I officially rented my house last week.

After two months of moving stuff and rehabbing the place, I put it on the market and, fairly quickly, connected with a family of three with one on the way.

All those days when I was up to my elbows in paint, putty and IKEA cabinets, I was hoping that I could find a family who would enjoy living amid these parchment colored walls.

Long-term renters who bring something special to the neighborhood.

Reliable tenants with whom I could build a trusting, mutually beneficial relationship that defied some of the negative power dynamics at play when someone has the word “lord” in their title.

I was once a new mom with a baby on the way looking for a place to rent. I remember the trauma of not knowing where my kids and I were going to live or how I was going to pay for it.

But now I was the one with the house, the mortgage and the risk/reward tango that comes with “doing the right thing.”