I knew what was wrong as soon I got up to throw up in the early hours of the morning. I was pregnant again, and this was going to be my fourth child. I rinsed my mouth, washed my face and sat down on the edge of the bath tub for what seemed like an eternity. How was I going to break the news to my husband? Another mouth to feed was the last thing our family needed. Our fifth floor, two-bedroom council flat was already cramped. My husband’s hours at work had just been cut and everyday I dreaded hearing about more jobs to go at London Underground where I was contracted by my agency as a cleaner. We could not afford to lose any more income and with money already so tight, how would we cope with another child?