Back in the day, Claire had dreams. She was going to be somebody! Now a forty-something mom of three (four if you count her husband!), drowning in laundry and PTA chores, with a job she can’t stand, she’s finally had enough . . . A hilarious, heartwarming mom-com, perfect for fans of Sophie Kinsella and Fiona Gibson.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Claire Casey’s Had Enough by Liz Alterman, which releases on June 3rd 2025.
Claire Casey has reached her breaking point. For years, she’s juggled it all: kids, husband, career, and a never-ending list of responsibilities. But when the man who’s supposed to be her partner – who promised he wouldn’t let his phone die and would pick her up from the airport – completely forgets about her, Claire snaps.
It’s the final straw. Claire is done. And so are they.
Sort of . . . maybe. (It’s not easy saying goodbye to sixteen years of marriage, ok!)
Still, Claire’s determined to reclaim her life. She’s tired of being the overworked, worn-out mom in her forties. She wants to be hopeful, vivacious Claire again.
Attending her college reunion reconnects her with former flame, Alex. And while flirting with him over email is innocent, his invitation to meet for drinks at a swanky hotel is not!
As Claire begins to rediscover the woman she was, she’s forced to confront the harsh reality that recapturing her sense of self could blow up her marriage . . . Now Claire must decide: risk the unknown or rebuild the life she has, flaws and all?
Told over the course of a day in the life of this relatable heroine, Claire Casey’s Had Enough is a laugh-out-loud mom-com that readers will adore!
May 11, 2024
2:20 a.m.
At least the weather was mild, Claire consoled herself as she peed behind her shed like a fugitive. Before tugging down her black dress pants and squatting, the forty-six-year-old mom of three used her phone’s flashlight to check for poison ivy. The insidious weed was practically New Jersey’s state flower and it would be just Claire’s luck to end up with her privates polka-dotted in angry hives by morning. Luckily, it was mid-May, too early for the ivy to begin its invasive creep.
Moaning with relief, Claire emitted a stream that could’ve rivaled a racehorse’s. She’d been holding it the entire ride from the airport. Patting her pockets, she fished out a crumpled napkin, hoped it wasn’t the one she’d used to blot pizza grease eight hours earlier, and gave herself a hasty wipe.
Like a tired sunflower, she slowly lifted her drooping head. If this – using her suburban backyard as a toilet – was captured by a neighbor’s security camera, the video would end up on a community forum, shared by countless parents from her children’s schools, and she’d be forced to flee the country. That sounded pleasant, actually, after the day, maybe even the last decade, she’d had.
As Claire switched off the phone’s flashlight, her gaze landed on the time (2:23 a.m.) before bouncing to the back entry of her home. Beyond her French doors, Paul, her husband, the man who’d promised to pick her up from the airport, slept soundly, light from the TV casting ghostly shadows on the wall behind him. He looked ridiculous wearing their son Max’s Beats headphones, iPad perched precariously on his lap, one of his employer’s ongoing training modules still playing.
When she’d arrived home at close to 2 a.m., she’d knocked aggressively on those French doors. Paul still hadn’t replaced the doorbell’s battery at their home’s front entrance, though she’d asked him to do it no less than twenty-seven times. Even if he’d taken care of it, that was no guarantee the soft ding-dong would’ve awakened him. Paul could’ve slept through a Metallica concert. Their sons were surely zonked out too. Claire’s mom had given them noise machines last Christmas. Max favored the sound of ocean waves while Joe slumbered to falling rain. Henry preferred the gentle crackle of the sizzling bacon setting. They’d never hear her either.
She hadn’t brought keys because she hadn’t expected to need them.
‘Idiot!’ she hissed in the direction of her husband, who lay ten yards away on the couch in the comfort of their living room, snoring no doubt.
Cold dew began to seep through Claire’s cheap black flats. ‘Absolute moron!’ she muttered to herself as she emerged from behind the shed. Her instincts had warned her that flying to Ohio to cover a toy safety conference for MamaRama.com wasn’t a great idea. But she’d only started writing for the parenting website in January, and she feared that if she refused this assignment she’d be overlooked when better offerings – like that spa review in Sedona her colleague Esme snapped up – came along.
Still, she’d questioned Paul’s ability to care for their sons solo. She’d imagined returning to find her boys with face tattoos and vaping habits, tending a small petting zoo in the basement.
When she’d wondered aloud if she should go, Paul had said. ‘Definitely! This sounds too important to miss.’ With an outstretched arm, he’d mimed holding a cell phone in selfie position. ‘“Claire Casey here, reporting live from . . .”’ He shifted, peeking at her from behind the imaginary device. ‘Where is it again? Dayton? Canton? “. . . from somewhere in the Buckeye State, bringing you an update on which brand of building blocks are secretly coated in lead paint. Stay with me as I rank dolls with the most flammable hair and reveal how to stay calm when your toddler swallows his first marble.”’
Claire sighed. It was bad enough when she mocked her job, but hearing her husband do it made her recent career move feel like even more of a massive misstep.
‘Maybe I should stay home,’ she’d said, her hopes of spending two nights in a hotel room alone vanishing faster than an earring sliding down a bathroom sink drain. She’d fantasized about lying like a starfish across a bed free of crumbs or Lego pieces, then awakening to order room service. What bold, new ideas might surface with her freed-up brain space if she didn’t have to worry about her kids’ schedules and fixing dinner?
As disappointment clouded her face, Paul had insisted, ‘Go, Claire, really. We’ll be fine. The boys are older now.’
It was true. Max was fourteen, Henry, twelve, and Joe, eight. Still.
‘Seriously. I got this,’ Paul assured her.
Claire peered past his shoulder to the countertops laden with crusty dinner dishes from the prior evening.
‘How tough can it be?’ he asked as he tossed an orange peel in the direction of the garbage can and missed. She’d bitten her tongue to stop from telling him: ‘Pretty damn tough. Managing three children while working from home is more difficult than snagging a last-minute orthodontist appointment or leaving Costco without spending double what you’d intended.’ But she saved her breath. He’d find out.
She knocked on the French doors again. Paul didn’t stir. Perhaps the days without her had exhausted him. Maybe, by morning, she’d discover he was a changed man, one who would not only apologize for failing to pick her up but also admit he’d had no clue how taxing her life had become.
As lovely as that sounded, she knew it would never happen. Plus, she’d done the hardest bits before leaving town. In the days before her departure, Claire had made lists of all the boys’ activities, shopped so they wouldn’t run out of staples, signed permission slips for end-of-the-year field trips, and attached the accompanying payments for each.
By the time she’d boarded the plane, Claire had experienced a full-body fatigue so draining it felt as if she’d fought off a pack of wild hogs. She fell asleep, drooling, head dipping toward a stranger’s shoulder, before the drink cart made its way up the aisle.
Meanwhile, when Paul had gone on his golf outing in late April, his only pre-trip prep involved filling a travel mug with coffee and loading his clubs into the car. On his way out the door, he’d stopped. Foolishly, Claire thought for a moment he might say he’d miss her or mention something about spending time together when he returned. Instead, he pointed toward the cellar door. ‘The sump pump stopped working,’ he’d said. ‘If it rains, you may want to call someone.’
With that memory fresh in her mind, Claire had been determined to wring every bit of enjoyment from her work-related getaway – or as much enjoyment as one could possibly render from a toy safety conference. Truthfully, Claire would’ve been happy to sit in a park and attempt to teach squirrels to French-braid their tails if it meant a few moments of solitude.
While it had been nice to travel alone, the conference had been a rather bland affair. The child safety agencies who’d organized the event tried to keep attendees engaged by hosting challenges designed to ‘entertain and enlighten’.
The first involved a timed test in which Claire and her counterparts were blindfolded and asked to sort laundry pods, yogurt pouches, and cannabis gummies into separate baskets. (Claire lost.)
In the next game, a scavenger hunt required each participant to spot hidden dangers in a space curated to mimic the average living room. Since Max was born, Claire had developed a sixth sense for uncovered outlets, lit candles, and loose change. Motherhood had given her the ability to sniff out an uncapped bottle of bleach in another zip code. Competing against influencers who were at least a decade younger, Claire bested them handily.
‘She must be an amazing parent,’ one of her opponents murmured.
Like a glass of cheap champagne, the compliment went straight to Claire’s head . . . until she heard another attendee whisper, ‘or a total helicopter mom.’ This gal made the chuff chuff chuff sound of whirling chopper blades. Claire had chalked it up to envy. After all, the prize was a playroom makeover. The last time she’d won anything had been the third-grade spelling bee when she’d taken first place for nailing the word ‘disappointment’.
Flush from her latest victory, Claire made the mistake of calling her mom during the lunch break to share the news about the playroom makeover.
‘Oh, honey, how will they know where to start? Your whole house is like one big playroom! There’s stuff everywhere!’ Her mother, Eleanor, emitted that soft, older woman chuckle that invariably led to a coughing fit.
‘Get some water. We’ll talk later,’ Claire had said and promptly ended the call.
That afternoon, during a lecture on the perils of introducing electronics to toddlers too soon, Claire’s phone had begun blowing up. A flurry of texts sent the device skittering across the table, striking fear in her heart. What was so urgent that Paul couldn’t handle it? Perhaps her mother had fallen during one of her daily trips to the market? Or what if it was the school nurse?
Then her thoughts shifted in a more positive direction. Maybe it was her literary agent, Marcy, texting to say she loved Claire’s latest pitches.
Eight years earlier, Claire’s picture book, A Panda for Amanda, had been a modest hit. In the beloved story, a ring-tailed lemur named Ringo grapples with jealousy when Amanda, the child who loves and cares for him, receives a large, plush panda for her birthday.
Claire had written it to help Max adjust to his little brother Henry’s arrival. She’d queried agents after Paul overheard her reading it and said, ‘I think you may have something there!’
The book sold quickly. She’d been trying and failing to replicate its success ever since. Though she’d envisioned follow-ups – A Lion for Ryan, A Lamb for Sam – Marcy crushed those dreams. Only celebrities could get away with writing rhyming books now, her agent explained.
‘Animals are over, btw. No one cares,’ Marcy informed her. ‘Readers crave stories with larger messages. Think social issues. What about climate change? Food insecurity? The global housing shortage?’
For picture books? Really? Claire had frowned while reading Marcy’s email.
When she floated the idea of a memoir, her agent snarfed.‘Claire, you’re nobody. Wait, that didn’t come out right. What I mean is: You have no platform. You’re a wonderful storyteller, but what have you survived? Sorry, but bake sales and book fairs don’t count.’
That was her agent’s way – a lukewarm compliment bookended by insults.
Sometimes Claire thought about pitching an anthology: How Did It Come to This? She’d compile essays penned by other middle-aged women who’d also arrived at the ‘Is this all there is?’ stage. While Claire loved the idea, Marcy insisted non-fiction, too, was a tough sell. Even trauma and terminal illness aren’t enough anymore. Sigh, she’d written. Bigger ideas, Claire! Think bold, new formats!
When Claire’s phone’s pinging persisted and the panel’s moderator shot her a look so filthy no stain stick could’ve removed it, Claire snuck out to the lobby and scrolled through her messages. Max and Henry had started a group text:
Are we out of pretzels?
What’s for dinner?
I can’t find my water bottle! Practice started 10 mins ago.
MOM! Help!
Where do we keep the toilet paper?
Joe’s been wearing the same clothes since you left. He says he’s not taking them off until you come home.
When are you coming home?
MOM! Answer!
Claire’s relief that there wasn’t a true emergency was swiftly replaced by white-hot rage. Paul had promised he’d take care of everything.
WHERE’S YOUR FATHER? she texted.
Napping, Henry wrote.
?? Claire shot back.
He took the hammock out of the shed and then fell asleep in it, Max added.
The hammock. Bringing herself back to her present situation,
Claire glanced around the backyard. That’s where she’d sleep. Threadbare and freckled with mold, it was preferable to the cold, damp grass.
As Claire collapsed, the hammock’s springs groaning, she considered a potential memoir title: She Who Sleeps with Squirrels. It would be the modern, feminist retelling of Dances with Wolves. Reese Witherspoon would select it for her book club. Marcy would admit she’d underestimated Claire’s talent and Claire would happily resign from MamaRama to draft an equally riveting sequel.
Before closing her eyes, Claire stared at the stars and said a prayer that raccoons wouldn’t gnaw their way through her suitcase and destroy her laptop. When she’d agreed to attend the conference, Sabrina, Claire’s editor, had insisted she come up with at least two ‘ultra-clicky’ slideshows to justify her time away. On the flight home, she’d started ‘The 99 Deadliest Toys Lurking in Your Playroom’, and was nine away from completing it. She’d have to work on the other: ‘32 Household Items Most Likely to Kill Your Baby While You Sit There & Watch’ next.
Claire worried they’d anger MamaRama’s toy and cleaning product advertisers, but Sabrina pooh-poohed her concerns. ‘Knock these out of the park, Claire, and we’ll consider sending you to the annual “What’s New in Appliances” convention this fall. You’ll get to review the latest in washers and dryers through a “mom lens”.’
‘Where’s that one held?’ Claire hoped the answer was ‘Hawaii’.
‘Just outside Detroit,’ Sabrina said. ‘It would be a huge opportunity for you.’
‘Totally!’ had been all Claire could muster.
Claire awoke to the scolding tsk tsk tsk of her neighbors’ sprinkler. Mascara crusted in the corners of her eyes as she squinted against the early morning haze and struggled to get her bearings. The hammock pitched her toward the ground when she attempted to stand. She had to put her hands down to stop from falling on her face.
‘Damnit!’ she spat, wiping her muddy palms on her pants. Back and neck aching like she’d spent the week piggybacking triplets across Disneyland, Claire tucked her hair behind her ears and fetched her flats from beneath the hammock. She stuffed her feet in her shoes, their insoles feeling as squishy and moist as if a dog had relieved himself inside them.
A rising tide of anger swelled in her chest as she charged toward the house, tugging her suitcase on wheels behind her. Paul had made Claire his last priority for too long. Leaving her stranded at the airport was not only the most recent in a string of disappointments, it was also the tipping point.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll definitely get you,’ he’d said when she’d called to tell him her flight was delayed. ‘Listen, my phone’s about to die. Text me when you land.’
At the airport, surrounded by families – even the ones fighting over iPads and neck pillows – Claire had found herself unexpectedly homesick.
‘Did you miss me?’ she asked, the airport bar’s warm chardonnay making her soppy.
‘Of course.’ Paul sounded distracted. ‘Now if we had extra toilet paper, where would that be?’
‘It’s—’ was all she managed before she heard the familiar beeps that signaled her husband’s phone had died.
After a turbulent flight seated beside a passenger who used the safety card to clean his fingernails, Claire had staggered toward the curbside pickup shortly after 1 a.m. She’d tried Paul’s phone. The call went straight to voicemail. Her text messages bounced back undelivered. He’d probably gotten distracted and hadn’t charged it, Claire reasoned, as she dialed the house phone. Her own voice on the outgoing message told her no one could take her call at the moment. She could envision that phone, also dead, buried beneath a couch cushion, Paul dozing beside it with his mouth hanging open – exactly as it was now.
From the patio, Claire stared at him and contemplated hurling a rock through the French doors. The knowledge that she’d be the one who would have to call to have the glass replaced was the only thing that stopped her.
Shoulders squared, hands balled into fists, Claire rapped hard and watched as her husband slowly came to life, scratching at himself like an ape in a zoo exhibit.
He switched off the TV, gave a half-hearted wave, and lumbered toward her in plaid boxers and a Yankees T-shirt.
‘Hey!’ He opened the door. ‘Where did you come from? I thought you were going to text me for a ride.’
‘I did!’ Claire hissed as she stepped inside. Her suitcase nipped at her heels and twisted between her feet, nearly tripping her.
‘Shoot!’ He raked a hand through his bed-head, or in this case, sofa-head. ‘I forgot to charge my phone. How’d you get home?’
‘I took an Uber. At 2 a.m., Paul. Do you have any idea how dangerous that can be for a woman alone?’
Paul raised an eyebrow. After sixteen years of marriage, Claire could read his thoughts.
‘You think because I’m forty-six I can’t still be attacked by a pervert? I’m no longer attractive to perverts?’ As the words left her mouth, she was keenly aware of how nuts she sounded, and also that she’d begun to smell like a high school wrestler who’d forgotten deodorant.
‘That’s not . . . c’mon, Claire. I slept on the couch waiting for—’
‘I slept in a hammock, Paul! A hammock coated in bird shit, in my clothes, surrounded by chipmunks!’
‘Why didn’t you just ring the doorbell?’ Paul rubbed his eyes and returned to the couch.
‘I did! It doesn’t work because you never changed the battery!’
‘It’s on my list.’ That sentence had become Paul’s mantra.
‘I can’t keep doing this.’ Claire released her grip on her suitcase handle, causing it to topple and clatter against the hardwood floor.
‘Then just tell MamaRama you don’t want to travel anymore.’ Paul stretched out and punched an indent in a throw pillow. Was he going back to sleep? ‘If it makes you this miserable, you should definitely skip that appliance festival.’
‘Not that! Us! This!’ She waved her hand between them. ‘I can’t do this anymore, Paul. I can’t count on you to follow through. On anything! You don’t care about me . . .’ Her voice began to waver, but it steadied when she spotted a collection of water bottles decorating the dark wood coffee table, leaving Olympic-symbol-like rings behind no doubt, ‘and I am tired of pretending that you do and then being disappointed.’
‘That’s not fair, Claire.’ Paul propped himself up on his elbow. ‘I’d planned to get you. My phone died.’
‘How was I supposed to get in touch with you? Telepathically?’ Claire whisper-screamed so as not to wake their children, though if they hadn’t stirred at her frantic knocking the night before, why would they now? ‘You are a grown man who works in IT. Charge your damn phone!’
Paul sat up and stared at her. ‘Look, Claire. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else you want me to say or do here.’
‘I want you to leave.’ A warm pins-and-needles tingle flooded her face as the words shot out of her mouth. ‘I do everything – the parenting, the cleaning, the cooking, the endless driving, all of it – and seeing you sitting there is a reminder that you could be helpful and you choose not to be.’
Claire felt a dizzying rush. Saying it all aloud so quickly, so unexpectedly, was like jumping off a cliff into a cool, dark body of water – a little brave, a little crazy, but thrilling nonetheless. Words hanging there, she experienced a delicious weightlessness, as if she’d removed a knapsack full of dumbbells. She staggered backward and sank into an armchair draped in mate-less socks.
Paul rubbed his chin, the gesture he made when he stood in front of the fridge swearing they were out of ketchup when, in fact, it was inches from him.
‘That’s not true, Claire.’ He shook his head. ‘I care. You’re just tired. Why don’t you make some coffee? You’ll feel—’
‘Why don’t you make some coffee!’ Claire seethed.
‘Claire, geez, you sleep outside one night and now you’re feral.’ He threw up his hands. ‘You’ll feel better after a shower. You got something . . .’ He pointed at her head.
Claire plucked twigs from her tangled blonde bob and let them fall to the floor beside a tumbleweed of dust. ‘You aren’t a partner to me, Paul.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You’ve become my fourth son and I want you to leave. Now.’
‘Leave?’ he snorted. ‘Claire, it’s not even six a.m. Where would I go?’
Even as she was kicking him out, he expected her to provide the answers. Her brain, conditioned to solve all the family’s dilemmas, served up a quick fix.
‘You can stay at your parents’ house. They just left for Maine.’
‘Do you mean for a few hours? The whole day? Longer?’ Paul stood and picked at a wedgie.
Inside Claire another surge of rage spiked. She sat straighter. Her husband was wearing boxers. No jeans or shorts in sight. Had he been planning to pick her up in his underpants? Or had he been hoping she’d take a car all along?
‘I mean indefinitely.’
‘What will we tell the boys?’
‘I’ll figure it out,’ Claire pressed her fingertips to her temples, ‘like I always do.’
‘I know you’re upset and I get it, but this feels like a bit of an overreaction.’ He stepped toward her. She held up a hand stop-sign-style before he could attribute her outburst to hunger or perimenopause.
‘Fine. I’ll go.’ As he backed out of the kitchen, he stepped on a Gatorade bottle that had fallen out of the overflowing recycling bin. Its loud crackle momentarily startled him. ‘Call me when you’ve cooled off.’
‘Oh, so you’ll have your phone charged by then?’
Paul scowled. Claire, who typically swallowed her snark, licked her chapped lips. She detected a hint of garlic from the slice of airport pizza but mostly she tasted sweet satisfaction.
If Paul wasn’t going to change, she would.
