I wake to the sound of the doorbell ringing through the house.

My eyes snap open but I lay completely still. I'm on my stomach, my head turned to the side, my arm stretching above my head. The bell chimes once more and it seems to be deafening in the silence of the night. Everyone knows that a doorbell ringing at this time can only be bad news. 

I hear mum open her bedroom door and make her way downstairs, I grab my phone to check the time. 04:04am. It's not long until the front door lock clanks, and the wood is pulled until it scratches to a halt.

"Mrs Wabrur?"

"Yes?" 

I roll out of bed and walk over to my bedroom window, letting my bare feet skip over the floorboards that I know creak. I pass my mirror, not surprised at the mess of curly brown hair atop my head, nor how serious my blue eyes look. I stand to the side of my window, silently staring down at the police car that has parked outside. There are two men in uniform stood at the door, only illuminated by the moonlight. Our house is shaped like a 'U', giving my bedroom window a perfect view of the scene before me.

"Is it okay if we come in?" the officer to the right asks. 

"Yes, of course." Mum says, ushering them inside. 

I already know why they're here. I know by the way the police are standing, the solemn look on their faces, the pity in their voices. It's the same look mum gave me when Fluffy, my cat, died. It's the look dad gave me when we had a funeral for Fluffy in our garden. The police are passing the same sorrowful glances that my parents threw at each other over my uncontrollable sobbing, whilst we lowered Fluffy into the ground.

I go to my door and lean my ear to the crack, I know better than to open it, it's too loud, the house too old. I don't want to draw attention to myself, I just want to listen. I can hear the policemen murmur to mum, their voices so low it's a struggle to get all the words. 

"It was quick... The paramedics came... died on scene... no one could have done anything... it's tragic... a loss... incredibly sorry."

Then as quickly as they came, they're gone and instead of the door bell, mums sobs fill the air. It feels like hours before I finally go downstairs, and even longer before the words mum utters to me begin to make sense.

Dad is dead.

He died on his way home. A lorry ploughed into him on the A3 as he was heading back into London. He died almost instantly. Even in a tank, he likely wouldn't have had a chance, the police had said. 

Dad has been my best friend my whole life. He's the person I go to for everything. He's my rock, my comfort, the person who makes me laugh the most - and he's just... gone? What will we do without the man that held us together? Mum and I, we don't see eye-to-eye. Dad always says we're too similar, that's why we argue so much. But I think mum and I are complete opposites.

Dad is – was, an engineer. Quite a good one. He's made enough money for us to live in a three-bedroom house in Wimbledon, South West London. Between the park and school. It's a nice house, nicer then some of my friends, but old. Lots of my friends parents live in smaller houses, and both their parents work. But mum doesn't. That's how I know dad earns enough money.

Dad likes - liked, to travel. He enjoyed seeing the world, a man who loved the finer things too, like expensive wine and fancy food. A quiet, serious, and private man who doted on me. Who doted on mum. He worked out, stayed fit, dressed well and had all the mums at my school lusting after him. Dad was a hero. He was my hero... and he's just... gone?

"Amelia," Mum whispers as she steps into the kitchen. I've been sat here staring at a cold cup of tea since mum broke the news. "Are you okay?"

What am I supposed to say to that? What is a reasonable answer? What would my volatile, emotional mother like to hear?

"I'm alright." I say, then after a beat I ask, "what happens now?" 

"What do you mean?" She joins me at the table.

"With us – what happens? You don't work, I'm about to go into sixth form. What do we do now?"

"As if I would know." Mum shrugs, sniffling a bit. "Your dad was always the thinker."

"But... did he have a will? A plan? If anything were to go wrong?"

"Knowing your father, of course he did. But he never told me about it."

I can feel myself getting heated. Some people think mums aloofness is enchanting, I'm not one of them. "How can he not have told you? Isn't that what marriage is about? Having the person you trust most legally bound to you? Obligated to pick up the pieces should you fall off the face of the earth?"

"That's not a very romantic notion of love."

"That's the most romantic notion of love! Didn't you talk about anything?" 

"Not really." She shrugs. "He just wasn't that way inclined and if he ever did tell me, I probably wouldn't remember." 

I get to my feet. "He must have left a will, something - maybe there's one in his office."

"Amelia." Mum warns, "you know how he felt about us going into his office, his body is barely cold. We don't need a plan right now!"

Dad has an office right at the back of the house, tucked away, a secret almost. I was very rarely allowed in there, and when I was; it was always supervised. I was under strict instruction not to touch anything.

When I was a kid, I used to pretend dad was James Bond; that he had a stash of weapons in there. Or, he was an evil mastermind, his office his lair. Maybe he was an alien, hiding his spaceship. Dad could have told me anything and I would have believed him. But really, I think he just liked having his things the way they were, neat and organised; untouched by a kid with sticky hands.

I sit back down in my chair, and mum bursts into fits of tears making me instantly feel guilty. She's good at that, making me feel bad.  

"I'm sorry, mum," I say. I reach forward and stroke her arm. "You're right, a plan can wait." 

She sobs louder and I try my best to console her, but I've never been good with mums extreme outbursts of emotions. She likes to tell me I'm a robot, devoid, too serious for a sixteen year old. But in truth I just feel things inside, like a pressure point constantly building until I can't take it anymore. It's when I'm alone, away from everyone that I let myself explode.

The morning drags on. I don't go to school, even though I really want to. I know that running back to normalcy doesn't erase the totally horrifying things that are happening. But it would be great if that were the case, would it not? Why can't I just go about my day as if nothing has happened? Then maybe the gaping hole in my chest wouldn't pulsate so strongly.

Once mum had pulled herself back together and the sun had risen until it's high in the sky, she picks up the phone and starts notifying anyone within a fifty-mile-radius what has happened. Not long after, the bell is constantly going, people coming to offer their condolences. Some of them didn't even know dad; hadn't even met him, but they're teary eyed as they hand mum food and hugs. 

I want to scream. I want to lock them all out but I don't; I smile and give them my thanks. 

I behave as is expected of me, as dad would have wanted. His polite, smart and obedient daughter.

When the afternoon rolls around and the visitors start to drop off, a priest from the local catholic church arrives along with two lawyers who claim to have worked for dad. They all have dower looks on their faces and feast on the beauty of mum as she seeks solace from them.

Anyone with eyes can see how pretty mum is; slender, curvy, perfectly curled long brown hair that always smells nice, big round blue eyes, a doe-eyed-innocent look emanating from them. Dad would say I looked just like her; but I don't. I'm brutish and my hair is unkempt. I can never master how to be womanly the way she does.

The priest seems to love how upset mum is and is disappointed I'm not gushing the same way. But that isn't me, the only time I remember crying is when Fluffy died and I was six; that was when I learned how permanent and isolating death can be.

"The funeral has been paid for," the lawyer tells us. "I've known Edward for a long time; we're all very shocked at the news. Early forties is never the time you expect someone to go."

I know I have never seen this man before. He's in a cheap suit and has the kind of face you'd never remember in a crowd, but I remember voices. I remember the way people speak. I have never met this man yet he speaks of dad fondly. 

"What happens now?" I ask him. 

"There's nothing for you to worry about." He says, a fake smile on his tight face. "I take my job very seriously and I will take care of everything." 

Mum seems pleased with the answer, though I don't think it's an answer at all. She thanks him endlessly, and grins as if he's her saviour. Once she's fluffed him up enough, spoken to the priest about our funeral preferences, she lovingly shows them all to the door. The lawyer gives a constant stream of promises that sound highly unlikely. Why would dads colleagues want to promise that we won't have to think about anything at all? That it will all be taken care of? 

I don't get to ask him what that means, I don't get to ask anything I'd like.

After that time seems to pass in a never ending blur. I spend hours trying to kill as much of it as possible. Trying not to think. I read some books, practice my piano, listen to podcasts in different languages. I feel guilty when mum catches me laughing at a film or smiling at all. As though it's traitorous somehow.

We've barely speak. We've hardly exchanged a single word since the lawyers left a few days ago. But I prefer that over her emotions spilling all over me. 

I ignore her head shake as I laugh at a joke told on TV. What would she have me do? Wear black and sit in a dark room mourning day-in day-out?

How does someone cope with such sudden grief? What is normal in this circumstances? The person I would normally turn to with these questions is no longer here, and now I have to navigate the world alone. 

Why is there never a rule book for life?