The Energy Cost Increase Was More Than She Could Manage, Then Her Daughter Admitted….

By the time the letter landed on the doormat, Hannah had already spent the morning pretending not to worry.

It was a pale envelope with her electricity supplier’s logo in the corner, the kind of thing that looked harmless until you opened it. She’d walked past it twice on her way to the kitchen, kettle on, toast in, phone buzzing with messages from work. She’d told herself she’d deal with it later, after the meeting, after the emails, after the day had stopped asking things from her.

Later never came in the past two years. Not properly.

Hannah picked up the envelope on her third pass and tore it open with her thumb, standing by the hallway console table as if the extra steps to the sofa might be too much.

Your Direct Debit will change from £138 to £219.

Her brain refused the number for a moment. Then it accepted it with a dull, physical heaviness that settled behind her ribs.

“Right,” she whispered, as if speaking to the letter might tame it. “Right.”

In the kitchen, her daughter Zoe was already scrolling on her phone with a bowl of cereal that had gone slightly soggy. Zoe was twenty-seven, grown up in the way grown-ups were now: working full time, still half a step away from stable. She rented a room in a shared house across town, but she spent most weekends at Hannah’s because it was cheaper and because the warmth here wasn’t metered.

Zoe looked up. “What’s that?”

“Energy,” Hannah said, and tried to make her voice casual. “They’re putting it up again.”

Zoe’s face tightened in that familiar way that meant she understood without needing the whole speech. Hannah saw, suddenly, how tired Zoe looked too, dark crescents under her eyes, hair scraped back into a practical knot. Zoe had always been bright and sharp and full of opinions; lately her opinions had become quieter, more concentrated, as if she was rationing even her emotions.

“By how much?” Zoe asked.

Hannah held up the paper.

Zoe let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s… insane.”

Hannah wanted to say It’s fine. She wanted to say We’ll manage. She wanted to say It’ll come down again the way people said things when they needed to believe the world had a plan.

Instead, she sat down at the table and admitted, softly, “I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep up.”

Zoe took her bowl to the sink, moving with the briskness of someone who didn’t want to let herself feel too much before 9 a.m. “We’ll work it out,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound certain.

Hannah watched her daughter rinse the bowl and felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, an old instinct, fierce and bitter. Zoe should have been building a life now. Zoe should have been saving for holidays and furniture and the future. Zoe shouldn’t be calculating whether her wages could cover an emergency dental bill.

But here they were. Two women who worked hard, both bracing themselves against the same rising tide.

At work that day, Hannah’s attention kept slipping. She processed invoices and answered queries with her usual competence, but her mind replayed numbers: £219. £219. £219. Like a warning beep that wouldn’t turn off.

When she got home, the house felt colder than usual, though she knew it was in her head. She made tea and stared at the kitchen calendar. Every square was filled with reminders, work shifts, dentist appointments, Zoe’s train visits, a note that said MOT due next month with a circle around it like a threat.

The cost of living crisis had crept into their lives gradually, not with one dramatic event but with hundreds of small squeezes: groceries creeping up by pence and then pounds, petrol that made you wince at the pump, interest rates that punished anyone who carried a balance. It turned normal life into a series of decisions that always seemed to end in less.

At first, Hannah and Zoe had treated it like temporary weather. Cut a little here, grumble there, and wait for the sun.

Then the weather stayed.

That evening, Zoe arrived after work with her shoulders up around her ears, coat still on. She dropped her bag by the door and stood in the kitchen, looking at the paper Hannah had left on the table.

“You didn’t tell me it was that much,” Zoe said.

“I didn’t want to, ” Hannah began, then stopped. The truth was she hadn’t wanted to say it aloud. Saying it aloud made it real.

Zoe pulled out a chair. “Mum. We need to talk. Properly.”

Hannah’s stomach clenched. She’d heard that tone before, years ago, when Zoe had confessed she’d failed an exam or split up with someone or felt lost. It was Zoe’s I’m scared but I’m being brave tone.

Hannah sat.

Zoe took a breath. “I’m not coping.”

Hannah’s heart lurched. “What do you mean?”

Zoe rubbed her forehead. “I mean… I’m working full time and I’m still skint every month. I’m paying rent, bills, travel, food. I’m not doing anything extravagant. But somehow I’m always… behind. And I keep putting things on Klarna, and I keep telling myself I’ll pay it off, and then something else comes up.”

Hannah felt heat rise behind her eyes, a mix of worry and guilt. “Zoe, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re dealing with your own stuff,” Zoe said quickly. “And I’m an adult. I’m supposed to be able to handle my own life.”

Hannah reached across the table and covered Zoe’s hand. “Being an adult doesn’t mean doing everything alone.”

Zoe swallowed. “I got my bank statement yesterday. And it’s not even big purchases. It’s… stupid little things. Takeaways. Ready meals. That stupid heated eyelash curler I bought because TikTok said it was life-changing.” She let out a short, humourless laugh. “It’s not life-changing. It’s just… more plastic in my drawer.”

Hannah’s mouth tightened in recognition. She, too, had been doing it, treating herself to little comforts that didn’t feel like luxuries in the moment. A £14 takeaway on a Tuesday because she was too tired to cook. A new candle or a “quick” Amazon order because the day had been hard. A packet of pre-cut fruit at the supermarket because it felt like being kind to herself.

Tiny reliefs, paid for later.

Hannah looked down at her own hands. “I’ve been doing the same,” she admitted.

Zoe stared. “You have?”

Hannah nodded. “Not Klarna, but… I don’t know. I’ve been living like I can afford to be careless. And I can’t.”

The words hung between them. They were both working. They were both trying. And yet their lives felt like balancing plates on fingertips.

Zoe’s voice went quiet. “I don’t want to live like this, Mum. I don’t want to be afraid of my washing machine breaking. Or my car needing repairs. Or…” She swallowed again. “Or getting ill.”

Hannah squeezed her hand. “We’re going to change it.”

Zoe blinked. “How?”

Hannah looked around her kitchen: the kettle, the magnets on the fridge, the small pile of unopened post. It wasn’t a dramatic setting, but it was where real decisions were made.

“We’re going to look at the numbers,” Hannah said. “Properly. Not guessing. Not hoping. We’re going to see where the money is going and decide what we can stop.”

Zoe nodded slowly, as if she’d been waiting for permission to take control.

That night, they pulled out laptops and bank apps and a notepad. They made tea and sat at the table like they were studying for an exam.

Hannah went first. She felt oddly exposed scrolling through her transactions, like her bank statement was a diary she hadn’t meant anyone to read.

“Look at this,” she said, tapping the screen. “£9.99… £7.50… £12.40… it’s all food.”

Zoe leaned in. “Mum, that’s three takeaways in one week.”

Hannah winced. “I didn’t even think. I just… got home and didn’t have the energy.”

Zoe laughed softly, not unkind. “Same.”

They added up Hannah’s “small” takeaways and ready meals across the month. The total startled her.

Then Zoe did hers. Hannah watched her daughter’s face tighten as she scrolled.

“Oh my god,” Zoe muttered. “Subscriptions. I forgot about half of these.”

“List them,” Hannah said. “All of them.”

They wrote: streaming services, a fitness app Zoe had stopped using, a magazine subscription Hannah hadn’t read in months, a cloud storage plan neither of them understood.

Zoe clicked through online purchases. A set of “viral” water bottles. A hair tool. A novelty lamp. A pack of storage organisers still in plastic.

Hannah found her own version: “just in case” gadgets, a new throw for the sofa, little home upgrades purchased to make the house feel nicer when what she really needed was rest.

By midnight, the notepad had turned into a confession.

They sat back, exhausted.

“It’s not that we’re irresponsible,” Zoe said quietly. “It’s that we’ve been coping. Buying convenience. Buying comfort.”

Hannah nodded. “And it’s costing us more than money.”

Zoe frowned. “What do you mean?”

Hannah gestured around the table. “Stress. Shame. Constant worry. And honestly… our health.”

Zoe looked down. “I feel awful half the time.”

“So do I,” Hannah admitted. “When did we last eat something that wasn’t beige?”

Zoe snorted, then covered her mouth with her hand, eyes shining. “I don’t know.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Then Zoe straightened.

“Okay,” she said, voice firmer. “What’s the plan?”

Hannah took a breath. “We start with the biggest leaks. Then we build habits that make it easier, not harder.”

Zoe nodded. “No more takeaways.”

Hannah hesitated. “Not never. But not as default. We choose them. We plan for them. We budget.”

Zoe’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “And ready meals. They’re so expensive now.”

Hannah grabbed the notepad again. “Let’s make rules. Simple ones.”

They wrote:

• Takeaways: maximum once a fortnight.
• Ready meals: only as emergency backup, not weekly habit.
• Online “fad” purchases: 48-hour waiting rule.
• Subscriptions: cancel anything unused.

Zoe added: “Bring lunch to work.”

Hannah winced. “That’s going to be hard.”

Zoe shrugged. “Harder than being skint?”

That made Hannah laugh, short and real. “Fair.”

Before Zoe went home that night, they made a shared list on Hannah’s phone: Emergency Fund. Under it, they wrote a goal: £1,000.

It looked enormous and modest at the same time. Not enough to buy security, but enough to stop panic.

“For the car,” Zoe said. “For the washing machine.”

“For dental bills,” Hannah added. “For the boiler.”

“For life,” Zoe finished.

They stared at the list as if it were a map.

The next week, they began.

It didn’t start with a perfect meal plan and matching storage containers. It started with Zoe texting Hannah from the supermarket on Monday evening.

Reduced section has loads. Want anything?

Hannah stared at the message, surprised. She’d always vaguely known supermarkets reduced items, but she’d never built her shopping around it. It felt like something other people did. People who were “struggling.”

Then she realised: they were struggling. Or at least, they were straining. Pretending otherwise had been expensive.

Yes, Hannah texted back. Anything decent, veg, meat, bread, grab it.

Zoe sent a photo: yellow stickers everywhere. Chicken thighs. Bags of salad. A crate of slightly bruised tomatoes. Yoghurts near their date. A big bag of potatoes.

Hannah felt an odd surge of gratitude. “Get the chicken,” she typed. “And the tomatoes. And if there’s bread, we can freeze it.”

Zoe replied with a thumbs up.

When Zoe arrived later with the bags, they unpacked together like it was a treasure haul rather than discounted groceries.

“It’s all fine,” Zoe said, holding up the chicken. “Just needs cooking soon.”

Hannah nodded. “We can do that.”

They cooked that evening, not elaborate, just real food. Zoe seasoned the chicken with spices Hannah already had in the cupboard. Hannah chopped the tomatoes and simmered them into a quick sauce with onions and garlic. They ate at the table, tired but oddly satisfied.

“It tastes… better than a ready meal,” Zoe said, surprised.

Hannah smiled. “Because it’s food.”

The next day, Hannah went to work with a lunchbox.

It was simple: leftover chicken, some rice, a bit of salad. She felt faintly self-conscious carrying it, as if bringing lunch marked her as someone who couldn’t afford Pret.

But when she ate it at her desk, she realised two things.

One: it tasted good.

Two: she didn’t crash at 3 p.m. the way she did after a greasy takeaway.

That evening, Zoe texted: I brought lunch too. Saved £6 today.

Hannah stared at the message. £6 wasn’t enormous, but it was a number you could hold.

She opened the notes app and started a tally: Lunch savings. She wrote: £6. Then, beside it: That’s a packet of washing powder. She’d never thought like that before, connecting small savings to tangible security.

By Friday, they’d cooked three times and taken lunch every day. They still bought coffee out once or twice, still allowed themselves small comforts. But the default had shifted.

On Saturday morning, they tackled the cupboards like archaeologists.

Hannah pulled out jars and tins she’d accumulated without a plan. Chickpeas. Lentils. Pasta. Cans of soup bought in moments of anxiety.

Zoe found a packet of noodles shoved behind flour. “These are from… last year.”

Hannah groaned. “Don’t judge me.”

“I’m not judging,” Zoe said, laughing. “I’m impressed. You could survive a zombie apocalypse with this cupboard.”

They made piles: use now, use soon, still good.

Then they built a batch-cooking plan around what they already had. Not a fancy Pinterest schedule. Just a list:

• Big pot of chilli with beans and mince (or lentils)
• Vegetable soup
• Pasta bake
• Chicken and veg traybake
• Rice cooked in bulk, frozen in portions

“Batch cooking,” Zoe said, tasting the phrase like it belonged to someone else. “This is what people with their lives together do.”

Hannah smiled. “Maybe we’re becoming them.”

They spent the afternoon cooking. The kitchen steamed. The radio played quietly. Hannah found herself moving differently, more present, less scattered. Zoe chopped vegetables with focused precision. They talked while they worked, not about money exactly, but about what the past year had felt like: constantly braced, constantly behind.

When they finished, the fridge was full of containers. The freezer had labelled portions. The house smelled like cumin and tomatoes and something steadier than panic.

Zoe leaned against the counter. “This feels… good.”

Hannah nodded. “It does.”

“Not just because it’s cheaper,” Zoe added. “It’s like… we’re taking care of ourselves.”

Hannah felt her throat tighten slightly. She’d spent the past few years taking care of everything except herself. Seeing Zoe do this, learn it, commit to it, made her feel hopeful in a way she hadn’t dared in a long time.

The next week, when Zoe was tempted by a takeaway after a hard day, she messaged Hannah first: Really want a pizza.

Hannah replied: Eat the freezer pasta bake first. If you still want pizza after, we can plan it for Friday.

Zoe sent back: Annoying but fair.

Two hours later: Pasta bake was actually great.

Hannah smiled at her phone like a proud, ridiculous mother.

They put the 48-hour waiting rule in place for online purchases too, and it revealed how much of their spending had been emotional.

Zoe would send Hannah a screenshot of some “viral” item. “Do I need this?” she’d ask.

Hannah would reply: “What problem does it solve?”

Zoe would pause. Sometimes she’d admit: “I’m just stressed.”

Hannah understood. She’d been doing the same. Buying small, shiny distractions to interrupt anxiety for five minutes.

So they found other interruptions.

Walking around the block after dinner. Tea in a proper mug. A bath. Sorting the freezer. Anything that created the feeling of care without the hit to the bank account.

Slowly, the impulse to click “buy now” lost some of its power.

By the end of the first month, Hannah sat at her kitchen table with Zoe and looked at the numbers again.

They’d saved money without feeling deprived.

Not a fortune, but enough to matter.

“Look,” Zoe said, tapping her phone. “I’ve got £240 left after bills. I’ve never had that.”

Hannah’s chest warmed. “That’s brilliant.”

Zoe frowned, cautious. “But it’ll disappear if something goes wrong.”

Hannah nodded. “So we don’t let it disappear into nothing. We put it somewhere safe.”

They opened a separate savings account, one that was easy to access but separate enough to feel protected. They named it, literally, in the app: Emergency Fund.

That night, Hannah transferred £100. Zoe transferred £80.

The balance read £180.

They stared at it like it was fragile, like it might vanish if they looked away.

“It’s not much,” Zoe said, voice careful.

“It’s a beginning,” Hannah replied.

And beginnings, Hannah realised, changed how you moved through the world. Even a small cushion shifted fear.

As the weeks went on, the changes started to show up in their bodies as well as their bank accounts.

Hannah noticed she wasn’t bloated every evening. She stopped getting that acidic, tired feeling after a greasy dinner. Her sleep improved, still not perfect, but less restless. She didn’t wake up at 3 a.m. with her heart racing as often.

Zoe noticed her skin looked clearer. She had more energy on weekends. She stopped relying on caffeine and sugar to drag herself through afternoons.

“I didn’t realise how much the ready meals were affecting me,” Zoe admitted one night, stirring a pot of soup. “They’re convenient, but… I always felt heavy after.”

Hannah nodded. “They’re designed to taste good, not to make you feel good.”

Zoe smirked. “You sound like a wellness influencer.”

“Don’t you dare,” Hannah said, laughing.

They didn’t become health fanatics. They still ate chocolate. They still had a takeaway now and then. But their baseline shifted toward real food, made at home, with ingredients they could name.

And because they were eating better and spending less, something else happened: they began to feel less ashamed.

Shame had been a constant, silent companion, shame about not “managing,” shame about not saving, shame about being one unexpected expense away from trouble.

Now, the shame eased. It was replaced by a quiet competence.

Hannah kept a small notebook on the kitchen counter. In it, she wrote down what they cooked and what it cost. Not obsessively, just enough to stay grounded.

Chilli: £7 total, six portions.
Soup: £4 total, five portions.
Homemade lunches: saved £30 this week.

The numbers turned from threats into tools.

Zoe began to plan her supermarket trips around the reduced section. She’d go later in the evening when the stickers came out, grab what looked good, and build meals around it. She became surprisingly good at it, finding discounted salmon one day and turning it into two dinners, buying reduced veg and roasting it into trays that lasted days.

“It’s like a game,” Zoe said. “And I’m winning.”

Hannah smiled. “I love that.”

One evening, Hannah’s car made a worrying noise on the way home. A rattling clunk when she turned the steering wheel.

Old Hannah would have felt instant panic: How much will this be? What if it’s hundreds? What if I can’t,

She still felt the spike of fear, but it didn’t swallow her. She drove carefully, parked, and went inside.

Zoe was there, chopping onions. “You’re late. Everything okay?”

Hannah hesitated, then told her.

Zoe set down the knife. “Okay. We’ll deal with it.”

Hannah blinked. “We?”

Zoe nodded. “We’ve got the emergency fund. And even if it’s bigger than that, we’ll make a plan. But you’re not going to spiral alone.”

Hannah felt something loosen in her chest. She hadn’t realised how much she’d been carrying alone, even with her grown daughter nearby.

They checked the emergency fund balance together: £620 now, after three months of consistent transfers.

It wasn’t endless. But it was real.

The next day, the mechanic confirmed it was a worn suspension component, important, but not catastrophic. The repair cost £180.

Hannah paid it from the emergency fund without using a credit card.

Driving home after, she felt an unfamiliar sensation: relief without guilt.

That evening, she and Zoe sat at the table with their tea.

“We did that,” Zoe said quietly.

Hannah nodded. “We did.”

Zoe smiled, small and proud. “I didn’t think we could.”

Hannah reached across the table and squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Neither did I.”

They rebuilt the fund over the next weeks, topping it back up with small transfers. It became a rhythm, like brushing teeth. Not glamorous. Life-changing.

Then, as if the universe wanted to test them, Hannah’s washing machine began to leak.

The old dread rose, briefly, but it didn’t dominate.

They cleaned up the water, watched a YouTube video, checked the hose. It was a worn seal. Fixable, but it needed a part and, if they were honest, probably a new machine soon.

Zoe stood in the utility corner, hands on hips. “Okay. We’re adding ‘washing machine replacement’ to the plan.”

Hannah laughed, because the phrase to the plan sounded like something competent people said. And yet, here they were saying it.

They researched. They compared prices. They didn’t impulse-buy the first one with next-day delivery. They waited for a sale. They set aside money. When they finally bought a new machine, it didn’t wipe them out.

It was still annoying. Still expensive. But it wasn’t catastrophic.

Hannah began to understand something she hadn’t fully grasped before: money didn’t just buy things. It bought breathing room. It bought the ability to handle life without panic.

That breathing room was what they were building.

In late spring, on a Sunday afternoon, Hannah and Zoe sat in the garden with cups of tea. The grass needed cutting. The fence needed repainting. The world still contained expenses and uncertainty and headlines that made you sigh.

But the air felt lighter.

Zoe checked her phone and frowned. “Mum, I got paid Friday and I’ve still got money.”

Hannah smiled. “Yes. That’s how it’s supposed to work.”

Zoe shook her head slowly, as if she was adjusting to the idea that life didn’t have to be constant triage. “I used to feel like every month was a cliff edge.”

Hannah nodded. “Me too.”

Zoe looked up. “Do you think… everyone’s been doing this? Like, quietly drowning and not saying?”

Hannah considered. “I think a lot of people have. And I think people hide it because they’re embarrassed.”

Zoe’s mouth tightened. “It’s not embarrassing to struggle when everything costs more.”

“No,” Hannah agreed. “But it’s human to feel embarrassed anyway.”

Zoe leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes for a moment. “I’m glad we stopped pretending.”

Hannah felt the truth of it. Pretending had been costly. Pretending they could keep living the same way, takeaways on autopilot, convenience food as a daily crutch, online purchases as emotional anaesthetic, had drained their money and their health and their peace.

The changes they’d made weren’t dramatic from the outside. They didn’t look like a makeover montage. They looked like a lunchbox. A pot of soup. A freezer full of labelled portions. A reduced-sticker bargain. A cancelled subscription.

They looked like discipline, but they felt like relief.

Hannah glanced back into the kitchen through the window. She could see the whiteboard Zoe had insisted on putting up on the wall: a simple meal plan for the week, scribbled in marker.

Mon: chilli
Tue: traybake
Wed: soup + bread
Thu: pasta
Fri: takeaway (planned!)

Under it, Zoe had written: Emergency Fund Goal: £1,500 with a little box to tick for each £100.

They were at £940 now.

Not huge. Not enough to solve everything. But enough to make the future feel less like a threat.

Hannah took a sip of tea and felt a small, steady pride.

“We should celebrate when we hit a grand,” Zoe said suddenly.

Hannah smiled. “With what? Not a £40 takeaway, I hope.”

Zoe laughed. “No. Maybe… a day trip somewhere. Packed lunch.”

Hannah’s chest warmed. A day trip. A packed lunch. The fact that those phrases now sounded hopeful rather than pathetic was its own kind of healing.

Zoe stood, stretching. “Right. I’m going to portion the soup for the freezer.”

Hannah watched her go inside, moving with a competence Hannah recognised as new. Zoe wasn’t just surviving anymore; she was managing. She was building.

Hannah sat in the quiet garden and let herself imagine the next year: a stronger emergency fund, less fear, perhaps even savings beyond emergencies, money for joy, not just repairs.

The crisis outside still existed. Prices still rose. Wages still lagged. The world was still unfair.

But inside their little orbit, something had changed.

They had stopped drifting. They had stopped soothing themselves with expensive convenience. They had started paying attention, making choices, building a cushion.

They had learned that “we can’t afford to live the way we were” wasn’t a failure.

It was the beginning of a better way to live.