António's morning begins with the familiar ritual: coffee, news, school logistics. But four years after voting enthusiastically for Gouveia e Melo, the morning news feels different. Calmer. Less like watching a car crash in slow motion.
The headlines are about infrastructure: a new hospital wing in Porto, progress on the high-speed rail connection, digitization of public services. Not exciting. Not terrifying. Just... governance. After years of political drama, António finds this almost disorienting.
The drive to work takes him past construction sites—there's more building now, though whether it's because of government policy or economic cycles, he can't say. His technology consultancy has grown modestly; the clients appreciate Portuguese stability. "You're not Italy," one German partner said recently. António took it as a compliment.
At the office, Rui mentions that his court case—a property dispute that's been dragging for six years—finally has a resolution date. "Eighteen months," he says. "Still too long, but better than before." The justice reform that Gouveia e Melo championed is showing results, apparently. Not revolution, but improvement.
Lunch brings political conversation, as always. Sandra thinks the president has been "disappointingly conventional." She wanted more dramatic action on climate, housing, inequality. Rui disagrees: "He kept us from becoming Hungary. That's enough." António falls somewhere in between. He voted for competence and got competence. What did he expect?
His daughter Beatriz, now a university student in political science, has become more critical over time. "He's managing the system, not changing it," she argues when she calls in the afternoon. She's joined a housing activism group; the crisis hasn't been solved, prices have only stabilized, not dropped. António listens. She's not wrong. But he remembers the alternative.
After work, he picks up Tiago from basketball practice. The Brazilian coach is still there—nothing dramatic has happened to immigrant communities under this presidency. No mass deportations, no rhetoric of exclusion. Just ordinary bureaucracy, neither hostile nor welcoming. The coach seems fine, though António still doesn't ask directly.
Family dinner brings the usual mix of conversations. Carla reports that the hospital has hired three new doctors this year—recruitment drives finally showing results. The health center in their neighborhood has better hours. Progress. Real, measurable progress. Not transformation, but movement.
The evening news shows Gouveia e Melo at a European summit, speaking about defense cooperation and digital infrastructure. He looks tired, António thinks. The presidency has aged him. But he still projects that calm competence that attracted voters in 2026—the vaccine general, the man who got things done.
Beatriz sends a message: an article about housing prices still being unaffordable for young people. "This is what you voted for?" she asks. António types a response, deletes it, types again. He voted to avoid worse, he wants to say. He voted for the least bad option. Is that enough? Should it be?
Before bed, António reflects on the four years. Portugal hasn't transformed. The housing crisis persists, inequality continues, young people still leave. But the country hasn't collapsed either. The institutions hold. The discourse isn't poisoned. Democracy works, more or less.
He remembers 2026, the fear that Ventura might win. The relief when he didn't. Relief isn't the same as hope, he realizes now. But sometimes relief is what you have to work with.
"We're okay," he tells himself. Not great. Not fixed. But okay.