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There are moments in life that divide everything into before and after. For me, one of those moments came on September 11, 2001, when a firefighter calling from Ground Zero told me what I already feared but was not ready to hear: my younger brother Stephen was not coming home. In that instant, my family’s life changed forever, and so did the course of mine.
Even though I knew that it was probably an exercise in futility, I also kept trying to call Stephen from my Nextel phone, on September 11, hoping that perhaps he had somehow already made it over the Verrazzano Bridge and back to Staten Island. We had the same phone; it was both a cellular phone and a walkie-talkie, which was popular in the early 2000s.
I kept pressing the button on the walkie-talkie part while I called out for Stephen. He did not pick up. I called again, and again, and again. There was no answer—only an eerie silence. I wound up doing that all night and well into the next few days.
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Once I got home to join Pat, early in the afternoon, family members began to straggle one by one through my front door. All we could do was sit in my living room and watch the news, just as hundreds of millions of our fellow Americans did that day. I felt like I was dreaming. It was all so surreal, especially since much of the carnage had occurred in my beloved New York City.
While it was tempting to excuse myself to go shed a few tears, I understood the need to be strong. I had already deep down accepted the harsh reality of Stephen’s fate and needed to be ready for the moment when other members of my family would soon be sadly forced to do the same—or maybe some already had.
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That was when my home phone rang. I snuck off into the kitchen to quietly take the call, as not to alarm any family members. On the other end of the line was a neighborhood firefighter named Richie Obermeyer, who lived a few houses away from Stephen. He was calling from the area that would soon be known to America and the world as Ground Zero.
Unbeknownst to me, my daughter Elizabeth was watching me take Richie’s call from the hallway. Years later, she gave me her perspective of this exact moment. That’s the thing about tragedy—everyone has their own recollection and personal memory of the way things unfolded.
“Hi Frank, it’s Richie Obermeyer. I’m down here at the Twin Towers . . .” he said.
“Rich, I’m so sorry. That must be terrible,” I said. “It’s just so hard to watch.”
“Frank, it’s really bad,” said Richie.
“I’m watching it—” I began to say.
“No, Frank.” He hesitated and sighed. “It’s really bad.”
Speaking slowly yet firmly, I tried to tell Richie that I understood while also hoping that he would have the courage to tell me the truth instead of making me ask him point-blank. That’s when Richie finally said it.
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“No one is coming home, Frank,” Richie whispered. “No one.”
“No one is coming home, Frank,” Richie whispered. “No one.”
I could hardly breathe. My chest started to tighten, and my eyes welled up. I then dropped my head, and tears began rolling down my cheeks. I already knew deep down that my brother was gone, but hearing the news from someone I trusted ushered in a whole new wave of emotion.
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After I hung up the phone and took a deep breath, I walked into the living room to explain what Richie had told me. Elizabeth jumped into Pat’s arms. My sister Regina let out a startling shriek and yelled, “Not Stephen!”
We all felt the same way. How could this have happened to Stephen, our little brother who went through so much in life at such a young age? Not Stephen. Not Stephen, the resilient little boy who became an orphan at the age of ten. His five children—Katherine, Olivia, Genevieve, Jake, and baby Stephen—would now have to live their lives without their father, who was a most spectacular human. Stephen’s wife, Sally, the love of his life, would have to raise these children on her own, perhaps never filling the void Stephen’s death would leave in her heart and soul. How would she do it, emotionally, physically, and financially? It all seemed so impossible.
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Moments later, we began hugging each other while the tears continued to fall from our eyes. It was truly gut-wrenching. We pulled ourselves together, said a prayer while we were on our knees. One by one, we stood up, bundled into our cars, and drove over to Sally’s house to be together as one family and pledge our everlasting love and support for Sally and the children.
Stephen’s life and heroic death serve as a reminder to us all to live life to the fullest and to spend our time here on earth doing good—this is his legacy.
When the sun came up on the morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I couldn’t wait to get out onto the golf course with George, Russell, and Stephen. Like I said, the four Siller brothers didn’t get to do this often anymore.
As the sun went down on that unimaginably painful Tuesday evening, I repeated the last words I said to Stephen less than twenty-four hours before he became one of the nearly three thousand innocent people killed in the worst terrorist attack in American history.
“I love you, brother,” I whispered. “See you tomorrow.”
He had already finished his shift. When he turned his car around to return to his firehouse, FDNY firefighter Stephen Gerard Siller sacrificed his tomorrows so countless others could have their todays. When I later found out the full details of his ultimate sacrifice, it only enhanced my admiration and awe of what Stephen and his fellow first responders so bravely did on that awful morning.
Our parents, Mae and George Siller, were devout Catholics and members of the Secular Franciscan Order. We grew up under the guiding philosophy of Saint Francis of Assisi, who famously wrote that “while we have time, let us do good.” They were words that all of us lived by, but especially Stephen, as evidenced by his last moments on earth.
Stephen’s life and heroic death serve as a reminder to us all to live life to the fullest and to spend our time here on earth doing good—this is his legacy.
“A single sunbeam is enough to drive away many shadows,” is a quote often attributed to Saint Francis that illustrates how I feel about Stephen’s impact.
In the shadows of the collapsed Twin Towers, the memory of my fallen brother helped guide me and all the siblings toward that light. Starting on September 12 and continuing every day thereafter, Stephen’s mission to do good would be my family’s mission as well. God willing, a few others would be willing to help along the way. I never could have imagined just how many kind and generous souls would end up joining the cause.
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To honor Stephen’s memory and the sacrifice of so many that day, my family started the Tunnel to Towers Foundation to carry forward the way he lived his life: by doing good and helping others. His sacrifice became our mission, and today T2T continues that work in service of America’s heroes and their families. To learn more, visit T2T.org
Excerpted from “LET US DO GOOD: My Brother Stephen, 9/11, and the Mission to Honor America’s Heroes” by Frank Siller. Copyright 2026 by Frank Siller. Published with permission from Broadside Books and HarperCollins Publishers.
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