Three years ago, a major story broke in Canada that seemed to confirm every left-wing prejudice against Christians imaginable: A mass grave containing the remains of indigenous children was supposedly discovered on the grounds of what had once been a government boarding school run by the Catholic Church.

It turns out the whole thing was a hoax, a modern-day blood libel against Christians that ended with at least 85 Catholic churches across Canada destroyed by arson, vandalized, or desecrated. Canadian political and civil society leaders cheered on this destruction — and then doled out hundreds of millions of dollars to investigate the mass graves and create a “support fund” for indigenous people.

To this day, no human remains have been recovered at the site of the alleged mass grave, despite nearly $8 million spent looking for them.

You won’t hear the corporate press report on this story now, but in the summer of 2021, it was everywhere. And no wonder, it had all the elements of a just-so story. The mere historical existence of these former boarding schools, which operated from the 1860s to the 1990s, remains a source of outrage among liberal Canadians. The residential school system, as it was called, often separated indigenous Canadian children from their families and communities, forcing them to attend chronically underfunded government schools, the purpose of which was to assimilate and acculturate indigenous Canadians into European Canadian society.

The history here was bad enough — a racist outrage, as far as Canadian liberals were concerned.

Finding out that my child was going to die was a jarring experience. The doctor saw the problem with our baby and turned off the ultrasound.

“This baby has no chance of survival.” So much for the bedside manner.

I was reminded of him, and my baby, this weekend when my husband and I went on a grocery run before dinner. On the way home, we noticed a note tucked under the windshield wiper. We pulled over to read it. I was shocked, saddened, and angry. Hastily scribbled on the back half of a paper bag, it read:

My baby was born with a broken heart. It was supposed to be survivable but it wasn’t. The few un-sedated hours of his life were full of violence. Needles and chest compressions and bright light and yelling. The first time I held him, it was as he died. The second and final time I held him was when he was frozen in the funeral home. I wish every day that I had chosen to spare him by letting him go at 20 weeks. That would have been the most humane & loving thing I could have done.

Now, my bumper stickers make it clear that I am pro-life, so I suppose it’s fair game for anyone who wishes to leave a note. But this one really got to me.

This woman’s note said she wished she had ended her child’s life at 20 weeks. I imagine this was the point

It’s 3 p.m., and I’ve just pulled into the carpool line to pick up my two older children from school when a client calls. We’re in the middle of negotiating a multi-six-figure deal, so I take the call.

We discuss the big picture of the project, mainly consisting of a new brand identity and website for their organization. As we’re going over the finer points, the school bell rings, and the kids start rushing out.

“Can we revisit this later, Jack?” I ask. “The kids are getting in the car.”

“No problem,” he says, “I’ll hit you up on Slack with my final comments, and you can get back to me later.”

He pops off the line as I kiss the kids and get the scoop on the day’s happenings in third grade and kindergarten.

On the way home, I call one of my team members, who I know focuses most of her working time in the afternoons, when the neighborhood babysitter comes over after school.

“Hey, Jill, can you run some quick edits on that contract? I have a lot of kid stuff going on this afternoon.”

“Sure thing,” she says. “I’m on now until 5 p.m. and then again after 8 p.m.”

After an active afternoon of piano lessons, running in the sprinkler, and a doctor’s visit for my 18-month-old with an ear infection, we sit down to family dinner, a nonnegotiable daily event in our house.

“Mom, what kind of website are you making now?” my 6-year-old