My Wife Noticed A Blinking Light On Our Airbnb’s Smoke Detector—Then A Message Changed Everything

The next morning brought another message from Marten. This one was far more personal and painful, and it completely changed my perspective.

“I’m so sorry,” he wrote. “My mom’s name was Mila. She had dementia. The camera helped us make sure she didn’t leave the stove on or get confused at night. I didn’t mean to spy. I didn’t even realize someone had booked the place. My sister handles the account now and she didn’t tell me.”

To help us understand his loss, he also attached a photo of his mother. It was a sweet picture of an elderly woman with kind eyes and silver braids, sitting in the very same kitchen where we had made coffee just the day before.

The final line of that message was heartbreaking: “I miss her so much,” the message said. “The house still smells like her lotion.”

At that point, I felt a wave of guilt. I had written a very scathing review, accusing him of privacy invasion. That review already had dozens of likes and comments from people piling on with anger and outrage. But how could I have known the true story behind the camera?

Namira was also conflicted. “What if he’s just trying to guilt us into deleting the review?” she wondered aloud.

“Maybe. But what if he’s not?” I replied.

We decided to pause our decision-making and reach out to Airbnb support for an impartial view. We needed to confirm Marten’s story. The support team confirmed that the host had indeed paused the listing for two months following a death in the family. It had only recently been reactivated by a different contact person—Marten’s sister—without his full knowledge.

The Crucial Detail

Then came the most important piece of information. Airbnb support mentioned a key detail: the camera in the smoke detector wasn’t a standard recording device. It was a specialized, motion-triggered alert cam connected to an emergency contact. It did not store footage; it only sent an alert to a phone when movement was detected, which was clearly set up for his mother’s safety.

Namira groaned and dropped her phone. “Well, now we really look dramatic.”

I stared at the ceiling of the motel room. The situation had shifted entirely. We had acted quickly based on suspicion, and now we had the facts. “So… do we take the review down?”

There was a long silence. It’s hard to admit when you’ve overreacted, but our actions now seemed excessive. While the principle of privacy was still valid, the context was one of grief, not malicious intent. The original, angry review remained online. One part of my mind still argued that we had done the right thing, but another part worried about the consequences of the review.

The Cost of the Review

Two days later, we received a new message, this time from Marten’s sister, Ritha. It was short and painful to read.

“I hope you feel good about driving away the only memories he had left,” it read.

That message stung deeply. I tried to tell myself I didn’t owe her anything, but the idea that our review was causing more than just a loss of bookings—that it was adding to someone’s pain—kept nagging at me.

After three days of thinking, I reached out to Marten directly to apologize.

“I’m sorry,” I wrote. “I jumped to conclusions. I didn’t realize the full situation.”

His reply came back within minutes.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “Honestly, I probably would’ve done the same. I just… I haven’t been back to that house since she passed. My sister put it back on Airbnb because we’re trying to figure out what to do with it. I didn’t even know someone had booked it until the camera sent me an alert.”

Then he added a line that truly hit home: “I haven’t unscrewed that smoke detector since the night she died.”

He explained his reason for leaving it there: “I kept it there,” he went on, “because it was the last thing that made me feel like she was still around. I’d check it every few days, even though no one was there. Like a dumb ritual.”

He didn’t make excuses or ask us to delete the review; he simply told the honest, difficult truth about his grief.

Changing the Narrative

His honesty convinced me to call Airbnb again. I asked if I could edit the post instead of removing it completely. They agreed.

I rewrote the entire review. I explained the misunderstanding, confirmed the facts about the camera, and asked readers not to judge the host too harshly. I added a note about grief—how it can make people do very odd, sentimental things. I suggested we should be curious, not just furious.

The response from the online community was supportive. People began sharing their own stories of loss and the strange ways they cope. One person talked about finding an old voicemail from their late husband that they couldn’t bring themselves to delete. Another said he still paid for his dad’s Netflix account just to see the “Are you still watching?” popup.

It became clear that grief makes us all act strangely, but it also shows our shared humanity.

A New Beginning

A week later, Marten messaged me again with a simple, kind invitation: “If you’re ever back in town,” he said, “coffee’s on me.”

We weren’t planning to return, but something inside me told me we needed to meet him. Namira was hesitant, joking, “You’re not dragging me into a murder documentary, right?” but she agreed.