Rita Theresa Furtado

With hearts full of gratitude and sorrow, the family of Rita Theresa Furtado announces her peaceful passing on May 17, 2026, surrounded by the family she adored. She departed this world at the remarkable age of 93 — a woman of extraordinary depth, quiet strength, and boundless grace, who lived every one of those years as a force of nature: unyielding, loving, and completely unforgettable.

Rita was born during the Great Depression, and from her earliest years she was shaped by the twin forces of hardship and fierce family love. When she was a girl, her mother and three brothers — Bill, Herb, and Ray — relocated to a forty-acre farm on Prince Edward Island while her father remained in America, sending money home. Those years on the Island, in the cold winters and on the red dirt farm roads, formed the woman she would become.

She spoke of that time as among the happiest of her life. Her oldest brother Bill was, in her own words, her hero — the one who waited at the end of the road to carry her home on his shoulders, and who once braved a raging blizzard to fetch medicine that saved her life when the roads were impassable. She held her brother Herb in boundless admiration; his intelligence and mastery of everything he turned his mind to left her in awe, and she spoke of it with the same wonder decades later as when she was a little girl. And the mere mention of Ray's name made her eyes glow — she called him one of the kindest, most gentle souls she had ever known. Her brothers included her in everything. She played goalie on the farm — and lost a few teeth proving her mettle. When a bully at school made her walk home in tears, her brothers took her into the barn and taught her how to fight. The next time that girl crossed her, Rita — left-handed and fearless — bloodied her nose and was never bothered again. No one ever underestimated that left-handed hellion twice.

World events soon changed everything. When her brother Bill resolved to enlist as World War II swept the globe, their father traveled to Prince Edward Island with firm words: Bill was an American, and he would serve as one. The farm was sold. The family returned to Boston. For a girl who had known forty acres of open sky, the move to a third-floor walkup in a loud, crowded city was a shock she felt deeply. She missed the farm terribly — and she missed her dog Rover most of all. But Rita adapted, as she always did, with quiet determination.

Then, one ordinary day, a family moved in across the street, and nothing was ever ordinary again. A boy named Jack had noticed her — though it would take her a while to notice him. He was always there: helpful, charming to her mother, easy with her brothers, patient and steady. He was, as the family now knows, playing the long game. He rescued her once when another girl pushed her off a dock into deep water; Rita, after regaining her composure and her dignity, promptly beat the tar out of the offending young lady. When a rival suitor made the mistake of announcing his intentions, Jack set him straight in terms that required no further elaboration. The young man was never seen again.

As the years passed, they fell in love the old-fashioned way — slowly, surely, and completely. One evening, on a bench in the park, Jack asked Rita to wait for him while he served his country. When his service was over, they met again at that same bench. True to form, Rita cut straight to the heart of things: Do you still feel the same? With love in his eyes and a tenderness only she could draw out of him, he answered — yeah, stupid. They were married that same year.

The early years were full of love, hard work, and children — lots of children. Within five years there were four boys, and eventually a daughter (finally) and one more boy for good measure. Rita set about the task of raising her family with intelligence, courage, and an inexhaustible love. Her greatest ongoing challenge, it must be said, was keeping her kids alive — a feat that involved navigating multiple broken bones, numerous stiches, a badly burnt leg, and at least one incident in which a son decided that striking a live .22 caliber round with a hammer in the concrete basement was a reasonable idea. The bullet grazed his forehead; it was bloody, but mercifully not fatal. It was a miracle she ever slept.

Among all of it — the chaos, the noise, the never-ending demands of a big and boisterous family — there was always love, always laughter, and always her full attention. Rita never stopped wanting to learn, to try new things, to take on new projects. She and Jack were true partners in every sense: each other's cheerleader, each other's anchor. She was fiercely proud of the trust between them, which she called the absolute and unbreakable cornerstone of their love and their life together. Life would have far more challenges in store — and she would rise to meet every one of them.

After a brief sojourn on the West Coast, the family made their way back to Massachusetts, putting down permanent roots in the quiet town of Whitman. While Jack settled affairs in California, Rita crossed the country with five children in tow, enrolled them all in school, and purchased a house on her own signature with a few thousand dollars down. This was 1970 — a time when women could barely obtain a credit card — and it was no small accomplishment. It would not be the last time she broke with accepted norms to provide for the people she loved.

For a while, a peaceful rhythm settled over the family. But when Jack was sidelined by back surgery, Rita stepped up without hesitation. She found work in a factory during the hours the children were in school, and when she learned that running a forklift paid better than the line, she trained for that too. During that training, the proud wife, mother, and sister of veterans that she was, she organized and led a walkout to compel the factory to add Veterans Day to its holiday calendar. When a work-related injury later left Jack unable to provide as he once had, the family pulled together and leaned on one another. Rita refused to accept public assistance — she would not allow a man who had spent his whole life working hard to feel diminished. She would grind herself into the dust before she would permit that, and she came close.

She trained to become a full-time medical office assistant, running the office and assisting the doctor with patient intakes. She also trained and became the first woman to hold a union projectionist's license in the state of Massachusetts. Working two jobs — the factory and later the medical office in Boston during the day, and running a movie theater at night — she held the family together. After the injury cases were finally settled, she was able to transition to the projectionist role alone, which she held until she retired at 62.

When her working days were done and her family largely grown — though no one ever truly outgrows their mother — she and Jack embarked on a new adventure as world travelers. Those two kids from Dorchester went on to visit eighteen countries. Along the way, a simple act of kindness extended to a pair tired and hungry German travelers years earlier blossomed into a lasting friendship, and the two families would go on to share months together in the German countryside. Jack, fluent in German, felt at home; Rita, who spoke not a word of it, became fast friends with one of the village elders through warmth alone — proof, if any were needed, that some things need no translation.

They passed through Checkpoint Charlie into East Germany and stood before the Berlin Wall. They bore silent witness to the evil that still permeated the ground at Dachau. They marveled at the beauty of the Sistine Chapel and saw the lights of Paris. They did all of this as they did everything in life — together, and inseparable, always and forever.

From the moment Jack passed, more than twelve years ago, Rita's first thought each morning was of him, and her last words each night were to him. Now he waits no more. They are joined again, and all is right with the world.

Rita is survived by her children: Joseph D. Furtado of Westminster, Michael F. Furtado and his wife Ann Marie of Swansea, Charles E. Furtado and his wife Junko of Kailua Kona, Hawaii, Suzanne Carey and her husband Scott of Brockton, and Robert G. Furtado and his wife Jill of Whitman. Rita was a devoted grandmother to 15: Kelley, Sarah, Nikki, John, Jacob, Danielle, Alyssa, Masaki, Jocilyn, Charli, Lily Jean, Jimmy, Bob, Ben, and Isabella. Great grandmother to twelve.

Rita is predeceased by her beloved husband of 60 years John J. Furtado (Jack), her son John W. Furtado, her grandson Joshua J. Furtado, and her daughter-in-law Carol A. Furtado. Beloved daughter of her late parents Wilbert G. Doran and Theresa C. Doran. Cherished sister of her late brothers Bill, Herb, and Ray.

In lieu of flowers the family request donations be made to the Alzheimer’s Foundation. https://www.alzfdn.org

The bereavement meal will be held at Adria restaurant, 436 Oak St. East Bridgewater following the burial service.