Justice for fewster- 10 minutes to watch a family ignore a dying mans wish.

This isn’t just a story of loss. This is a truth that was nearly buried. What follows is not fiction. It is a detailed, first-hand account of how manipulation, forced abandonment, and coercion destroyed a family — and how a dying man’s final wish was denied by those who claimed to love him.

Well here we go!...

They say fairy tales aren't real. What they don’t tell you is that sometimes you grow up inside of one and don’t even know it. It’s masked as a nightmare you can’t escape and becomes a cloud that follows you everywhere — haunting you the rest of your life.

Everyone has heard the story of Cinderella, right? This is our life. But this is the version where there is no happy ending. The glass slipper does not fit. There’s no Prince Charming to come to the rescue. This is the one where the evil stepmother and sisters win, they take it all with a smile on their face and control in their veins.

This is her vengeance. But this won’t go unwritten. This is our version — the one she won’t win or escape.

To My Dads Wife: “May the wealth you steal be your legacy’s disease, consuming you and every kin who dares touch it. And anyone who does — the cancer that follows this will rot you internally and turn all your joy to ash.”

As this was inherited wrongfully by abuse and manipulation, and control with precise execution.  This was supported by others in this family You had a chance to speak up and speak out against this evil. YOU — and only you — chose to stand on the side of the abuser.

Principle, Not Profits

A lot of you may be thinking right now: this is just an angry kid who’s grieving and looking for a quick handout.

Let me be clear: that is far from the truth. I’m here to defend my grandparents and what they built and sacrificed and intended to keep in our family. how my father’s death bed wishes will not fall onto deaf ears.

Everything I’ve built has been from the ground up. Nothing was given to me. The same way and the same grit bloodline my grandfather and his father built everything, I’ve continued that trajectory my whole life — hard work and 1 pedal at a time.

So why does this matter? Because it’s who I am. My grandparents wanted me to continue this and keep this going as you can see my grandmother wanted this to stay in the FEWSTER bloodline. 

Attached will

My grandpa was the first person to sell CCM bicycles after WW2. Ironically, my entire life has revolved around bicycles: traveling through the world, going to events, building a business, building a skatepark, building a brand. The most meaningful relationships I’ve had all revolved around bicycles and those who support me on my journey. And the roots of that stemmed from 385427 HWY 59, Burgessville, Ontario — AKA Fewster Appliances.

My great grandfather and his father moved there entire farming operations from Tillsonburg to Burgessville, Ontario by foot, walking cattle twenty five miles. He would tell me his entrepreneurial adventures — how he drove to Montreal, Quebec and Weston, Ontario (Greater Toronto Area) to pick up bicycles. If you are from Oxford County, there is a good chance your grandfather bought his first bicycle from my grandfather.

The same way All-In has serviced the same county and beyond. That’s why it matters. Not to let some bottom-feeding personality slither herself into a family and push out any obstruction that would lead to her end goal: $$$.

Now… it can’t be that bad, right?

True Evil:

Start a timer. Ten minutes.

That’s all we got. That’s all she allowed. Ten minutes to undo 17 years of neglect, abandonment, and manipulation. Ten minutes to say sorry. Ten minutes to say “I love you.” Ten minutes to say our goodbyes. Ten minutes to reverse a lifetime of lying and manipulation. Ten minutes to fix a legacy.

That’s all they gave us.

The only reason I’m telling this story now is because on May 11, 2025, our dad was dying. After nearly two decades of silence — no birthdays, no holidays, no explanation — we got a message that he was in the hospital.

Not from family. Not from a distant relative. Not from a friend. From a dump truck driver who worked for my uncle. That’s how far removed they made sure we were.

The message came in the form of: “I heard Clare Fewster was in the hospital.”

We contacted the family. We were directed to a distant relative who informed us that the family said: “Your father doesn’t want you around for all the stress you cause.”

We went silent for a few days. But we both thought: something isn’t right. My sister called London Health Science Centre and had a nurse ask my dad directly. She came back hesitant and confused but said that he replied: “Yes, I want to see my kids.”

The nurse said, reluctantly, that it was only for ten minutes. And we had to be there May 11th after 4:00 pm so his wife could not be on the property.

We could visit our father one hour before what would be his final surgery — a surgery we did not know about. We had to make sure the wife wasn’t there. Because God forbid we crossed paths on my father’s deathbed.

At this time we did not know the severity of his condition. We didn’t know this was extremely high-risk surgery, or that these would be the last moments we would ever share with him.

We didn’t go there to fight. We didn’t go to demand anything. We went because, after 17 years of silence, we still loved him — and thought he might feel the same.

Ten Minutes

When we walked into the room, we didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t even recognize the woman sitting by his bed. Later, I’d learn it was the step-daughter. I thought it was a nurse. But no, it was the substitute monitor for her mom. The one who would control every minute of what was about to happen. Fucks the matters with you? 

Our dad, Clare Fewster, was lying there — yellow, weak from chemo, dry-mouthed, unable to drink water before surgery that was in forty minutes. The pain was written all over his face. But beneath the suffering was something worse: regret.

She looked at him and said:

“Clare, you keep saying you wanted to see your kids and wanted them to have something. What did you want to tell them?”

He struggled, barely audible, but his words were clear:

“I want them to have it all.”

She said: “What do you want them to have?”

He said: “I want them to have it all.”

She asked again: “What do you mean by have it all? Something from the store?”

He said: “No… I want them to have everything.”

She kept diverting the conversation.

He forced it out:

“I want them to have everything.”

Contrary to what this family thinks, “all” and “everything” means all and everything — meaning legacy and keeping it in the family, not a quick write-off, not some used beer fridge from the back of his store to show us how much he and my grandparents cared.

That was it. His last dying wish — as clear as it gets.

And in that moment, I felt something crack. This wasn’t a man who wanted us gone. This was a man who had been silenced, coerced, manipulated. narrowed by blinders carefully fitted by those closest to him. The very family that should have opened his eyes became the ones who closed them, shutting out everything but their version of the truth.

“The things I would do right now for a cup of ice water.”

That broke me. Because it wasn’t about thirst. It was code. A dying man — denied the most basic comfort — and still unable to say what he really wanted.

He said his apologies, that he was very sorry for how everything went down and how he treated us.

And for her final act she then said she’d go get a pen and paper so he could write it down. She left the room. But she never came back with it.

Instead, reentered the room — no pen, no paper, which I thought was very odd. She sat in the chair for a few minutes, stared at her phone, then got up and stood over his bed.

She said: “Okay Clare, it’s been ten minutes. Do you want your kids to stay?”

He replied: “Yes! I want them to stay.”

She said: “Okay, well, you know that your wife isn’t coming back if they are in this hospital.”

He looked at her — tired, betrayed, and fully aware. And then he said it:

“Does it really matter at this point? I’m dying.”

He had no fight left. He chose us. At that point, I knew his ten minutes was to get us in the door to tell us this.

And still, we were made to leave. He said again that he was sorry for how he treated us and everything he did. 

We walked into the hallway. I begged her. I pleaded. I said: “Please — just call your mom. Let me apologize. Let me fix this.”

She shook her head. She said: “I’m sorry it has to be this way. My mom holds grudges. We have asked her and we don’t even know what you did.”

Is this why she never brought the pen and paper? To protect her position…In fear that a holographic will might have been signed?

Let that sink in.

They disowned us, blocked us from seeing our own father, told the hospital he didn’t want to see us — and when we asked why, they said they didn’t know. Only that my dads wife “holds grudges” and “won’t say what we did.”

No court, no lawyer, no family member has ever told us why we were erased. Because the truth is: there is no reason. We were just kids. We did what kids do.

We didn’t hear those words once. We heard them three times. From a dying man who had nothing left to gain and no reason to lie:

“I want them to have everything.”

That was his truth. And now it must become reality.

Stolen Time

At the exact moment we thought we might finally have more time, they made sure even that was stolen. Yes, we had two visits — rushed, watched, timed, filled with pressure — but we weren’t finished. We weren’t done saying what needed to be said.

We thought there would be one more chance, one final visit while our dad was in his coma. That moment never came. Before we could walk back through those doors, they pulled the plug. His last breath his last minutes, and we weren’t there for it. 

Legally, maybe they didn’t have to ask us. But that’s not the point. We were his children — and yet we were never included, never even given the dignity of knowing what was happening.

They didn’t just take away our father. They took away the last goodbye we had left. And that cruelty is something no one should ever have the power to decide.

The Will: 

Now fast-forward. We got the will.

And after what our dad told us in that room, what we saw with our own eyes, what we felt in that man’s dying words — that will shattered us.

He left everything to his wife. That in itself I could have accepted. It’s not unusual for a man to leave his estate to his spouse. (Assuming it would be past down)

What I can’t accept is the direct pattern of abuse, and sitting idly by while it happened.

The “token bequest” to us for 5000.00 meant that even if she died before him, her kids would still get everything. Some lawyers would say this clause appears designed to defeat will contests without real provision. Some lawyers would even say it’s the first sign of undue influence — a pattern of isolation, coercion, manipulation. Equal to saying: he thought about you, but you didn’t matter to him that much. Because courts favour control they do not favour truth.

The rest? To “his family.” The same family that kept us away for 17 years. The same family that gave us ten minutes. The same family who facilitated and monitored every word on his dying bed.

And I challenge anyone reading this: if you think that sounds right, then go ahead. Erase your own kids. Leave them nothing but a hollow wish on your deathbed. Let them watch you die and get told by strangers they need to leave the room. Then ask yourself if that was love — or coercion.

Because no father in his right mind — especially one who looked us in the eye and said, “I want them to have it all” — would write a will that does the opposite.

The Funeral

That’s why we’re fighting now. Not for revenge. Not for money. But because those ten minutes were real. And what he said in them was real.

It was the truth, finally escaping a prison it had been trapped in for almost two decades.

And if you made it this far — congratulations. You just spent as much time reading this as we were given to say goodbye. Ten minutes.

To fix a lifetime of damage. To make it legally binding.

In ten fucking minutes.

And she knew that. And she absolutely loved it.

How do I know she loved it? Because throughout his funeral she could not look me in the eye even once. Finally, at the end of it all, I got the opportunity to tell her:

“Thanks, _______, for the ten minutes you gave us with our dad.”

She replied with a smile: “You’re welcome. I’m really glad you got the time you deserved to say your goodbyes to him.”

At that time I noticed her pupils dilate and she got those empty glazed-over eyes I remembered from the first time I met her. I knew this was the time to show everyone there who she really was.

I said: “You should be absolutely ashamed of yourself. Ten minutes for almost 20 years of neglect and abandonment? How you behaved was childish and absolutely disgusting.”

Her response: “Fuuuuck you. I heard that you didn’t even say ‘I love you’ back to your own father.”

And I ended it, in my opinion of course: “And there it is — another fabricated web of lies. Turning pain into power. You manipulative, bi-polar, borderline fucking bitch.”

In hindsight, how stupid and shallow was her response? Her saying “I heard” implies that her daughter or a nurse at LHSC lied to her. Because we said we loved him! This should directly outline who this family is and their mental capacity — and how far they are willing to go and the low blows they are willing to throw.

But don’t worry. Her daughter was the first one up to defend her mom in this after “not taking anyone’s side”

Shortly after, the hero uncle came and pushed me, telling me it was time to leave my father’s funeral. I let him know that nobody there would make me do anything. But the irony? He’s the type-A “winning” personality. The type who got hurt at work and can’t work anymore. Unable to work, but able to fight? I wonder what ODSP or the Government of Canada would think about that. Write about that in your children’s book, you hero.

The Fire:

I should add: two years before this, our grandma died, and our dad came back into our life briefly. He told us how much he missed us and wanted us back in his life. When he saw me, he asked everyone at the funeral who I was. The family said: “That’s your son, Clare. What’s wrong with you?”

He admitted it never sat right with him that he didn’t recognize me. We had an intervention to try and rekindle what we had. He told us the reason he could not talk to us was because of his wife — that she would not let him reach out or have us in his life.

In that conversation I thought to myself. This is a cheap bullshit tactic to blameshift someone like this who isn’t here to hide your guilt. But you know Hindsight is always 20/20 him saying this + attempts to control and block our final 10 minutes with him =…. I’ll let you do the math here.

After He said he begged her to allow him to see us. And then I asked him: “What do we do when inevitably your wife says she doesn’t want us around anymore?”

He said: “We will just have to wait and see what happens.”

My aunt spoke up and said: “No Clare, you say: these are my kids, and they’re in my life whether you like it or not.”

Then, just like that, my nephew ended up in the hospital after a dog bit his face. He asked if he could see his grandpa. Guess who went ghost mode? Claimed he didn’t even have access to his phone.

My sister went there and confronted him. She was greeted with a door slammed in her face by his wife and told: “Fuuuuck you!”

So when the family hides behind “you guys caused too much stress” — this is the incident they are referring to. My sister defending her son.

Ten minutes. That’s what they gave us. But what they didn’t count on — was that ten minutes was enough to light a fire we’ll never let die.

This isn’t just my story — it’s the story of thousands of kids and adult children who’ve been cut off from parents, erased from family decisions, or told they don’t matter. This is about systemic abuse — control, coercion, isolation — that destroys families and rewrites legacies. My ten minutes are a symbol of everyone’s ten minutes that were stolen.”

If anyone knows this woman, or her past marriage — our dad told us that something happened with her ex’s kids, and that she never recovered from it. Sadly, it feels like she carried that pain and projected it onto us.

Something deep down tells me that their story might mirror ours.

If you are one of those kids, or if you know who they are, please reach out. You don’t have to stay silent. I want to give you a voice — a safe space, and a platform to share what really happened. Your truth matters, and together we can shine a light on what was done.

How does this end?…

It ends in ten minutes — ten minutes that were controlled, monitored with a carrot dangled Infront of our face. Ten minutes where love was rationed and time was owned by someone else with a dying man forced to decide and beg like a dog for his kids to stay in his final minutes. Ten minutes to say goodbye…

A lifetime reduced to a schedule. A legacy dismantled by control.

Generations of sweat, grit, determination, and sacrifice — gone. No longer a legacy, but a listing. A number. A profit line on paper.

The land that built a family’s name wasn’t passed down — it was taken through silence and signed away in betrayal.

What love built, greed dismantled.

Our father’s story didn’t end in peace— it ended in paperwork.

But his legacy — the real one — lives here, in these words, in the truth that can’t be silenced or sold.

They can list the farm. They can destroy our legacy, sell it peice by peice. Line item by line item

But they can’t erase what it stood for.

And for that, this story will outlast them.

Finally:

It takes a special person to live off my grandma’s dime for 17 years — never spending a nickel. Free house. Free roof, Free heat, Free hydro, Free business, Free vacations. Free, Free, FREE!!!

When I was 18 I was told a wise but hypocritical quote: 

“Nothing in life is free.” -Jeannie Fewster (Bourgon) 

Time keeps count. Truth keeps score.

Just remember:

Karma isn’t a bitch — it’s a mirror.

You’re about to see your own reflection.

I’m the one holding the mirror.