On a visit to the home for retired Oblate priests I felt like I was in a 1950s motel. Everything was clean but old, even the people. The living room was filled with vases of fresh-cut lilacs and tulips and old men wearing cardigans. Old photographs had been hung on the living room wall as if for a gallery or museum exhibition. I peered at them closely one after another and felt a pang in my gut and a thick, slow fog in my head. It took some time to realize their recurring subject: these were photographs of priests standing beside “Indians.” Priests with Indian children. Priests with Indian families. My baby daughter was strapped onto my chest in a BabyBjörn. It was very hot in that room. I looked around at the old men and back at the photographs and decided to go outside and walk in the garden with my baby girl.