Thomas, it’s Marcus. I have guests checking in.”

I stayed silent, phone in hand, recording. The knocking grew louder.

“Uncle Thomas, open up. These people paid good money for this reservation.”

The couple looked confused, uncomfortable. The woman said something to Marcus I couldn’t hear. He responded, gesturing at the cottage, clearly making excuses.

Fifteen minutes later, Constable Shu’s cruiser pulled in. I opened the door as she approached.

“Mr. Cartwright, stay inside, please.”

I watched from the window as she spoke with Marcus and the couple. The couple looked shocked, then angry. They got in their car and left quickly. Marcus stood arguing with Constable Shu for several minutes. She handed him documents. He read them, his face reddening, even in the dim driveway lights.

After his car left, Constable Shu came to my door.

“I’ve informed him that he’s under criminal investigation for fraud. He’s been ordered to cease all rental operations, refund all payments, and have no contact with you except through lawyers. He violated the civil cease-and-desist, which strengthens your case. And those guests—they paid him $2,400 for a week-long stay. They’re furious.”

“Will there be charges?”

“That’s up to Crown Counsel, but I’ve documented everything tonight. The evidence is strong.”

After she left, I sat at my kitchen table in the quiet cottage. The wood stove crackled. Outside, the inlet was dark, peaceful. I’d protected my home, but the cost was becoming clear. My nephew was facing criminal investigation. Carol would never forgive me. The family I had left was fracturing.

I poured myself two fingers of scotch, something I rarely did, and went to the deck. The November air was cold, but I needed it. I thought about Margaret, about what she’d say if she were here. She’d been practical, fair. She’d probably tell me I was right to protect my property, but she’d grieve the family damage, too.

My phone rang. Carol. I almost didn’t answer, but avoiding her wouldn’t help.

“You called the police on Marcus. You’re having your own nephew investigated for fraud?”

“Carol, he was running a rental scam using my property. He took money from people for bookings I never authorized. What did you expect me to do?”

“Work it out as family, not destroy his life with criminal charges.”

“He destroyed the situation himself. I refused his proposal multiple times. He ignored me, ignored my lawyer, and showed up with paying customers anyway.”

“He’s my son, Thomas, my only child. You’re willing to send him to jail over this?”

“I’m willing to protect what I worked thirty-seven years to earn. If he goes to jail, it’s because of choices he made.”

“You’ve become someone I don’t recognize. Margaret would be ashamed of you.”

That one landed hard, exactly as she’d intended.

“Don’t use my dead wife against me. I’m done. Don’t call me. Don’t contact Marcus. We’re not your family anymore.”

She hung up. I sat on the cold deck for a long time after that. The scotch tasted like nothing. The heron wouldn’t be hunting until morning. I was completely alone now in the solitude I’d sought, and it felt heavier than I’d expected.

The next weeks moved slowly. Morrison kept me updated on the legal proceedings. The injunction was granted. Marcus was ordered to pay damages of $11,000 for the fraudulent bookings he’d collected. Crown Counsel was reviewing the criminal fraud file.

I established new routines—morning coffee, reading, afternoon maintenance work on the cottage. I fixed the deck railing, replaced weather stripping, split and stacked firewood for winter. Physical work that tired my body and quieted my mind. I didn’t hear from Carol. I didn’t expect to.

In mid-December, Morrison called. “The Crown has decided to proceed with fraud charges. Your nephew will be formally charged next week. Given the amounts involved and the clear evidence, he’ll likely be offered a plea deal—probably conditional discharge with restitution and probation if he has no prior record.”

“What does that mean practically?”

“He avoids jail if he behaves. Criminal record, but it can eventually be cleared if he completes probation successfully. He’ll owe you the restitution on top of the civil damages.”

“He’ll never pay it.”

“Probably not all of it, but the legal consequences are real. He won’t be able to do this to anyone else.”

After hanging up, I made dinner and ate it on the deck despite the December cold. The inlet was gray and choppy. Rain was coming.

My phone buzzed. A text from a number I didn’t recognize. “This is Vanessa. Marcus is devastated. You’ve ruined his life. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

I deleted it without responding. That night, I lay awake thinking about Carol’s words. Would Margaret be ashamed? I didn’t think so. She’d been kind, but she’d also been strong. She’d stood up to her own family when they tried to borrow money we couldn’t spare. She’d understood boundaries, but she’d also believed in repair, in redemption. She’d have wanted me to leave a door open.

I sat up and wrote an email—not to Marcus, to Carol.

I’m sorry for how this has affected you. I understand you’re angry. I love you, and when you’re ready to talk, I’m here. But I won’t apologize for protecting my home. Marcus made choices that had consequences. That’s not my fault. The door is always open. If you want to visit the cottage and talk.

Thomas.

I sent it before I could overthink it, then went back to bed.

Christmas came and went quietly. I made turkey for myself, watched the heron hunt on Boxing Day morning. The inlet froze at the edges for the first time that winter in January. I was reading by the wood stove when I heard a car. The security camera showed Carol’s sedan. I opened the door as she approached, walking slowly up the deck stairs. She looked older, tired.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

I made tea while she sat at the kitchen table—the same spot where Marcus had shown me his rental spreadsheet months ago.

“He took a plea deal,” she said. “Conditional discharge, two years’ probation, twenty-five thousand in restitution and fines. I heard he and Vanessa are separating—the stress of this, the legal bills, the shame. She couldn’t handle it.”

I sat down across from her. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you, though? This is what you wanted.”

“No, Carol. I wanted to live peacefully in my cottage. I wanted Marcus to respect my decision. I didn’t want any of this.”

She looked around the cottage, seeing it properly for the first time—the books on the shelves, Margaret’s photograph on the mantle, the view through the windows to the water.

“It is beautiful here,” she said quietly.

“Thank you.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive you. He’s my son.”

“I understand. But he was wrong. I’ve had four months to see that he was wrong and I enabled him by making excuses.”

She wrapped her hands around the tea mug. “When did I raise someone who thought he could do that? Take what wasn’t his?”

“I don’t know.”

We sat in silence for a while. Outside, the heron landed in the shallows.

“That’s my regular visitor,” I said. “Great blue heron. Comes almost every morning.”

Carol watched it through the window. “Margaret would have loved this place.”

“That’s why I bought it. We talked about retiring somewhere quiet, near water. I just wish she’d lived to see it. She would have handled this whole thing better than either of us, probably.”

Carol finished her tea and stood. “I should go. I just wanted to see it. See you. Make sure you were all right.”

“I’m all right.”

At the door, she paused. “Can I visit again? Not right away, but eventually.”

“Anytime. Call first, though. I like the solitude.”

She almost smiled. “That sounds like you.”

After she left, I returned to my chair by the wood stove. The heron was still hunting, patient and focused. I picked up my book but didn’t read. Just sat watching the water, the bird, the winter light on the inlet.

The cottage was quiet. Mine—earned through thirty-seven years of work and defended through months of conflict. The price had been high, family relationships damaged, maybe permanently, but sitting there in the peace I’d fought for, I couldn’t regret the choice.

The heron caught something, a small fish. It swallowed it in one smooth motion and resumed hunting. I went back to my book.

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