When I was pregnant with my first child I was determined not to get any help from my family. I am used to doing things on my own. My dad is the only relative I have that lives in the same country as me, and my mother died when I was 11-years-old. When she died, we were living in a small flat in London, paid for by housing benefit. We had emigrated here after my dad had lost his job due to the Argentine economic crisis of the late Nineties. In London, where employment rates were pretty high in 1999, it was much easier for my dad to find a low-paid job. Overnight, we went from being an affluent middle-class family, to buying all our groceries in Netto, and buying less food one week in, order to afford shoes that month. But we were together. When my mum died suddenly in 2000, it meant my dad had to stop working full-time in order to take care of me. We had even less money, and processing …