Wilson wakes uncertain, as he has every day for four years. Not the sharp fear of Ventura's potential victory—that was averted—but a softer, more insidious anxiety. The question that won't resolve: what comes next?
The morning news mentions Chega's latest parliamentary maneuver. They're not in government—Marques Mendes maintained the cordon sanitaire on paper—but they're not quite out of it either. AD needed their abstention twice last year to pass budgets. The line between opposing and tolerating has blurred.
At the hotel kitchen where Wilson works, the conversation among colleagues has shifted. Four years ago, after Ventura lost, there was relief. Now there's exhaustion. The constant debates about immigration—who belongs, who should stay, who is "really Portuguese"—haven't stopped. They've just become normalized. Background noise that never quite fades.
Lunch brings a call from his sister. She's been passed over for promotion again—the nursing supervisor position went to someone else. "Qualifications equal," she says, "experience greater. But you know." Wilson knows. The subtle discrimination that predates any president and will outlast all of them. Marques Mendes hasn't made it worse. He hasn't made it better either.
The afternoon news shows a Chega deputy speaking in parliament. The language has evolved—less overtly racist, more "concerned about integration," "questioning policy," "representing constituencies." The suits are nicer. The message is similar. And the president? Silent. Presiding. Above the fray.
After work, Wilson attends a community meeting. The activists are frustrated. "We survived Ventura," one says, "but what are we surviving now?" The gradual normalization—Chega invited to parliamentary committees, their positions reported without context, their voters considered legitimate political actors. Nobody decided this. It just happened.
His son Dany, eighteen now, has become political. "How can you accept this?" he demands. Wilson doesn't have a good answer. He votes, he works, he raises his family. What else should he do? Storm parliament? The system that failed to elect Ventura president is slowly absorbing Ventura's party. Fighting isn't easy when there's no clear battle.
Dinner is quiet. Wilson's wife, Carla, mentions that their neighbors—an Angolan family, three generations—are considering leaving. "For where?" Wilson asks. They don't know. France, maybe. Canada. Somewhere that isn't slowly tilting toward hostility. But everywhere has problems, Wilson thinks. At least here is home.
The evening news shows Marques Mendes at a ceremony, speaking about unity, tradition, the Portuguese spirit of tolerance. Wilson watches, trying to feel reassured. The president seems sincere. But sincerity without action is just words. And words don't protect anyone when the politics shift.
Before bed, Wilson checks the community WhatsApp group. No emergencies. No deportation scares. Just ordinary life, ordinary complaints, ordinary survival. This is better than the alternative—he reminds himself constantly—better than what could have been. But "better than catastrophe" isn't the same as good.
Four years ago, Wilson celebrated when Ventura lost. Tonight, he just feels tired.