Fernando checks the news before his coffee finishes brewing and immediately regrets it. Another presidential veto. Another constitutional referral. Another speech about "capital speculation" and "worker exploitation." Four years of this, and his blood pressure suffers.
The furniture factory operates despite Catarina Martins, not because of her. Orders come from Germany, France, Netherlands—countries whose leaders look at Portugal's permanent institutional conflict with concern. "Is everything stable there?" his German partner asked last quarter. Fernando lied and said yes.
The morning brings paperwork. Tax obligations, labor regulations, environmental compliance—the usual mountain. Nothing has changed dramatically since 2026; AD government still controls actual policy. But the atmosphere has shifted. Workers quote the president's speeches about "dignified wages." Suppliers ask about "ethical sourcing." The language of the presidency seeps into business relationships.
His accountant, Dona Fátima, brings concerns about uncertainty. "Investment is hesitant," she observes. Not collapsed—Portugal hasn't become Cuba, despite some rhetoric—but cautious. The president who speaks against "predatory capitalism" every week makes foreign investors nervous. Even if she can't actually change policy, the perception matters.
Lunch at the usual restaurant brings conversation with other business owners. Pedro, the ceramics exporter, voted for Catarina—yes, some business people did, housing crisis touched everyone. He's less sure now. "I wanted someone who cared about people," he says. "I got permanent political war." The distinction between caring and governing has become painfully clear.
The afternoon news shows the constitutional court ruling on another presidential challenge. AD wins again; the government's policy proceeds. But the delay, the uncertainty, the signal to markets—these have costs even when the outcome favors continuity.
Fernando's son Ricardo, who returned from Belgium three years ago, has started talking about leaving again. "The political environment is exhausting," he says. Not dangerous—Ricardo acknowledges Catarina isn't implementing communism—just exhausting. The constant conflict, the uncertainty, the sense that Portugal is fighting itself rather than building anything.
Dinner with his wife, Maria José, brings reflection. She voted for Gouveia e Melo, the losing candidate. "At least he would have been calm," she says. Fernando agrees. Whatever you think of Catarina's values—and he doesn't agree with most of them—the presidency as permanent confrontation wears on everyone.
The evening news shows Catarina at a workers' rally, speaking passionately about housing, wages, dignity. Fernando watches with conflicted feelings. She's not wrong about the problems. Workers do deserve more. Housing is a crisis. But her solution—or non-solution, since she can't implement anything—is to fight constantly while nothing improves.
Before bed, he reviews tomorrow's production schedule. The factory will operate. Orders will ship. Workers will be paid. Life continues despite political drama. Perhaps that's the lesson: Portugal has survived worse than an activist presidency. It will survive this too.
But survival isn't thriving. And four years of ideological conflict has costs even when policy doesn't change.