In Saudi Arabia, where the heat is not merely sweat-inducing but scorching, reaching up to 50 degrees Celsius, stood Mang Carding. He was a foreman, his skin as dark as the asphalt from constant exposure to the sun. “Hey, mix that properly! It needs to be strong!” he barked. Every drop of his sweat had a purpose.

He did not tire because, in his mind, he carried a blueprint—a plan for a two-story house in Bulacan. In every nail he hammered, he saw the windows of their future bedroom, his wife’s kitchen, and a large garage for their vehicle. During break time or late at night before sleeping, Carding’s diet was simple: a cup of instant noodles and two glasses of water. He saved rigorously; every rial was destined for Lorna’s palace.

“Just a little more sacrifice. It will all be over soon.” This was his only comfort: seeing Lorna on his cellphone screen. Lorna was always well-groomed, wearing makeup, looking fresh, and smiling, seemingly without a care in the Philippines. “Did you have dinner, dear? Noodles again? You’re getting so thin, honey, take care of yourself.”

“You are my vitamin, dear. I’m okay. Show me what you’ve bought for the construction.” “Look, dear, aren’t these tiles beautiful? Imported! And this is the chandelier I want. Perfect for our living room!”

“They look beautiful! It’s going to look like a mansion for sure. You’re so good, darling. But Carding, we’re a little short on the budget for the finishing touches. You know I want your palace to be perfect. If you could send a bit more next week, please?”

“No problem, my love. I’ll send all my overtime pay. Everything is for you.” “Yay! I love you so much! Just a little more patience, dear. I’ll come home a king to our own mansion.”

Carding lay down on his hard bed. His back ached, he was hungry, but he was happy. He believed every cent he saved was turning into cement and steel in Bulacan. He did not know that his money was being used for a very different kind of “finishing touches.”

The Mansion of Lies and The Coldness of Adultery

While Carding endured the suffocating heat and dust of Saudi Arabia, Lorna’s life was a complete contrast. She enjoyed air conditioning, wore perfume, and perpetually carried shopping bags. Her hands, which should have been handling construction materials, were busy selecting new clothes and expensive shoes. “Ma’am, that red dress suits you perfectly. You look so young,” the saleslady flattered. “Oh, stop flattering me! But fine, I’ll take it. Include the matching heels.”

The money that should have bought cement and rebar for the foundation was spent on clothes and shoes. After shopping, Lorna didn’t go home to the construction site. She headed straight to the spa for a massage, maintaining her body with her husband’s sweat.

When she left, her “service” was waiting: Jojo, younger, handsome, and always smiling. He was a tricycle driver, but he acted like he owned the money Lorna carried.

“You look beautiful today, Madam. So fresh from the massage.” “Of course, I need to look good, don’t I? I’m exhausted from all the spending.”

“Where are we going? Home or to the usual spot?” “Let’s go to the usual place first. I’m hungry.” At a local eatery, Jojo drank beer and presented his needs. “Babe, my motorcycle tire is busted. Can you… you know, so you still have service tomorrow?”

“Oh, you’re such an expense!” Lorna handed him a thick bundle of cash—the remittance she had claimed that morning. “Wow, this is a lot! Your husband really loves you. I mean, I love you! Thanks, Lorna.”

“I’ll use this to buy drinks with my friends later.” “Just make sure you perform well tonight, okay? Now, finish your beer.” The salary Carding saved while subsisting on instant noodles became beer, snacks, and motor parts for the man entertaining his wife.

The mansion dream was dissolving into thin air. Everything was slowly being consumed by the heat of betrayal. Three years passed. Three years of enduring the heat, instant noodles, and constant overtime for Carding.

With every remittance, Lorna always assured him the mansion was “almost done.” But now, doubt began to crawl into his mind.

“Lorna, dear, are you sure things are going well there? I’ve been sending money for three years. The building we’re constructing here in Saudi is almost finished. Why is our house always just ‘finishing touches’?”

“Oh, well, dear, it keeps raining here. And cement prices went up. You know I don’t want to rush it. We want quality.” “Is that so? Maybe I should send Tita Meng to check on the progress.”

“No! I mean, no, dear. Tita Meng is old. She’ll get tired. I’ll handle it. I’ll send you pictures tomorrow, I promise.” After the call, Lorna was drenched in cold sweat. She had nothing to show.

Their lot in Bulacan was overgrown with weeds. The money was gone on luxury. She had to act fast. The next day, Lorna found a solution. She located a large, nearly finished construction site in a neighboring town, one that closely resembled Carding’s dream house.

She approached the foreman, Mang Ben. “Sir, here’s some snacks for your crew. It’s a lot.” “What do you need, Miss?” “I just need to take pictures inside. Just five minutes. I’ll tell my husband this is our house. Please tell him you are our contractor if anyone asks.”

“Alright, Ma’am. Just hurry before the real owner arrives, and don’t include me in the picture, okay?” Lorna immediately posted the pictures. She sat on a sofa still covered in plastic. She posed in front of a golden door.

She smiled at the camera as if she were the queen of that house. Every photograph was a calculated lie. “Oh, darling, look how beautiful it is! Your mansion is almost done. Just a few finishing touches on the roof and the paint. I love you.”

When Carding received the photos in Saudi, his exhaustion vanished. His doubt evaporated. He smiled widely. “Thank God. My sacrifice was worth it. Our house is beautiful.”

He believed her. He didn’t know that his real property in Bulacan was miles away from those photos. And on his actual lot, there was no door, no sofa, no roof. Only four rusted steel posts slowly being swallowed by the grass.

---

The Final Revelation and The Instrument of Vengeance

In Bulacan, Tiya Meng (Carding’s aunt) was restless. For months, she had been seething, watching Lorna ride Jojo’s motorcycle, wearing new clothes, while her nephew slaved away in Saudi. Her conscience was being scratched by every laugh she heard from Lorna’s apartment. “This is too much. It’s not right. They’re draining Carding’s blood.”

3:00 AM in Saudi. Carding was awake, preparing for his shift, making instant coffee. The silence of the barracks was broken by his ringing cellphone. It was Tiya Meng. “Why is she awake? It’s morning in the Philippines.”

“Tiya Meng, why are you calling? Is there a problem?” “Carding, listen to me. Come home now.” “Why? Is Mom sick? Did something happen to Lorna?” “They’re not sick. The sickness is with you, Carding.”

“I can’t stand it anymore. I can’t look at your face on Facebook, all determination, while that snake uses up all your money.” “What are you saying, Tiya? Don’t listen to gossip. Lorna sent pictures yesterday. The house is beautiful. The roof is done.”

“You have no house here, Carding! Wake up! Your lot is full of garbage. The money you sweated for is Jojo’s beer and snacks. You don’t see their filth here in the neighborhood.” “That’s not true! You’re just jealous of Lorna because she has a new car!”

“You won’t believe me? Then watch.” Tiya Meng pointed her phone at the street. The image was dark and slightly blurred, but under the streetlight, Carding saw it clearly: a new motorcycle, and riding on it, a man and a woman.

The woman turned to adjust her helmet, smiling. She hugged the driver tightly. It was Lorna, riding behind Jojo. There, Carding. There are your finishing touches. Look at your snake.

Inside the Saudi barracks, Carding’s world collapsed. His coffee grew cold. He couldn’t breathe. The vision was not just betrayal; it was the death of his dream.

The moment Tiya Meng hung up, Mang Carding died. The loving, patient, dreaming Carding was gone. What remained was a body consumed by rage and a single mission.

“I need emergency leave now.” “Why, Carding? We have a deadline.” “Someone died, Sir. My family is dead.” It was a lie, but in Carding’s heart, it was the absolute truth. The family he had built in his mind was gone.

He was granted leave without question. He took the first flight back to the Philippines. At the airport, his phone rang: a message from Lorna. Good morning, dear. Be safe at work. I miss you. The painting in our room is almost finished.

Carding didn’t reply. He stared at the screen. The word dear that once thrilled him now felt like poison. He shut off his phone. Landing at NAIA, he didn’t call Lorna. He wanted his return to be a secret.

He took a taxi directly to Bulacan. As they sped down the highway, his rage slowly morphed into a profound, dark sorrow. Am I a returning king? No. I’m just a fool you manipulated.

They reached the barangay. The road was familiar, but the world felt alien. The taxi stopped in front of the lot he bought 10 years ago. “Here, Manong.”

Carding stepped out. He scanned the area for the mansion. He looked for the blue roof, the golden door, the imported tiles. But there was nothing. Only a vacant lot. In the center stood four rusted rebar posts, jutting out of mossy cement. This was the skeleton he left three years ago.

No walls, no roof, no house. Nothing. The millions he sent were air. His sweat and hunger in Saudi were wasted. The truth was harsher than the desert heat.

This is my palace. A ruin of a dream that was never even started. Carding slowly walked onto the lot. His work boots, accustomed to Saudi concrete, sank into the mud of Bulacan.

He approached the center. He touched one of the four posts. Rusted, rough, cold steel. “Is this it? Is this the imported tile? Is this the chandelier? Look, Lorna. What beautiful finishing touches.”

His legs gave way. Carding fell to his knees in the weeds. His body, which fought the desert heat, surrendered to the coldness of betrayal.

The scream that followed was not just heard by the neighbors; it was felt by them—the sound of a man who had lost everything. The cry of an OFW whose life was stolen.

---

The Motel Confrontation and The Crime of Passion Verdict

“Carding, my God, is that you?” Carding stopped screaming, panting. He rose slowly. The tears on his face mixed with the mud. He looked at the neighbor peering over the fence.

His face was blank, terrifying. “Where is she?” “Carding, leave now before there’s trouble. She’s not at her parents’ house, either.” “Where is she?” “She’s in the next barangay. At the Forever Love Motel, with the tricycle driver. It’s his birthday. Lorna paid for everything.”

Forever Love Motel. A cheap resort known for quick pleasures. That was the final destination of his dream. “Thank you.” Carding turned away from the muddy lot. The scream was the last cry of mourning. Now, it was time for reckoning.

Before embarking on his final mission, Carding needed strength. Not physical strength, but the resolve to face the pain. He went to a corner store and bought a bottle of cheap liquor (Quatro Kantos gin).

Not to get drunk and forget, but to numb himself against fear and pain. “Sir, are you okay? You look pale.” Carding got back into the waiting taxi. The driver, confused, looked at him in the rearview mirror.

“Sir, I thought you ran off. Where to now? Home?” “To the next barangay. The Forever Love Motel.” As the taxi drove, Carding opened the old tool bag he brought from Saudi.

The bag that accompanied him to every building he helped construct for other people. He reached inside. He pulled out his hammer. Old, scarred, but its head was sturdy.

This hammer was his tool for driving nails, tearing down walls, and building foundations. “This fed you. This will end you.” The hammer was no longer a construction tool. It was now an instrument of vengeance.

Carding gripped it tightly. His knuckles were white. The gin burned his throat, heating his blood, killing the anxiety. “Sir, we’re here. Forever Love Motel.” Carding got out. The neon lights of the motel glowed red, like a bloody warning.

In the parking lot, he immediately saw the familiar tricycle with the Jojo and Lorna sticker. This was it. The final destination of his dream.

He found the room: Number 5. Jojo’s tricycle was parked right outside. From the door, he heard laughter—the sound was like a knife plunging into his chest. They were happy while he was consumed by rage.

He didn’t knock. He gave no warning. He took a single step back and lunged forward, pouring all his rage, all his Saudi torment, into his right foot. “Hey, who are you?” The truth hit him in the face: Lorna and Jojo, naked, stunned on the bed.

The room smelled of liquor and the sweat of betrayal. Carding saw the shopping bags in the corner—new clothes bought with his money. “Where is my house? Where is my money, Lorna? What did you do to my life?”

“Carding, no! I’ll explain!” Lorna scrambled. Jojo stepped forward, blocking her. Drunk, fearless. He didn’t recognize the desperate man before him. He thought he was just an old OFW easily intimidated.

“Hey, old man, what’s your problem? You just barged in here! So what? It’s just money, old man. You can earn it back. Just go back to Saudi and work again.”

Those words shattered the last piece of Carding’s sanity. “You can earn it back.” Three years of sacrifice were dismissed as trash.

The hammer, the instrument of his dream, rose into the air. A swift, brutal strike to Jojo’s he@d. The tricycle driver fell.

“No! Please! Have mercy! I’m your wife!” “Wife? My wife was waiting in the house I built. But there is no house, so I have no wife.”

Lorna fell beside Jojo. The hammer slipped from Carding’s hand, clattering onto the floor. It is finished. The Forever Love Motel became the grave of his love.

Carding sat in a corner, clutching his knees. His tears were dry. The money was gone. The dream was de@d. And his freedom was over.

---

The Judicial Verdict and The Legacy of the Broken Foundation

The police arrived, sirens wailing. They surrounded the motel, weapons drawn, ready for a shootout. But inside the room, there was no fight. Mang Carding sat quietly on the floor, the hammer at his feet.

“It’s over, Sir. Everything is over.” Carding was apprehended without resistance. The news spread like wildfire: OFW kills wife and lover in motel.

Initially, he was seen as a criminal. But as the details emerged, the tide of public opinion shifted. The trial began, filling the courtroom. The entire nation watched.

The prosecutor sought a murder conviction: life imprisonment. But Carding’s lawyer presented the evidence: “Your Honor, look at these pictures. This is the mansion his wife sent him.”

“And this is the reality: a vacant lot. No house stands there.” A silence fell. The court understood the magnitude of the deception.

The lawyer presented the bank records: millions spent on luxury and Jojo’s tricycle. “This was not premeditated murder, Your Honor. This was the act of a man driven insane by immense psychological pain.”

And most critically, they presented the victim’s final insult: “It’s just money, old man. You can earn it back.” The judge was stunned. The entire court felt the weight of that one line that dismissed three years of human suffering.

The court recognized the extreme provocation and psychological injury. The law recognized his state as temporary insanity or a crime of passion.

Due to the extreme emotional distress and his voluntary surrender, the court delivered a mitigated sentence. The plea bargain was accepted; probation was granted. He did not go to jail.

In the eyes of the law, he was culpable. But in the eyes of the people and the ultimate justice, he was a victim pushed beyond his limit. Mang Carding left the courtroom not as a criminal, but as a free man carrying a heavy lesson.

Outside, cameras flashed. He was no longer in handcuffs. He was free. “Sir Carding, are you remorseful for what you did?” “I am remorseful.” “That you took their lives?”

“I am remorseful that I worked hard for three years for people who did not know how to love. I regret prioritizing cement and hollow blocks over knowing who my life partner truly was.”

“I should have ended up in prison for the house I built in my mind. But because of what they did, I was given freedom.” “My money is gone, but at least they won’t exploit anyone else.”

“Sir, what is your message to other OFWs in the same situation?” “To my fellow countrymen, don’t allow yourselves to be ATM machines. Houses can be rebuilt. Money can be earned again. But trust, once broken, can cause you to lose yourself entirely.”

Carding turned away from the cameras. He walked away. He carried no bags. He carried no money. He carried only his freedom and the scars of the past.

Mang Carding’s story did not end in confinement. It became a stark, loud warning. The foundation of a home is not cement, but fidelity. When that collapses, nothing is left standing.