Short Story-WHat do people think?

Tori wandered leisurely up the lane way that wound up the hillside to his family’s miniature cottage. He smiled; admiring the little building nestled cosily on the hilltop. Its white-washed walls harboured treasured memories and its much-loved garden had endured many harsh frosts in its peaceful solitude. Brushing his fingers among the petals of the bobbing foxgloves and poppies that lined the path, Tori closed his eyes, appreciating the sweet aroma of the blossoms. Glancing behind him, he watched the sun lazily sink below the horizon, splashing the sky with warm purple. Tori imagined that the sunset was an artist’s canvas with lavender paint spilt across its surface, mingling with the usual blue.

The wood of the cottage’s heavy front door thumped heartily as Tori rapped his knuckles on it. His knocks were answered by a small, fragile-looking elderly woman with a large, hooked nose and laughter creases at the corners of her eyes.
“Why are you home so early?” She asked her grandson. Her voice, in contrast with her frail appearance was strong and throaty. Tori laughed.
“Good evening, Nan. I’m very well. Thank you for asking,” He said, hanging his brown felt jacket in its hook behind the door. His grandmother was notorious for her bluntness.
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, boy,” she chided, scuffling into the kitchen. Following her, Tori answered cheekily, “It must be genetic, then.” His grandmother turned with a grin on her face and patted his cheek affectionately. “Like father, like son,” she smiled. “How was your day?”
“Terrible.”
“Oh?”
“Well, first, I had to-”
“Tori? I need to talk to you.” A wispy voice interrupted.

In the doorway stood a willowing woman with limp black hair and whose physique made Nan seem burly.
“Layla,” Nan, whose name was Allyssa, suggested gently to the woman. “Your legs are trembling.”
Layla allowed her mother-in-law to guide her to a kitchen stool. As Tori watched, he felt his heart fracture, as it did every time he saw his mother like this.
Ever since Tori’s father had been deported two years earlier, to fight in a was – for a country to which he owed no loyalty – his mother’s mental health has spiralled slowly, but steadily, down a dark chasm of despair. Consequently, so had her physical health begun to suffer.

Tori observed fresh tear tracks on Layla’s shallow cheeks. Her weary, soulful eyes, which Tori often likened to rain cloud, now resembled a stormy sky.
“What is it, mother?” He asked softly, fearing the answer.
The armed forces of Egypt – Tori’s home country – were required, under a policy of Conscription, to “prevent the spread of Socialism” by fighting the enemy Hittites at the southern border of Nubia. Soldiers like Tori’s father had been sent to fight alongside Nubians; to die alongside Nubians.

“Your father…” Layla whispered, her voice trembling. “Your father…” She couldn’t finish. She didn’t have to. As the unspoken new sank into Tori’s defiant mind, he numbly stacked more wood into the fireplace. Allyssa served supper. Tori’s father, Layla’s devoted husband, Allyssa’s beloved son had not escaped the call of war. Layla sat and wept.