Pedro wakes angry. He's been angry for four years—longer, really, but the anger sharpened when Ventura lost. The system closed ranks. The elites protected each other. Portugal got another suit-and-tie president who talks about "unity" while his people suffer.
The coffee is bitter, like his mood. The news shows Marques Mendes at some ceremony, shaking hands with people who will never know what it's like to work at a warehouse for twenty years and still not be able to afford a decent apartment. "Fifty years of political experience," the commentators praise. Pedro sees: fifty years of the same clubs, the same networks, the same contempt for ordinary people.
At work, he's quieter than before. In 2026, he talked openly about Chega, about Ventura, about change. His colleagues knew where he stood. Now the talk is more careful. Not because Chega has weakened—it's stronger, actually, 22% in the polls—but because nothing feels as urgent. They lost the presidency. They'll win eventually. Patience.
Lunch in the canteen, the TV shows parliamentary debates. Chega deputies are sharper now, more professional. They've learned to play the game. Pedro watches with complicated feelings. He wanted revolution; he's getting normalization. Is this progress or co-optation? He doesn't know.
The afternoon drags. His back hurts; the doctor says he needs rest he can't afford. The SNS appointment for a specialist is four months away. Under Marques Mendes' "stability," healthcare is still broken. Housing is still impossible. Wages are still a joke. What exactly did stability stabilize?
After work, Pedro goes to a Chega local meeting. Smaller than 2026, but more organized. The activists talk about the next legislative elections, about strategy, about eventually forcing AD into formal coalition. "Patience," the local leader says. "We're winning by inches." Pedro isn't sure inches are enough.
The meeting ends with complaints about Marques Mendes blocking more aggressive immigration measures. The president used his veto twice last year—symbolic gestures, overridden by parliament, but annoying nonetheless. "The system protects itself," someone mutters. Everyone nods. This is the narrative: the establishment closing ranks, the people's voice suppressed, the slow march toward vindication.
Dinner alone. His wife is at her sister's; they've been living semi-separately since 2027, the political arguments too exhausting to navigate daily. Pedro heats leftover rice, watches a cooking show. Normal life, continuing despite everything.
The evening news mentions Ventura's latest speech: optimistic, confident, already campaigning for something. Legislative elections? Another presidential run? The future is unclear, but Ventura seems certain of it. Pedro finds this reassuring. Someone should be certain.
Before bed, he checks his bank balance. Same as always: just enough, never comfortable. Marques Mendes' Portugal hasn't made his life worse—can't blame him for the warehouse or the back pain or the loneliness—but it hasn't made anything better either. The promise of 2026 was change. The reality is continuation.
Pedro voted for Ventura to shake the system. The system absorbed the shake. He'll vote for him again, and again, until something breaks.