Brandee Mulligan never expected to become the face of one of the most controversial fundraisers in recent memory. A 42-year-old separated mother of three from Wisconsin, she spends her days navigating the ordinary chaos of parenting—school runs, meal planning, the quiet exhaustion that comes with raising children. But in recent weeks, she has found herself at the center of a national storm, the creator of a GoFundMe campaign that has raised more than $1.2 million for the parents of Lindsay Clancy, the Massachusetts mother accused of killing her three young children. Mulligan has no personal connection to Clancy, her estranged husband Patrick, or her parents, Michael and Paula Musgrove. She never spoke to any of them before launching the page. She simply saw a story that broke her heart, and she acted on instinct. When she finally reached out to the family, she says, they were blindsided—but deeply grateful. “They had no idea and they were just extremely grateful and overwhelmed by all the support,” Mulligan said in an interview, her voice carrying the weight of someone who believes she is doing the right thing, even as the world around her disagrees.
For Mulligan, the fundraiser is not about defending the act of killing children. It is about seeing a mother in crisis and feeling a visceral pull toward the grandparents who have sacrificed everything to stand by their daughter. She speaks about Lindsay’s parents with a tenderness that feels personal. “And as a mom, like your heart just goes out to Lindsay,” she explained, before quickly adding that she doesn’t want to focus too much on Lindsay herself. “I don’t want to focus too much on the Lindsay aspect of it. But I mean, it’s a huge part of it.” What she wants people to understand, she insists, is the quiet devastation of two elderly parents—Michael, 70, and Paula, 73—who uprooted their lives in Connecticut and moved to Massachusetts for three and a half years to support their daughter through arrest, hospitalization, and trial. They have lived in hotels, drained their savings, and poured every resource they had into her legal defense. “They’ve been in hotels, they’ve depleted their savings, and they’re the ones that footed the bill for her legal things,” Mulligan said. “They’ve been the ones supporting Lindsay.” In her telling, the fundraiser is not a celebration of violence; it is a lifeline for a family drowning in costs and grief, a way for strangers to say, in effect, we see you, and we want to help carry this burden.
But the money is not without complications. Massachusetts is one of 23 states without a “Son of Sam” law, the kind of legislation that was enacted in New York after convicted serial killer David Berkowitz attempted to profit from his crimes by selling his story to filmmakers. In states without such laws, there is no legal barrier preventing an accused criminal from receiving donations to fund their defense—or even benefiting from the kindness of strangers in other ways. Mulligan has made Clancy’s father, Michael Musgrove, the sole beneficiary of the fund, and she says she has spoken with him directly about how the money will be used. But legally, once the money is in his hands, there is nothing stopping him from passing it along to his daughter or using it to pay her attorneys. That possibility has raised alarms in legal and public circles, especially given that Clancy’s attorney, Kevin Reddington, previously acknowledged that “every nickel” spent on her defense came from the Musgroves, who were “pretty much depleting everything they have” to fund it. The GoFundMe page is the only one publicly confirmed by the platform as connected to the family, and while GoFundMe’s policies prohibit campaigns from paying for criminal defenses for violent crimes, the company has repeatedly declined to answer questions about what safeguards exist to ensure the money is not used for that purpose. Mulligan, for her part, insists the intent is clear: the funds are for travel expenses and basic support for the grandparents, not for legal fees. “Everybody’s very clear on what it can and can’t be used for. And the families, they know that,” she claimed, though whether that clarity is enforceable remains an open question.
Mulligan’s involvement, however, goes far beyond raising money. She has become a vocal and unapologetic advocate for Lindsay Clancy, using her social media platforms to share her perspective, amplify sympathetic voices, and push back against what she sees as a rush to judgment. After a mistrial was declared on September 4, Mulligan took to TikTok to celebrate the outcome, calling the jury “a jury of her peers” before singling out the lone holdout juror with venom. “And then one total idiot … one f–king man,” she fumed, suggesting that a single stubborn male juror had prevented a resolution. Her posts have also veered into darker territory, sharing content that casts suspicion on Patrick Clancy, the father of the three murdered children. In one TikTok she reposted, a former prosecutor questioned why Patrick appeared to be wearing different clothing in surveillance footage from two locations during his alibi, and why investigators apparently did not seize his phone records to verify his movements. Such posts have fueled an online conspiracy undercurrent that Patrick Clancy may not be the grieving victim he appears to be—a narrative that has infuriated his attorney. In a stern statement, Patrick’s lawyer condemned the “escalating campaign of misinformation” being waged by influencers, threatening that “every appropriate measure will be pursued to hold them accountable.” When reached for comment, Mulligan did not walk back her criticism of Patrick. She simply said, “I don’t have any comment on that.”
The backlash against Mulligan has been fierce. Online commenters have accused her of profiting from tragedy, of enabling a woman who allegedly killed her own children, and of setting back the very cause she claims to champion. Some have called her “psychotic” for supporting Clancy, a label she seems to wear with a strange defiance. Rather than retreat, she amplifies the hate, sharing screenshots of cruel messages and using them to rally her followers. “You’re setting women back decades,” she has been told, a criticism that cuts to the heart of a painful cultural debate about maternal mental health, accountability, and the limits of empathy. Mulligan sees herself as part of a movement, one that recognizes the immense pressure placed on mothers and the devastating failures of a system that promises help but too often delivers nothing. “Being a mom is hard, and it’s resonated with a lot of people all over the world. So many women. It’s incredible,” she said of the fundraiser’s staggering success. “They tell moms to reach out and get help and then when you don’t get that, then what?” For her, the Clancy case is not just about one woman’s actions; it is about a broader societal failure to protect mothers before they break. She hopes the case becomes a turning point, a moment when conversations about postpartum mental health stop being lip service and start becoming real infrastructure for families in crisis.
And yet, for all the moral complexity, there is something deeply human about what Mulligan is doing. She is a mother who looked at another mother’s tragedy and felt the pull of shared experience—the sleepless nights, the overwhelming demands, the quiet desperation that so many women know but rarely name. She did not know Lindsay Clancy, but she recognized something in her story, or at least in the story of the grandparents left to pick up the pieces. The fundraiser has attracted more than a thousand donors, mostly women, many of whom likely see something of themselves in the narrative Mulligan has crafted: a mother who needed help, a family who sacrificed everything, a system that failed them all. Whether those donors understand the legal loopholes, the potential for the money to be used in ways not advertised, or the inflammatory nature of Mulligan’s social media presence is unclear. What is clear is that Mulligan has tapped into a deep well of grief and anger, and that she has no intention of stepping back. She describes the outpouring of support as “incredible,” a word that seems inadequate for a campaign that has raised more than a million dollars in a matter of weeks. Michael and Paula Musgrove have not returned calls for comment, leaving Mulligan as the public voice of a family in mourning, a stranger who became their advocate, their fundraiser, and their shield. In the end, her story is a mirror held up to a society that does not know what to do with mothers who harm their children—whether to hate them, pity them, or understand them. Mulligan has chosen empathy, imperfect and messy as it is. Whether that empathy is misguided or prophetic is a question that may never be fully answered. But it has already changed her life, and it has certainly changed the Clancy family’s story, adding yet another layer of complexity to a case that has gripped the nation. The donations keep coming. The comments keep burning. And Brandee Mulligan, a separated mom from Wisconsin, remains at the center of it all, insisting that her heart is in the right place, even as the world wonders aloud if it is.
