“I’m not sure.
My daughter-in-law has filled my cottage with strangers.
She says they’re paying her to stay there.”
There was a pause.
“Have you ever authorized her to rent it?”
“No.”
“Have you given Caleb written permission to manage it commercially?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then don’t sign anything, and don’t confront anyone further until we know what she’s represented to these guests.
Can you meet me at my office?”
Forty minutes later, I sat across from Nadia while she examined photographs on my phone.
Her assistant had found Seabright Renewal Retreat online.
The website featured photographs of my cottage, including the deck, bedrooms, and kitchen.
One description called it an exclusive, family-managed coastal sanctuary.
Another promised complete privacy during scheduled retreats.
I pointed at the picture of my bedroom.
“That’s my quilt.”
Nadia looked at me.
“Did you know she had photographed the interior?”
“No.”
The website listed five additional retreat dates over the coming months.
Nadia clicked through the reservation information.
According to the advertising, Mallory’s company operated the property through an exclusive agreement with its owner.
“Iris,” Nadia said carefully, “we need to see the agreement she’s relying on.”
Her assistant contacted the retreat’s public booking address, requesting a copy of its property authorization as part of a prospective vendor inquiry.
A PDF arrived less than fifteen minutes later.
I watched Nadia’s expression change as she read it.
“What?” I asked.
She turned the laptop toward me.
The document was titled Exclusive Property Use and Hosting Agreement.
It claimed to give Seabright Renewal Retreat eighteen months of rights to schedule events, collect payment, advertise my home, and limit access during bookings.
It identified me as the sole property owner.
At the bottom was my name.
And beside it, a signature.
I leaned closer.
Someone had copied my handwriting from somewhere.
The long curve beneath the Weller looked familiar, but not quite right.
“I didn’t sign that,” I said.
Nadia nodded slowly.
“I suspected you’d say that.”
I examined the date.
March 18.
Three months earlier, I had fractured my right wrist after slipping on wet steps outside my apartment.
For weeks, I had signed my name awkwardly, without the sweeping underline I’d used for years.
Whoever created the document had copied an older signature.
The discovery made me feel strangely exposed.
Not because the imitation was convincing, but because someone close to me had apparently spent time studying my handwriting.
“Can they take the house?” I asked.
Nadia shook her head.
“This isn’t a deed, and it doesn’t transfer ownership.
Your title is still recorded in your name.
But someone has presented an agreement as yours, and money has changed hands.
We need to act carefully.”
She checked the public property records, retrieved the relevant closing documents from her files, and began preparing a written notice disputing the authorization.
Her assistant preserved screenshots of the booking calendar, price lists, website descriptions, and payment instructions.
Then the numbers emerged.
Eight guests had paid a combined $7,200 for that weekend.
Five future reservations had generated deposits totaling another $24,600.
Thirty-one thousand eight hundred dollars had been collected using my cottage as the attraction.
I sat in silence.
My daughter-in-law had always complained about money.
She wanted a larger house, newer cars, and holidays that looked impressive in photographs.
But I
