Well, so I have ridiculous parents also (and by "ridiculous", I mean downright damaging) and often find myself skating in the gray area between wanting to burn down every memory and desperately grasping for them because shitty memories are better than no memories. I still don't know which side I'm on. I do believe, like you, that objects have power and can't even wear the goddamned sapphire earrings my ex gave me because I have bad dreams when I do. In a way, I want you to keep the house and resurrect it–if not for your own vindication, for the fuck-you factor to the McNeighbors. If the house is your child and you're saving her from bullies, why not? But it's not a child. But maybe you still are? So, one of you has to get saved first.