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Years passed. Zsófia gave birth to a healthy boy. She named him Gabriel, her angel. Although life in the shelter was difficult, the girl worked hard: cleaning, studying in the evenings, so that one day she could stand on her own two feet. Every mocking word, every cold look from her parents only strengthened her resolve.
By the time Gabriel was ten, Zsófia already had her own small bakery. Her breads and pastries quickly gained popularity in the neighborhood—not only for their flavor, but also for the special warmth everyone felt when they entered her shop. People often said, "In this shop, you'll find not only bread, but also soul."
One day, however, news arrived: Isabella, Zsófia's mother, had fallen seriously ill. Lajos, too, had grown old; his voice, once so resonant, was now a mere whisper. Zsófia hadn't seen them for many years, but fate never forgets.
It was her son, Gabriel, who held her hand and said, "Mom, shouldn't we go visit Grandma and Grandpa? Even if they hurt us... they're still our family."
Zsófia's heart sank. She had tried so many times to forget the past, but her son's pure gaze made her reflect. The following Sunday, she put on simple, clean clothes, and together they set off for the old house.
The door creaked open. Louis looked smaller, more fragile than ever. Isabella lay on the couch, her eyes, once piercingly cold, now broken. At the sight of her daughter, her lips began to quiver.
“You… is that you?” he whispered weakly.
“Yes, Mom. It’s me,” Zsófia replied firmly. Gabriel stood beside her, his back straight.
Laius's gaze fell on the boy. "And he... who is he?"
– “My son. Gabriel.”
The boy smiled politely and nodded. “Good morning, Grandpa.”
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