Short Story: Cinderella Revisited?

My life up until this point has been a series of very ordinary, very thoughtful, and very cautious choices, this is my story, of throwing caution to the wind and living my life on the edge, at least for one fateful night. But, I am getting ahead of myself, it all started, when I turned five years old. You see, it was on my fifth birthday that life changed forever. My mothers name was Oranda and she was beautiful, even though it has been 13 birthdays since she died, I still remember how her hair shone brilliantly in the summer sun as we ran through the fields in the early morning light. I remember too, as we collapsed laughing into the sweet smelling wildflowers in our very own meadow-like garden, the soft trill of her sing song voice as she spoke of plans for my special day. The chittering of the woods and the wind seemed to ebb away and my world was her face and her bright green eyes. I can still see the deeper hues of green, making a little Forrest around her cornea, like I was seeing a miniature world over populated with trees and bursting with color. She and I spent most of the morning laying in the garden, cloud watching and telling fairy stories, my favorite at the time. When we heard the lunch bells ring out, my mother made a soft sound of exasperation, we had let the day escape us and were already behind schedule for the upcoming party that evening. It was a lovely morning. It might have been the best Birthday morning yet, but it was not to last. As we walked back to the house, I heard a terrible guttural sound, and when I turned to look at my mother, I saw her crumple to the ground, I scarcely remember the rest of what happened, most likely because it was so long ago, or perhaps because I was so distraught, but by the end of day, I was motherless and my birthday forgotten, just as well, because I would never want to celebrate it again. If you care to, fast forward three years, Papa and I were the best of friends, though we still missed mother greatly, we made due, we worked, we slept, we survived. Then, my father went away, why, I might guess now, that it was due to my striking resemblance to my late mother, but when he returned, he brought with him a widowed governess and her children. I had a new caretaker and other children to play with for the first time in my life. Now that may seem like a godsend to some but for me, who was used to spending my time with Adults: my father and mother, their friends, and our elderly neighbors, the nuances of being a child had all but left me and so, other children, beyond seeming entirely too active, seemed more than a little disdainful of things which in my mind seemed entirely sensible. For example, Peter, the youngest boy was altogether against bathing and would at any mention of washing, clothes or skin,  aim for cover and hide from the maids and his mother for hours.the elder boy Robert, though cleaner, was altogether more offensive in other ways. He, being his mothers favorite, would disobey, cause mischif and then proceed to blame it on first his siblings and then if it suited him, on me. This development was, beyond anything else, tiresome, as explaining to a governess, that her own godsend of a son was a dirty rotten liar, was like telling a clown he wasn't funny. After which, she would try to prove her sons worth, or his fortitude, or bravery, or purity, regardless of what was said to the contrary. As I had mentioned, or at least alluded to, my father spent much of his time away from home, in a vain attempt to forget my mother. It was on one of these fateful journeys abroad that he met a swami who went by the most absurd name of Bumpy, his real names, was later revealed to be far less intriguing, and thus, Bumpy was his name.