Fátima rises before dawn, as she has every day for fifty years. The cold of the Serra seeps through the old stone walls of the house her husband built. Her knees complain as she kneels briefly at the small altar in the corner—Nossa Senhora de Fátima, whose name she shares, watching over plastic flowers and family photos.
Mass is at 8am. Father Miguel has been here two years now, younger than the previous priest, more traditional. The church attendance has grown slightly since 2026—or perhaps it just feels that way because the people who come seem more certain. There's a new family from Brazil in the second pew, evangelical converts who found their way to Catholicism. Fátima watches them with cautious approval.
After mass, the women gather in the adro, the church courtyard. The conversation turns, as it often does, to politics. "Did you see what the president said about family values?" asks Dona Lurdes. They all saw. Ventura speaks about things other politicians wouldn't—the importance of traditional families, the problems with "gender ideology," the need to protect Portuguese culture. Fátima nods along.
The walk home takes her past the junta de freguesia, where a Portuguese flag flies larger than before. The mayor—PSD, not Chega—added it after 2026. A gesture, Fátima supposes. Everyone adjusts.
Her son calls from Vila Real at lunchtime. His eldest is doing well in school; his youngest has a cold. They don't talk about politics directly—he knows her views, she knows his silence speaks volumes—but he mentions that the Brazilian family who lived next door moved away. "Visa problems," he says neutrally. Fátima doesn't ask more.
The afternoon is for the garden, even in January. She tends what can be tended, prepares what can be prepared. The radio plays music from her youth—fado, not the African beats her granddaughter plays on her phone. Fátima likes that the national radio plays more Portuguese music now. She doesn't know if this is policy or perception. It feels right either way.
Her sister visits for coffee and sweet rice. They discuss the village: who's died, who's moved away, whether the health center will keep its single doctor. These are the conversations that really matter—not Lisbon politics. But Lisbon politics have reached even here. The pharmacist, originally from Ukraine, had to renew paperwork three times this year. Fátima helped her navigate it—she's a good woman, hardworking—but the new rules are complicated.
"They make it harder for the good ones too," her sister observes.
"Better too careful than too loose," Fátima responds. She's not sure she believes this completely, but it's what she's supposed to believe now.
Evening television brings news from the capital. Ventura is inaugurating something—a monument, a program, she loses track. He speaks well, confidently. Her husband, God rest him, would have liked this president. A man who doesn't apologize, who says what he thinks. Unlike those politicians who always seemed ashamed of Portugal, of being Portuguese, of the empire, of the faith.
At the same time, the news shows a protest in Lisbon. Young people, mostly. Signs about "democracy" and "fascism." Fátima clicks her tongue. Drama. Portugal has survived worse than André Ventura. The Salazar years—she was a child, but she remembers—were different. This isn't that. This is just... correction. Adjustment. A return to common sense.
Before bed, she lights a candle for her deceased husband and parents. The house is quiet, emptier each year. The village is quiet, older each year. Ventura hasn't reversed this tide—no one could—but at least he speaks about the countryside, the interior, the forgotten Portugal. Politicians always did before elections. This one keeps speaking after.
Is her life better than in 2026? The pension is the same. The health center is worse, actually—the doctor reduced hours. But she feels... recognized. Validated. The country, for once, seems to be pointing in a direction she understands.
Whether that direction leads anywhere good, she can't say. She's too tired for such questions. She's just glad, finally, not to feel like a stranger in her own country.