This story was created as part of the VANISH Storytelling Workshops for Adult Adoptees, a new initiative supported by Relationships Victoria and the Australian Government’s Forced Adoption Support Services Small Grants Program.
Facilitated by adoptee, theatre director, and teaching artist Dr Alison Ingram, the workshops offered a safe and creative space for adoptees to explore and express their experiences through storytelling.
“The Silence Between Us”
It’s hard to tell a story when half of it is missing.
When it’s more question than answer, more echo than voice.
But I’ll try—because even in the gaps, this is my story.
I’ll start with names—because names matter.
Mary and Ken—my blood parents.
Alice and Kate—my blood sisters.
Mum and Dad—the ones who adopted and raised me.
Kelly—my sister, my fellow adoptee.
Me?
I was born Melanie Louise Baxter
I live as Fiona Louise Zito.
I am a mother and a mum. .
A single mum to two brilliant young adults.
I am a daughter.
A younger sister. An older sister
An aunt.
A graduate.
A full-time worker.
A reader.
A gym-goer.
A movie and theatre lover.
A scrapbooker.
A writer.
A not-so-great cook.
But once, I was a question wrapped in silence.
At 25, I opened a manila envelope and met the beginning of my story.
Transcripts of a young woman—saying she didn’t want to marry just because of the baby.
Saying it was best to let go.
Already saying good bye to me before she had even met me.
Mary and mum both gave me the same middle name—Louise.
It has been a connection between my two lives.
I held on to that.
Documents gave me her name, Mary Baxter, my mother.
Searches done on Microfiche film and electoral rolls in dusty libraries.
A marriage certificate.
Baxter became Fisher
I found her.
I wrote her a letter.
And she called.
She told me—
She married Ken, my father
They had two daughters.
Teenagers.
They didn’t know about me
Silence
Mary, Ken and I – we met.
She was thin. Tired. She smoked . She seemed unwell.
She brought photos—not of me.
Of her girls as toddlers.
I looked like them.
But she didn’t say I was hers.
She said she made the right choice to let me go.
We ate dinner.
Went to their house.
No promises.
No future.
Just a quiet folding back into silence.
I told my mum about the reunion.
She was cautious. “Don’t tell your dad,” she said. “He was always scared they would ask for you back”
I felt… silenced.
Years passed. I got married. I reached out again. Another letter .
Gave Mary and Ken my new surname—just in case.
Mary called.
She had told the girls.
They didn’t want to meet me.
Silence again.
Then came my son,.
And when I held him in my arms, I knew.
I knew how hard it would be to give him away if I was having to do so.
And I wondered—did Mary really feel nothing? Or was that just what she told herself?
I wrote to her and Ken. Introduced their first grandchild.
No reply.
Silence.
Then came my daughter.
I didn’t tell Mary or Ken.
Silence
2021, my daughter asked questions and I didn’t have the answers
So I picked up the phone.
Called Vanish.
Started again.
They searched—and found a death notice.
2009
Mary Fisher
Your love of family and friends…Beloved mother of Alice and Kate
Strength. Warmth. Loyalty. Love.
No mention of me.
That omission…
It broke something deep.
I grieved someone who never claimed me.
Grieved alone.
Silenced again.
But I had my sisters names.
I wrote to Ken
Nothing
Silence
2023, I reached out on social media.
Alice answered.
Eight months of cautious texting.
Then—we met.
She was kind. Warm. Ten years younger than me.
A mother too.
She brought photos of our parents and family.
We pieced together a story a timeline
It healed something.
But she didn’t want Ken to know.
Still the secret. Silence.
Then came Kate.
She was quiet. Guarded.
We didn’t speak about the truth between us.
No questions.
Just polite silence.
But Alice stayed.
She met me again, just before Christmas.
She was generous. Open.
And I?
I was careful.
Didn’t want to push.
Didn’t call Mary “Mother.”
Didn’t call Ken“Father.”
I let her set the pace.
Inside, I wanted more.
I wanted my children to know her.
I wanted someone to witness us
I wanted someone to tell me we were alike
I wanted to meet her kids.
I wanted to find my aunts and uncles.
I wanted the silence to end.
But I tread lightly.
For now, this is what I have:
A thread.
A name.
A face.
A beginning
A younger Sister.
Last week, Alice shared something with me.
These are Alice’s words and the terms she uses- mum and dad
She said:
From what I know, family and friends knew about the pregnancy.
It wasn’t a secret.
One of Mum’s sisters even talked to me about it.
It seems like the decision to adopt was hers.
Some of her friends had babies young—
Married at 17 or 18, some by choice, some by pressure.
But Mum?
She was strong-willed.
She knew her mind.
If she had wanted to keep the baby… I think she would have.
Her family would have supported her—
Emotionally, at least.
But it wasn’t that simple.
Her mum was raising three younger kids, working full time.
There was no real room for physical support.
Mum helped raise her siblings. She knew how hard it was.
And she and Dad had split up by then.
I think she wanted the baby to have what she didn’t—
A mum and a dad, together.
A family who could provide.
Not the struggle she grew up with.
And so now, I carry this too.
Not just silence.
But understanding.
A thread.
A name.
A face.
A beginning.
A younger sister.
And her voice beside mine.
Not silence.
Not anymore.